SunNov272011
Scripture: I CORINTHIANS 1:3-9
This morning’s sermon was inspired by three things: a man I saw recently in the mall, the fact that church attendance all over the country has been dropping precipitously, and the reality that the drop is especially noticeable among men. I have no idea what that man in the mall was thinking—I never talked to him—but here’s some of what I imagine what he might have been thinking if he were here in the sanctuary today.
I bet I know what the preacher’s going to do this morning. He’s going to do the same thing he always does. He’s going to read an old passage from the Bible. A dusty, irrelevant passage. In a language I don’t get and really couldn’t care less about. And he’s going to spout some clichés about it. And it won’t have anything to do with me. Lots of words, lots of ideas.
And all I can think is: big whoop. I’d rather be at the Browns game, or sitting in my man-chair watching Thanksgiving football in a tryptophan stupor. I’d rather be hanging with the guys. Talking hunting and fishing. Comparing wheels. Admiring hot women. Throwing back a few cold ones. Working on a project that really matters. Instead, I gotta sit here for an hour. Shoot me.
I’m trying to figure out the problem. I think it’s that the things I care about are never mentioned in church. The things I think about all day long seem like a whole different universe. What in the world do all those strange Bible words have to do with a normal life? What do they have to do with hanging with my buds, laughing about old times, solving the world’s problems, making a difference?
But the preacher never asks me. He just stays in his own little world, spouting the party line about what he thinks being a Christian is all about. It’s high-faluting and it sounds sophisticated and it’s hard to argue with. But it’s so pie-in-the-sky, so far removed from the way my friends and I live.
Here’s my life: I work at a job that’s OK. But I’m doing the work that used to be done by three people. The boss is on me constantly to “produce, produce.” I always used to like what I did, but now the stress is so great that I have an ulcer and I don’t sleep the way I used to and I eat too much and I’m always worried that I won’t have my job next week or next year. The company may move or the next recession or depression will hit and I’ll be out of a job. Plus I’m getting older and there’s always some hotshot ready to take my place. I live with this constant low-level anxiety.
So when I get out of work, I come home and I just need some down time, some time to relax. I pour myself a cold one and surf the Internet and check out my Facebook friends. I throw together a quick dinner. And I’m beat. I just want to veg in front of the tube. I don’t want to see anybody. And I certainly don’t want to get involved in some “ministry,” as the preacher calls it. Who’s got time or energy for that? It’s all I can do to keep up with my life.
When the weekend comes, maybe I’ll do some yard work, or tune up the car. I’ll take care of errands or catch up on paper work. And that’s my only time for some fun. So out comes the Harley. Maybe I’ll take in a game or tweak my fantasy football team.
Then Sunday comes. And I wonder why I should bother with church. Saturday and Sunday are my only breaks. So why should I take up my Sunday morning with this weird thing called “worship.” As I say, it’s all these old stories and bizarre language that have nothing to do with my life. It’s music that’s either out-dated and boring or so new I can’t figure out what’s going on. It’s slow, quiet prayers when I’m looking for something to make my pulse race. It’s time slowed to a crawl when everything else I’m used to flies along—loud music, fast cutaways, frantic pace.
Plus, when the preacher talks, he talks gibberish. He uses these words that nobody ever uses. What the heck is grace, gift, peace, vocation, sanctification? And that’s words from just a few recent sermons. It’s a weird private language, cut off from real life. Not only that, but he sometimes says things that are so offensive. Why talk about controversial issues and politics? What right does he have to spout about matters that tick me off? It’s just his opinion. And it doesn’t go along with what I think. So why in the world should I sit here and listen to it! I can think of a lot more fun ways to spend a Sunday morning.
When it comes down to it, all I really want to know is that my family and friends and I are going to be OK, that there’s a God who loves us, and that we should love each other. That’s all. I don’t care about all the other crap—the controversial stuff, the sanctimonious opinion, the fancy, irrelevant language. A few jokes, some good uplifting stories—that’s enough for me. Something to make me feel good as I start the week.
This morning’s a perfect example: let’s just take that irrelevant jumble of words we heard a few minutes ago from what the preacher calls “the first letter of Paul to the church in Corinth.” What in the world is that all about? If that’s what you’re going to talk about, wake me up when it’s over!
I heard what it said. I heard all that strange jargon: grace, peace, thanks, grace again, given, enriched, strengthened, not lacking, spiritual gift, revealing, strengthen again, blameless, faithful, community. I heard it all.
Nobody ever asks me, but if they did, this is what I’d say. You want to know what grace is in my life? It’s riding down the street on my Harley with the wind blowing through my hair. It’s watching the Buckeyes stomp on the maize and blue—which I guess will have to wait ’til next year. It’s taking my grandson to the zoo. I’d say: if you want to talk about grace, tell me about the clarity that comes to you in the middle of the night. The surprising realizations that come to you while you’re waiting at the traffic light. Your granddaughter running up to you when she sees you in the mall, beaming and yelling “Papa, Papa! What are you doing here? Can we go get an ice cream?” You want to talk about grace? That’s what I’d say.
You want to know about peace? I’d tell you about lying in bed, looking out the window at a brilliant starlit sky, suddenly being aware how astounding it is I’ve lived this long when all my grandparents died young and I had that heart attack myself ten years ago. I’d talk about that incredible moment a few years ago when everything suddenly seemed clear and I knew that whatever happened, I’d be OK. You want to know about peace? That’s what I would say.
You want to know about gratitude on this Thanksgiving weekend? I’d tell about how phenomenal it is that I found my wife, and how incredible it is that she loves me even when I act really stupid. I’d tell about how tremendous it feels to get a letter from my daughter telling me how much she loves me. I’d tell about how, when I was in college, my father picked me up after I’d finished my finals one year, and we drove fourteen hours together and never stopped talking, and how incredible that felt. You want to know about gratitude? That’s what I’d say.
You want to know about being enriched and strengthened? I’d talk about how, when I had that heart attack, I somehow found something inside me that let me go on and thrive. I’d talk about the time I had to say something difficult to my best friend, and somehow the words were there. I was scared and yet I knew it was going to be OK. I felt weak and yet I found strength. You want to know about being enriched and strengthened? That’s what I’d say.
You want to know about not lacking any spiritual gift? I’d tell the people in church they have it within them to do the most amazing and generous things. I’d tell them that even when they’re tired, they can write an email or post a Facebook note that makes somebody else feel better. I’d tell them that, yeah, they’re weary a lot of the time and they feel drained, but if they bring a Giant Eagle gift card to the church, it will make a difference for someone else and they’ll feel better. I’d tell them that even when it’s hard, giving something to someone else is so right that it makes for peace—peace inside them and peace in the world. You want to know about not lacking any spiritual gift? That’s what I’d say.
You want to know about being blameless? I’d tell them that it doesn’t matter what they do wrong: God forgives them. It doesn’t matter what a failure they may have been: God loves them. It doesn’t matter how far short they’ve fallen of their parents’ expectations: God adores them like a precious pearl. I’d also tell them that if they really want to be blameless, they need to apologize when they’re wrong, they need to make things right with the people they’ve hurt. But I’d also remind them the God who loves them will never let them go. You want to know about being blameless? That’s what I’d say.
You want to know about being faithful? I’d tell them how important it is to believe in something beyond yourself. I’d tell them how sometimes all you can do is lie back in the arms of God. I’d tell them that life is more than the problems that eat them up now. I’d tell them that sometimes all they need to do is take some deep breaths and invite the Spirit in and trust that God will take care of them. You want to know about being faithful? That’s what I’d say.
You want to know about community, I’d tell them about how when I was sick, someone brought me flowers, how when the parish hall needed to be rebuilt, we got together and made it happen, how when the little neighbor girl died, people came out of the woodwork to pray with the family and stay with them in their agony. I’d tell them I had suddenly realized one day that when I died there was nobody who was going to bury me and that I needed to be part of a larger group of people. I guess I’d even tell them that part of community is difficult things, like pledging a lot to the church, having food shelves and government assistance programs and public policies that support those who are the weakest and most vulnerable, because how are many people going to make it if they don’t get some help from us? You want to know what I’d say about community? That’s what I’d say.
And I guess, despite myself, I’d realize how important it is to keep hearing stories like these, especially on the first Sunday of Advent, when talk turns to hope. Even though the stories are old and odd and sometimes really hard to understand, I’d come to realize that they said something that absolutely has to be said: that all we have and are comes from God, that we have everything we need to live a full and peaceful life, and that there is nothing more important than sharing the simple gifts we have with other people around us who so desperately need them. Maybe I’d even say “Thanks be to God for the gifts I have and for the privilege of sharing them.” Maybe that’s what I’d say if the sermon were mine. And maybe I’d keep going to church.