|
Most jobs
around the church I feel called to do. Some jobs around the
church I get paid to do. But other jobs around the church, I
volunteer to do them….either because they’re there….or
I’m there….or you’re not there….or whatever.
One
of my volunteer efforts that is more fun than work is that of
traffic director/parking attendant on the nights when hundreds
of women descend upon this place for Advent by Candlelight. If
it is cold enough….and I am bundled up enough….I am hardly
recognizable. Which is all the better. So I just stand out
there in the street….with one arm waving and one flashlight
shining….telling hundreds of women where to go. And they do.
But
I can always distinguish the age of the drivers, given that
young mothers drive humongous vehicles and they turn into the
parking lot one handed. That’s because their other hand is
holding a cell phone. I can only assume that last minute
instructions are being relayed to husbands or baby sitters.
Either that, or one child is being told to stop hitting
another child….or to eat his vegetables….or is assured
that “Yes, Mommy will be home in time to tuck you in, but
no, you can’t stay up till Mommy gets there. In spite of
what Daddy says.”
We
are a cell phone driven culture. Before these services are
done tonight, one will most assuredly go off….generally in a
place where its owner can’t find it, reach it, or readily
silence it.
I
don’t have a cell phone. To me, it feels less like a
convenience and more like a tether. But my wife does. So I
borrow hers. And one weekend a month, I carry the church’s.
Strictly for emergencies. But last night, when we were trying
to coordinate the airport thing with Julie and Jared (delayed
flights, huge crowds), cell phones were just the ticket. You
get the picture. Which is another thing you can do with cell
phones. Get the picture, I mean. But I digress.
There
is, of course, one nagging little problem. Cell phones don’t
work everywhere. Because the signal is not transmitted
everywhere. Meaning there are “dead zones.” When Julie is
in California, she often calls us while driving home from
work….San Mateo to San Francisco. When suddenly she’ll
say: “I’m about to enter a dead zone. Sit tight. I’ll
call you back in a couple of minutes.”
It
used to be that much of mid-Michigan was a dead zone. Could
still be, for all I know. But they exist around here, too.
I’m talking about places where connections suddenly
stop….or never start. Portions of Bloomfield Hills are that
way. Ditto, they tell me, for the village of Franklin. The
bigger and grander the homes, the greater the reluctance of
residents to allow for cell towers. Meaning that the rich
don’t always hear what the poor hear. Which could be turned
into a Christmas sermon by anybody with a fertile imagination
and a rudimentary understanding of the Gospel of Matthew. For
is not Mary’s lovely song….sometimes called the Magnificat….a
reminder that the rich (we rich) simply don’t get it? Or,
worse yet, that we will “get it” because we don’t get
it. I quote from Mary’s lovely song:
He
has shown strength with his arm
and has scattered the proud in the imagination of their
hearts.
Putting down the
mighty from their thrones,
exalting those of
low degree,
filling the
hungry with good things,
while sending the
rich empty away.
But
what does she know? She’s
only a teenager. A pregnant, unmarried teenager. But again, I
digress.
What
were we talking about? Oh yes….dead zones. That’s what we
were talking about. The world being full of them….literally
as well as figuratively. Even a mess tent in the middle of a
base camp can be a dead zone (as several of America’s own
found out last week). It’s the sad and painful nature of
war….especially this war.…that even the held ground is not
safe ground. Let alone sacred ground.
But
then you don’t have to go to Iraq to learn that. Daily….in
the city….people get shot. A mile from their house. A block
from their house. Sitting on the sofa, watching TV in their
house. Mitch Albom told one of those stories yesterday,
introducing us to Jerome Parker. Fifteen years old. Good kid.
Bright kid. Athletic kid. Dead kid. Today, he is not polishing
his jump shot in the church gym, drinking a quart of milk with
his favorite breakfast cereal, or watching cartoons with his
little brother. Because the other day they buried him in
Woodlawn Cemetery (just down the road)….in his brand new
suit. Or, as Albom wrote: “Another piece of Detroit’s
future dressed up….boxed up….and covered with dirt.”
Dead zones! We know much too much about dead zones. But still
I digress.
Let’s
get to the guy who infuriates me to no end. He’s on
television every time I turn it on. Not singing. Not sporting.
Not starring. But selling. Selling what? Selling cell phones
(along with a cell phone network). That’s what.
If you buy
what he’s selling, it will solve all your problems. It could
even save your family and your marriage….that is, if cell
phone static is what ails your family and your marriage. Buy
what he’s selling and you will hear clearly. Along with
widely. Because he is promising broader coverage with fewer
interruptions. Say goodbye to dead zones. And to prove it, he
runs hither and yon….stopping every few minutes to put a
cell phone to his ear and ask:
“Can
you hear me now?”
“Can you hear me now?”
“Can you hear me now?”
The truth
being, I can. But I wish I couldn’t. But I continue to
digress.
The
other day….Tuesday, to be exact….Jennifer Montgomery was
helping Lynn Hasley with the logistics for the Longest Night
service. When she suddenly discovered that a Catholic supply
store had just what we needed for lighting individual votive
candles. So she tried calling them on her cell phone. But
there are a lot of places in this building where cell phones
won’t work (including the hallways and offices). So I
offered the phone on my desk. In fact, I offered to dial the
number. To which she said: “No. That’s all right. I’ll
just go into the sanctuary. I can make a connection there.”
End of digressions.
That’s
why you’re here, isn’t it? Because this is not a dead
zone. This is a very live zone. Never more than it would
appear to be on Christmas Eve. You’ve come for all kinds of
reasons. Beauty. Familiarity. Memory. Mystery. But also for
connectivity. Some of you have come to connect….or
reconnect….with something you once had, but lost. Or maybe
never had, but desired. Or not so much with some thing, but
some One (desperately hoping that the One who reaches out to
the world….and enters the world….reaches and enters
still).
Four
weeks ago, on a Sunday night, Rabbi Daniel Syme (Temple Beth
El)….son of the late Rabbi Irving Syme (Temple
Israel)….told an interfaith gathering at Kirk in the Hills
that he had a confession to make. Apparently, as a teenager,
he used to confound (and mildly irritate) his father when he
and his friends would slip into the Kirk for the 11:00 service
on Christmas Eve. Which had nothing to do with questioning
Judaism or flirting with Presbyterianism. But rather with the
loveliness of the church….how it looked and felt and
sounded….that particular night. I’m talking about the
night when God says to the world what God has always tried
saying to the world: “Can you hear me now?”
This
is a very holy night. But a relatively wordless night. For
this is the night that God has chosen to speak to us through a
child….a baby, really. A baby who does not speak. Indeed,
cannot speak. Which may be the best way of making the
connection, don’t you see. Wordlessly, I mean. For how did
Eliza Doolittle put it?
Don’t
talk of stars, burning above,
if you’re in love, show me.
Show
me. Don’t wait until wrinkles and lines
pop out all over my brow. Show me now.
The
baby Jesus, my dear Eliza, is God’s answer to your question.
And, for my money, the baby Jesus is the best speech God ever
delivered.
*
* * * *
Christmas
Eve 2004….snow covered and gentle. An altogether lovely
culmination to a lovely year….personally, if not
internationally. There was a brief hospitalization to remind
me that I am not immortal. But it was more than matched by the
love of two incredible women to make me occasionally feel
immortal. Along with a new face in our midst….who, on a
visit thirteen months ago, came downstairs before breakfast,
looked me in the eye and said: “Okay, you win. I’ll marry
your daughter.” Truth be told, he asked for her hand. Not
that it was mine to give. But some traditions are sweet in the
reenacting.
We
came here, four. Now we are four again. Proving that although
a good quartet occasionally changes members, if care is taken
in the arranging, it can still sing.
This
was also the year of the book about Bill’s dying and our
healing….a book already in its second printing. An unusual
seller at Christmas. But people keep buying it because, as
they tell me, there is hope in it. The other day at Borders in
Beverly Hills, there was a stack of my books on the “New
Releases” table. It was located between a book on how to
achieve fabulous abs and another on desperate housewives.
Tonight,
about 1:00 a.m., we will head for the barn….a rather nice
barn, really. Where we will light the fire, channel surf for a
choir, and maybe look in on that movie about Ralphie (and
whether this is the year he’ll get a Red Rider BB gun and
shoot his eye out with it). Yes, there will be a little bread
to break and some bisque to go with it. But it will be roasted
red pepper bisque instead of bisque made with lobster….given
that Jared is allergic to shellfish….and having just snagged
him, it wouldn’t be cool to kill him.
But
menus change. And so do people. And the God who gave us good
old ways for good old days is still full of wonderful
surprises.
God
bless you, dear and precious friends. And merry, merry
Christmas.
|
