Last Sermon
The number of people who go to blogs to read sermons may rival the number of people still planning to be Hillary’s running mate, but I recently preached my last sermon at Broadway Baptist Church. I struggled with what to say in a last sermon. This is what I ended up with.
“We’ll Always Have Broadway”
We’ll always have Casablanca. If you’ve ever seen it you’ll never forget it. It’s still the same old story.
It may be that more people know more lines from Casablanca than from any other movie. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, Ingrid Bergman had to walk into Humphrey Bogart’s.
“Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”
“Was that cannon fire? Or was it my heart pounding?”
“Kiss me! Kiss me as though it were the last time!”
“Why did you come to Casablanca?”
“For health reasons, I came for the waters.”
“What waters? We’re in the desert.”
“I was misinformed.”
Then the final scene when Rick tells Ilsa to get on the plane to Lisbon and freedom: “You’ve got to listen to me. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.”
Ilsa cries, “But what about us?”
Rick almost smiles: “We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have it, we’d lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back.”
“But I said I would never leave you.”
Rick heroically answers, “And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Here’s looking at you, kid.”
It’s a classic farewell scene because the ones saying goodbye know that at its best, goodbye is the promise that we’ll always keep what we’ve been for each other. We’ll never lose what we’ve given each other.
The word goodbye has a wonderful origin. Goodbye is the shortened version of the phrase “God be with you.” Goodbye is a sacred word when you hear the grace of “God be with you.”
It was “God be with you” when David said “goodbye” to Jonathan. We usually think of King David with somebody else: David and Goliath, David and Saul, David and Bathsheba. David would want to be remembered by this pairing—David and Jonathan.
Before David showed up, Jonathan was the hero. He led the Israelite army to victory in a battle with the Philistines. The people were glad that Jonathan would one day occupy his father’s throne. But with David’s slaying of Goliath, Jonathan’s popularity began to fade in comparison. He could have been jealous—most of us would have been—but instead Jonathan recognized how much alike he and David were. He loved David as his own soul. Instead of thinking of David as a rival to be feared or hated, Jonathan finds a kindred spirit. These two friends become inextricably bound.
Jonathan gives David his robe, armor, sword, belt, and bow as signs of their friendship. By giving these particular gifts—gifts belonging to the heir apparent to the throne—Jonathan is saying that David should be king in his place. It would have been easy for Jonathan to resent David and yet he chose to love rather than envy him.
As David’s popularity grows, Jonathan’s father becomes David’s archenemy. Jonathan is, for a short time, successful in keeping peace between King Saul and David, but not for long. Saul gets worse and Jonathan finally arranges this charade with the bow and arrows to let David know that the time has come for him to leave.
When David and Jonathan say goodbye for what they think will be the last time, they cry, hug, kiss, and cry some more. Finally Jonathan says: “Take care of yourself. Remember that God will be between you and me forever. Goodbye. God be with you.”
This is one of the great friendships of all time—Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, Thelma and Louise, Bert and Ernie, Lewis and Clark, Laverne and Shirley, Batman and Robin, Lucy and Ethel, Rocky and Bullwinkle, David and Jonathan. Each one makes the other better. Even when they part company, their friendship has an impact that stays with them every day for the rest of their lives.
We might guess that this farewell is the end of David and Jonathan’s story, but we would be wrong. Listen to the 133rd Psalm: “How wonderful and beautiful when kindred live together in unity. It’s like the dew which falls on the mountains of Zion. God ordains this blessing.” This Psalm ties together the love of friends and the grace of God. It may have been written by David, or by a friend of David’s. Either way it’s possible that these holy words wouldn’t have been written if it hadn’t been for Jonathan and David’s friendship.
Listen to the Book of Proverbs: “Friends love at all times, through all kinds of weather. They stick together in all kinds of trouble.” “Some friends play at friendship, they come and go, but a true friend sticks closer than one’s nearest kin.” These Proverbs may have been written by Solomon—David’s son—or a friend of Solomon’s or someone who knew the story of David and Jonathan. In any case, these sacred words may have begun with a friendship that lasted beyond the goodbye.
Lasting friendships are rare—so rare that our society has become cynical about friendship. You’ve heard the saying, “With friends like these who needs enemies.” It’s not a compliment to friendship. One cynic defined friendship as a boat big enough to carry two in sunny weather, but only one during a storm.
Most of us know lots of names and have few real companions. Some of what we call friendships are just arrangements by which we exchange favors. We have acquaintances from whom we hope for common courtesy and not much more. We don’t have high expectations for most of our relationships.
Some of our cynicism grows out of the prevailing attitude that we’re on our own. The car pool lane is mostly empty. You don’t see many bicycles built for two. Ipods outsell stereos. Friendship seems to be losing the day to an unchristian individualism.
One of our culture’s biggest lies is that we don’t really need each other. You’ve known grown children who decide, sometimes for good reasons, that they don’t want their parents in their lives. They proudly assert their independence, “My parents and I aren’t on speaking terms.” But they keep talking about how they aren’t talking. The more they protest, the more obvious it becomes that they may not trade Christmas cards, but the parents are still a huge part of their children’s lives. You’ve known parents who have tried, sometimes with good reasons, to disown their children. They may be able to stop talking about their sons and daughters, but they’re never far from their thoughts. It’s true for all of us. When we try to let go of someone we’ve loved, we discover that our lives are irreversibly entangled. Self-centeredness doesn’t work.
Four centuries ago, John Donne had it right: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
We’re in this together. Sometimes we get busy doing things that we think are important and don’t see that the more important thing we’re doing is investing ourselves in one another, helping each other become who God intends us to be. You’ve seen the bumper sticker, “If you can read this, thank a teacher.” If we know anything of hope, forgiveness or friendship, then we have someone to thank.
Friendships that last forever, that make us better human beings, aren’t just an option for people of faith. God calls us to commit ourselves to friendship, work at it conscientiously, not be too disappointed when some we thought were friends fail, and keep being the best friends we can be. Jesus said, “Love one another as I have loved you. They will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”
We must pray for each other, weep with each other, and rejoice with each other. To be Christ’s friends, we have to be each other’s friends, conceivably even to lay down our lives for one another. It’s a high price to pay, and Jesus doesn’t pretend otherwise, but the implication is that it’s worth every cent. We love God by being true friends.
We love God through all kinds of friendships, friendships that surprise and sustain us, friendships with those who are older than we are and younger than we are, friends we knew we would be our friends from the moment we met, friends for whom it took years to discover that we’d been friends all along, and friends who move closer during the hard times.
Before I came to Broadway I knew all about friendships where you say “Hello” and compare notes on books and movies. Broadway taught me about friendships where you say “I love you” and compare scars.
I used to secretly believe that I was for the most part self-sufficient. My idea of ministry was that people who have it together help those who don’t. I won’t ever believe that again, because you taught me about sharing ministry and the love of God that’s deeper than any false sense of independence. I now understand that when someone carries your burdens or lets you carry theirs, that’s Christ’s church.
Jesus had only three years of ministry and yet he spent most of that time with a small group of friends. The New Testament calls Jesus’ friends, “the body of Christ.” They had become part of him. It was no longer Jesus and his friends. They were the church. They were inseparable.
There are people we haven’t seen in years who affect our lives every day. Think about the family member who loved you the most, the best teacher you ever had, or the closest friend you’ve ever known. Those people may be long gone in one sense, but in a far greater sense they will always be part of who you are. We can’t conceive how much less our lives would be without those people. Each one of us is a fragile web made up of the people who made us. Touch any part of the web and the whole thing shakes.
Do you remember the scene in It’s a Wonderful Life when just as Mary and George are about to leave on their honeymoon there’s a run on the Bailey Building and Loan? The customers ask where their money is and Jimmy Stewart tries to explain, “It’s not just here. Your money is in Martini’s house and Peterson’s house and Schmidt’s house. We’re all in this together.”
Where is Broadway? It’s in you and me. It’s in Donella Ware, Kathy Madeja, Rod Hickman, Annessa Robbins and everyone who’s part of this community of grace. But it’s not just here. Broadway is also in everyone who’s ever been changed by this family. It’s in Hazel Morris, Steve Shoemaker, and Doug Dickens. It’s in the people they love. Broadway is in a hundred places we’ll never know about. It’s in every minister who’s gotten to serve here. It’s in every church they serve. Broadway will soon be part of a theology school in Atlanta. We’re all in this together—not just today, but forever.
This gracious family will always be one of the best parts of who I am. I will forever have a Broadway-shaped hole in my heart, but I will also have a Broadway-shaped faith, a Broadway-shaped hope, and a Broadway-shaped love. You’ve taught me so much about friendship, grace, and love. I’m a better person, because of you. I’m a better Christian, because I was privileged to be part of this church. By the grace of God, we’ll always be in this together. We take one another wherever we go. Whenever we say goodbye, it’s a promise. In our coming and our going, God will be with us.
Dear Next Pastor,
I’m leaving Broadway Baptist Church after seven years of an amazing and sacred rollercoaster to teach preaching at the McAfee School of Theology in Atlanta. I’ve worked hard at saying good-bye, and am learning that I’m not very good at letting go. This is a letter I’m leaving in the pastor’s desk at Broadway for the next pastor.
Dear Pastor,
I am sure that you are getting notes and letters from your new and wordy congregation so don’t feel like you have to write me back—especially since I wrote this long before any of us knew who you were.
The first days at a new church can be overwhelming. You may feel like you have gotten married when you have only just begun dating. For better or worse (and I’m sure it will be better), the people who have chosen you to be their pastor will have a profound impact on the person you become. The minister is at the congregation’s mercy.
That’s what makes you fortunate. Your new church is a community of grace. People at Broadway live like Christians. If you pay attention, then they will teach you to do the same. If your experience is anything like mine, then every once in a while in the middle of a conversation, you will suddenly realize that you are speaking to one of God’s beloved children. I would love to give you my list of favorite saints and sinners, but I suppose part of the fun is making your own list.
Your new church has a remarkable commitment to worship. Carlyle Marney said, “Worship is an antidote for fatigue.” That was never truer for me than at Broadway. Worship encompassed my head, heart, and imagination. Worship with this church confirmed what was genuine in my faith and life, and disturbed what wasn’t. During the sermon I was often distracted with thoughts of how fortunate I was to get to preach to a congregation that listens for God.
Your new church has an amazing commitment to ministry. Broadway people are concerned for the least of God’s children. They take seriously Jesus’ love for the poor and outcasts. The church works hard to welcome everybody. You’ll see some delightfully surprising friendships.
Your new church is filled with interesting people. We have some fascinating left wing radicals and some gracious right wing diehards. They encourage their preachers to tell the truth—light and dark, tears and laughter. Most churches discourage honesty. Broadway insists on it. This church taught me to think more deeply about following Christ. They led me to rest in the grace of God while, at the same time, struggling with the meaning of faith.
Before I realized that no one laughed, I used to say that the only person I envied was Carol’s second husband. I am now also jealous of you, because you get to be the pastor of a church that goes beyond the routine in an extraordinary variety of ways.
I hope I will be a good predecessor (I needed someone to tell me that Jerry and Mikey are the same person). If I can ever be of help, please give me a call. I would be delighted to give you unneeded and unwanted advice. (I hope you keep Ash Wednesday, World Hunger Day and the discipline of silence. Don’t start the Gospel of Luke on Wednesday nights unless you have five years to finish. Good luck on footwashing. I think nylons killed it forever.)
I know how blessed I was to be part of a congregation through which God makes ministers more whole. If you haven’t already, thank God for the sacred privilege of serving with Broadway. I always will.
Your predecessor
A Preacher Goes Parrothead
The church is supposed to teach the world about joy and it often works that way, but sometimes it happens in the other direction. Some church members decided that Carol and I needed a break—the kind that lasts about three hours—and bought us tickets to a Jimmy Buffett concert. We didn’t want to be rude, so we went. Their gift was even more generous than you might guess, because we ended up in the middle section down on the field not far from Jimmy. I admit I wouldn’t want Jimmy Buffett to teach my son’s Sunday school class, but it was fun.
Jimmy is a balding sixty-year-old. The theme for this tour is “The Year of Still Here.” If you’re Jimmy Buffett—who’s crashed planes and boats—still being around is an accomplishment. One of his songs is “Growing Older But Not Up.”
The band is made up of graying AARP members with artificial knees and orthopedic shoes who have been with the band forever and never make it on to the jumbotron, and a couple of dancers in their twenties who get lots of jumbotron time.
You might think that people as old as Jimmy Buffett are too old to attend a Jimmy Buffett concert, but the audience was filled with senior citizens as well as children. Jimmy, the troubadour for baby boomers, wrote a song twenty years ago titled “A Pirate Looks at Forty.” One preschooler held up a sign that said “A Pirate Looks at Four.”
You get the feeling that most of the crowd has been to these concerts before. For one thing, they dress for the event. Grown-ups wear parrot noses, parrot heads, shark fins, straw hats, flowered shirts, hula skirts and pirate suits. I saw several carrying swords and a few with surfboards. There was a 35 foot sailboat in the parking lot. What were they thinking?
It’s a participatory event. We sing along. One of Jimmy’s best-selling albums is titled, “Songs You Already Know.” We didn’t need chairs, just an X where we could stand if we chose to stand where we were supposed to stand.
Jimmy made several references to religion. He claimed that the Pope came to his concert in Houston, blessed the cheeseburgers (a Buffett reference) and told Jimmy he’d long been a parrothead.
Jimmy also said, “Church attendance might be down in the morning, but for those worried about that, well, for me, this counts as church.”
This was a comment I found objectionable. It doesn’t count for church. Carol and I made it to church the next morning, but there were moments Saturday night that were joyful in ways that the church should be joyful.
The concert was meant to be fun and it was. It was like being at the beach without the irritating sun, sand, and water. People want to feel joyful. They’re willing to work at it.
I found one element especially interesting—the beach balls. At any given moment, hundreds of beach balls were flying through the air. Sitting near the front on the field meant we had more beach ball action than people fifty rows up the bleachers. One beach ball caused Carol to spill much of her $5 Dr Pepper.
What I enjoy most about the beach balls is thinking about how they got there. Hundreds of people thought, “I like it when we throw beach balls, so I’ll stop and buy one on the way to the concert.” They do this knowing there is not a chance in a thousand that they will be bringing their beach ball home. Once they launch it it’s not coming back. They are making a contribution to the party.
Here’s my point, and you may be surprised to hear I have one. Church is supposed to be about gathering to make a contribution to the party. In the Old Testament one third of the tithes that were given at the temple went for feast days. Think about that. 33% of their budget went for parties. They believed that those who love God should give thanks and celebrate.
Each one of us should bring joy with us to church, joy to share, joy that will multiply.
Sometimes we try so hard to make everyone think like we do that we miss the fun of it. We plan. We program. We process. We work. We worry. We argue. We disagree. At times, we bring our most disagreeable self to church.
We don’t celebrate enough. We don’t laugh enough. We need to sing and smile and give thanks for God’s gift of joy.
Caleb Younger on His Father’s Preaching
My fourteen-year-old son Caleb was asked recently to speak about his father’s preaching at a Sunday school assembly. Here’s what he said.
Preacher’s kids listen to sermons differently. Normal kids listen with interest or take a much deserved nap. I listen with fear—afraid that I’m about to be mentioned.
February 2001, my father’s first sermon at Broadway
He preached, “I took a job in Indiana in 1986. Graham was born three years after that. We moved to Kansas in 1990. Caleb was born three years after that. We moved to Waco in 1996 and stopped forever our pattern of having a child three years after moving.”
This seems innocuous, but it started a vicious pattern of mentioning me whenever he wants to sound clever.
April 2001
My dad preached, “Thank you to your ministers of housing Nancy and Jim in whose guest house I am staying. On Saturday night when my whole family was here Caleb suggested that we could all move in to the Thurmond’s house.”
I was only seven years old, but I don’t think I seriously suggested that we live in someone else’s house.
December 2003, the Sunday I was baptized and my tenth birthday
“Today my son turns the big one-o. After a decade you’ve seen a lot. You’ve skinned your knees on the sidewalk of life and said goodbye to your invisible friends.”
“Caleb entertains his family with improvisational comedy that comes from somewhere other than our genes. He loves the Agape Meal. His record is nine pitchers of tea. I was unimpressed with this number until the Thursday night I was given tea-pouring duty and fell seven pitchers short of the record.”
“During the summer Caleb helps in the adult clothing room. He particularly likes calling out the name of the next person to be served. He thinks his specialty is pronouncing Hispanic names.”
A few notes. I still have my invisible friend. His name is Jose, and I’d rather not talk about him. The tea record is eleven pitchers. I don’t do improvisational comedy. Like all the great comedians, I prepare.
March 2004, after a spring break trip on which my father was pulled out of line at the airport for a security check
The next Sunday he preached, “The woman behind the counter said ‘Uh, oh’—never a good sign. I’d like to think I was chosen at random, but it may have been my ‘Peace on Earth’ sweatshirt that made me a suspicious character. I was led down a long corridor with my family following behind me. Caleb was asking, ‘What did daddy do wrong?’”
I think he misheard me. What I actually said was, “They finally caught daddy.”
November 2004, my dad preached on my basketball tryouts“
On Saturday morning the air in the H.F. Stevens Middle School gym was thick with the smell of yesterday’s heroes’ sweat socks. The anxiety was palpable as they shot free throws. The line seemed forty feet from the goal, but, and I probably shouldn’t mention this, my son Caleb hit two of three.”
The question is how much was my anxiety increased by the prospect of having my free throw percentage announced at church on Sunday morning.
August 2005, after our trip to Paris my dad talked about sitting next to a French family on the train
He preached, “An eleven-year-old, Charlotte, offers me a potato chip. I say merci—which exhausts my French. She says that she speaks ‘a little English,’ but she’s actually quite good. When Caleb walks by I introduce him to Charlotte.”
It’s bad enough to have your dad introducing you to French girls on a train, but how many people does he have to tell about it?
November 2005
Dad preached, “I find myself spending an increasingly large amount of time waiting for my children. I wait for Caleb’s bus. I wait for Graham’s basketball practice to end. I’m supposed to refrain from yelling “Hey sweetie” when I first see them if their friends are around.”
He never refrained.
February 2007
Dad preached, “On the Sunday after Christmas I was on vacation so we visited another church. You know about mega-churches with praise teams, big screens and Starbucks in the lobby. This was the opposite. The processional began with bells and smells—a hand bell ringer with no timing and a fog machine. Caleb was sitting nearest the aisle. When the cloud got to him, we couldn’t see him, but we heard him coughing.”
I had a cold. Sue me. I had a cold. I could go on and on like my father does, but I’ve finally decided that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s figured out a way to make me listen. He wants me to listen because it might be about me. That’s what good preachers do.
Me and the Boss
I was fourteen years old when Bruce Springsteen released the Born to Run album—though for me it was the Born to Run 8-track. The player in my 1969 Chevy Impala eventually required a Popsicle stick to adjust the tracking, because I wore it out listening to those eight songs over and over. I sang duets with the Boss in the car and never in the house, because I knew that the requisite volume as well as the lyrics would not go over big. I couldn’t see my mother singing along to: Someday girl I don’t know when we’re gonna’ get to that place where we really want to go and we’ll walk in the sun, but till then tramps like us baby we were born to run.
When Bruce and the E Street Band came to Cleveland a friend said, “A bunch of us are going to hear Springsteen. Do you want to go?”
Most aficionados would have immediately, enthusiastically shouted, “Yes!” but most aficionados weren’t conservative-leaning-to-fundamentalist-Southern-Baptists. I ended up saying “No,” because I was secretly afraid of the people who would be there. The friend who invited me wasn’t one of my church friends. I pictured a crowd drinking beer and smoking dope. My religious upbringing made it clear that I shouldn’t be part of a mob of criminals, reprobates, and good for nothings. (I was also taught to stay away from black people, poor people, and loose women.)
But I’ve kept listening and singing along. The lullaby to which I put my children to sleep began In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream and ended Baby we were born to run.
On Sunday night when Bruce came to Dallas I decided with some trepidation to join the mob. When we got in line, I started scribbling a few ideas.
A grandmother in a bandana asked, “What are your writing?”
I answered, “I’m a pastor taking notes for a church newsletter column.”
She insightfully replied, “You have a very cool church.”
When we got to our seats—which were “backstage” but not in a good way—the balding man to my right, who ended up knowing more of the words than I did, looked at me and said, “Some of this crowd would fit right in at a Perry Como concert.”
The could-have-been-a-vice-principal woman next to Carol asked, “Do you think we’ll have to stand through this?”
A quick glance at the gray hair around us made Carol confident in saying, “I’m sure we’ll get to sit.”
Some stood for the whole two and half hours. Some danced in the aisles. We clapped and raised our hands. We shouted and sang as a congregation. It felt like a Pentecostal revival.
Bruce led us in a hymn about people who might not make it to church, but keep believing.
In a whitewash shotgun shack an old man passes away
Take his body to the graveyard and over him they pray
Lord won’t you tell us, tell us what does it mean
Still at the end of every hard earned day people find some reason to believe.
The Boss thinks we’re all in this together—criminals, reprobates and church people:
Everybody needs a place to rest
Everybody wants to have a home
Don’t make no difference what nobody says
Ain’t nobody like to be alone.
Everybody’s got a hungry heart.
I looked at the people who were singing with such joy and was embarrassed for myself and for the part of the church that keeps pushing people away. The choir included drinkers and teetotalers, the promiscuous and the chaste, black and white, old and young, bikers and Baptists preachers. Where in the Gospels do any of us get the idea that church people should feel superior to anyone else in the crowd? I was 33 years late to the concert, but I’m beginning to understand that God loves us all—even the tramps like us that were born to run.
The Big Sleep
Unless God builds the house, those who build it labor in vain. Unless God guards the city, the guard keeps watch in vain. It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil for God gives sleep to God’s beloved. —Psalm 127:1-2, New Revised Standard Version
Early to bed, late to rise sounds good, too. —Psalm 127:2, Very Contemporary Version
As a prophetic and peculiar pastor, I have to tackle subjects that other ministers are afraid to write about. I don’t think it is an overstatement to say that most preachers have never had the courage to address how Christians spend roughly a third of their lives. If you are my age, you have spent more than fifteen years asleep. This is a gift of God that we should recognize as God’s gift.
The point the writer of Psalm 127 makes is that we shouldn’t hold on to our anxieties when it’s time to sleep. The Psalmist offers two examples, the worry of building a house or of being in danger. We let all kinds of worries—most of them smaller than those two—keep us awake. If we choose to worry when we should sleep, we are to some degree forgetting God. We forget that when we are asleep, God stays awake. According to the Psalm, it’s vain for us to stay up too late or get up too soon because of a lack of trust.
Sleep is one of God’s best gifts. There is not much better than falling asleep a little early and waking up just a little late. Sleep is a spiritual event. God set up life as a balance of rest and activity, sleeping and waking. When we lie down to sleep we have the opportunity to let go of the steering wheel and give ourselves to God’s care when we are least able to care for ourselves.
Insomnia shows up for a complex variety of reasons and some people are born light or heavy sleepers, but it is also true that sleep comes more easily when we trust in God. When someone says they fell asleep while praying that may be a sign that their prayers were answered: “God gives sleep to God’s beloved.”
Interestingly, there’s a second way to translate the second verse of Psalm 127. It may read “God provides for God’s beloved during sleep.” The emphasis then would be not just on the gift of sleep, but also on the gifts that are given through the gift of sleep. When we sleep we are not merely being released, we are also being restored. Without any effort of our own we are given new energy.
George McDonald said, “Sleep is God’s contrivance for giving us the help that God cannot give us when we’re awake.”
Some of the saints have gone so far as to say that God helps us grow in grace as we sleep.
Brother Lawrence wrote, “Those whose spirits are stirred by the breath of the Holy Spirit of God go forward even in sleep.”
We wake up better people than when we went to bed. If we think that sounds silly it may be because we are used to thinking that we are in charge of everything when in fact God is the giver of the best gifts.
The next time you sleep in, consider it part of your Christian journey. Before you go to sleep tonight, say a prayer, lay aside your burdens and entrust yourself to the grace of God.
Life is Short
When our oldest son was born, friends came to the hospital, asked to hold the baby, and commented on how glad they were that he looked like his mother. As they were leaving several said something like, “Don’t blink, because that’s how long it will be before he’s off to college.”
At the time I thought it was a stupid comment. I knew any child of Carol’s was going to be smart, but he wasn’t ready for college.
But they were right. In August, we took our son to college. I find this hard to believe. It feels like he started crawling a month ago, went to kindergarten a week ago, and got his driver’s license a few days ago. It seems like only yesterday he was lying on the couch throwing food and making silly noises when actually it was this summer.
As the renowned philosopher Ferris Bueller said, “Life goes by pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Life is too short for fantasy baseball, computer solitaire or Deal or No Deal.
Life is too short for microwave pizza, bad novels, or having the cleanest gutters on the block.
Life is too short to keep waiting for vacation, a special occasion, or a better day.
Life is too short to sit around moping, choosing despair, or worrying what people think.
Life is too short to be bitter over things you can’t change, want to go back to what was, or always do the same thing.
Life is too short to be bored, always blend in, or sit in the corner while the band is playing.
Life is too short to intend to live a new life, but never get around to it.
We shouldn’t give ourselves to things which are less than God’s best, because life is short.
Life is short, so live every day as if it were your last, because some day you’ll be right.
Life is short, so do what you love to do and give it your very best. Whether it’s business or teaching or medicine, if you don’t love what you’re doing and can’t give it your best, look seriously at getting out of it.
Life is short, so recognize that today is the only day you have, eat dessert first, and read good books.
Life is short, so go to church, stay awake, and sing.
Life is short, so tell the truth, take care of this day, and dance.
Life is short, so listen to the people you love, tell them how much they mean to you, and visit someone else’s mother in the nursing home.
Life is short, so recognize that every day is a special occasion, look for excuses to laugh, and choose to be happy.
Life is short, so forgive. Look past the faults of others just like you hope they will do for you.
Life is short, so surround yourself with gracious people, hug your friends, and care for someone you haven’t cared for before.
Life is short, so be courageous, take a chance, live so that when your life flashes before your eyes, you’ll have plenty to watch.
Life is short, so embrace the possibilities, try something new, see that every day is an opportunity, and dream, but don’t just dream, follow those dreams.
Life is short, so breathe and think deeply, don’t give your heart to that which won’t fill your heart, and make the changes that will make the difference.
Life is short, so celebrate God’s grace, make time for the things that matter, and don’t leave yourself regretting things you didn’t do.
Life is short, so believe in Christ with all of your heart, soul, mind and strength.
Celebrate the love of God, because it’s later than you think and life is short.
Singing Harmony
I confess that I usually sing the melody, but last Sunday I sat by Jeff Newton. During the second stanza of My Jesus, I Love Thee I realized that while I was making a dull unison contribution, Jeff was taking off on the tenor line. By the time we got to “If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, ’tis now,” I was doing my best to add the bass line. Unison is easier, but at the best churches—in our best moments—we sing harmony.
We should be more spirited harmonization than unthinking agreement, more Baskin Robbins than plain vanilla. Not “My way or the highway,” but “Our way is spaghetti junction.” Diversity is more complicated, but it’s also more interesting. It’s a small church that only has room for one set of opinions.
When visitors come, we should be able to say, “We’ve got people like you. We have Huckabees and Hillaries. We drive Lexuses, Ford Escorts, and don’t drive at all. We watch Washington Week in Review and American Gladiators. We listen to Mendelssohn and Willie Nelson. We went to The Great Debaters and Alvin and the Chipmunks. We have Dallas Cowboys fans and those who have learned to keep their opinions to themselves.”
We sing harmony, because we’re church. The best churches have a long history of encouraging creativity and new ideas. Carlyle Marney said, “The church that has not lost its courage will never have to advertise its location.” When our congregation is brave, we end up meeting such interesting people at church. The people with whom we disagree are often the ones from whom we can learn the most. In the best churches members are forever saying, “I won’t let our differences get in the way of our friendship.”
We sing harmony, because we’re following Jesus. If you take seriously the hard questions of discipleship, you have to make room for answers that aren’t always simple. The Kingdom of God is bigger than we have imagined. When we discover a difference of opinion it’s an opportunity to go beyond merely tolerating one another to celebrating our diversity.
When people suggest that churches have to be all this or all that, those who sing harmony know it isn’t true. A choir with only tenors isn’t really a choir. Christ’s followers listen carefully to one another and add our different parts to the one song.
Christians have different perspectives on the incarnation, but we all sing Silent Night. Christians have a variety of ideas on the atonement, but we all sing When I Survey the Wondrous Cross. Christians may disagree on what the resurrection looked like, but we all sing Christ the Lord is Risen Today. Christians have different lists of who gets into heaven, but we sing Amazing Grace together.
The best churches are big enough for everyone who wants to sing of Christ. What holds us together is the affirmation “Jesus is Lord.” God calls us to be loyal to Christ before anything else—even before our opinions. We don’t have to sing the same notes at the same time. We just have to sing the song of God’s love together.
Being Family, Being Church
When I was in the tenth grade I moved from a school in Mississippi that was so small that I made the basketball team to a school in Ohio that looked like the world’s largest maximum security prison. My school in Mississippi was one building, one hall, and eight rooms. We had two minutes to get from one class to the next. It was more than enough time. Instead of lockers we had hooks beneath wooden shelves with numbers painted on them. Everyone knew everyone. Half of us went to the Baptist church. A third of us were related.
My new school in Cleveland was a huge gray concrete complex with six miles of halls housing thirteen hundred inmates that seemed to be divided into groups of three and four. My life—which had been simple up until that point—became complicated. I had to find classes with a map, remember my locker combination, and get used to not knowing anyone.
As hard as all that was, the real dangers were in the unwritten rules. On my first day I went into the wrong bathroom. It said “Men” on the door, but it was the wrong men’s room, because it belonged to the seniors. The door did not say seniors, but I was supposed to know. I was for a moment certain that something awful involving at least one toilet was about to take place, but a geometry teacher had seen me wander into a war zone and came to make sure that I got out alive and dry.
At lunch I sat down at the wrong table—actually three wrong tables. First I sat at what turned out to be the jock table. I wondered if they would be impressed that I was on the basketball team in Mississippi, but I didn’t get a chance to tell them. I was not dressed stylishly enough to sit at the prep table. I was disqualified from a third table for wearing a color other than black. I spent weeks trying to figure out what I needed to do to be accepted by some group, any group. I walked the halls looking for a friendly face, worrying about making a fool of myself, waiting for an invitation to the table or at least directions to a safe restroom.
The church is supposed to be the opposite of Willoughby High School and it usually is, but sometimes it is not as different as it should be. Even churches have unwritten rules about who will be whose friend. While it is unlikely anyone will ask you to move from their spot, there are places that are almost reserved. We don’t always take the time to care for one another. Too many in the church are lonely. Sometimes we learn names and not much more. We tend to pay less attention to those much older or younger than we are. We keep too many friendships on the surface.
God has invited us to be family. We need to, because we worry about making fools of ourselves, and need a family that sets a place for fools. We need the family that is the church, because we need people who love us no matter what. We need God’s grace and God’s people, because left alone we’ll never learn to give.
Every once in a while ask, “Would you like to eat with us?” Smile bigger. Listen more. Tell the truth about your life. If we don’t learn to love each other, we will stop wanting to. If we don’t appreciate one another, we will stop feeling gratitude. We will think it is easier to talk to four people and ignore the rest. We will miss the joy of being God’s family.
Leave the Lights On
Every once in a great while I see a jogger and react in a way that is incomprehensible to thinking people: I say to myself, “I should start jogging.” (I recognize that many intelligent people feel that the more understandable response to runners is to turn the steering wheel ever so slightly so that they run back up on the curb where they belong.) My unexplainable longing to jog usually doesn’t last long enough for me to put on my tennis shoes, but on rare occasions I forget how much I hate jogging and run (throughout this column, I will be using the verb “run” in the broad, general sense) for a few days. The key to my success as a runner (I am using the noun “runner” in the same general sense) is that I don’t run very far (I am not embarrassed by embarrassingly short distances) or very fast (it can take several minutes for me to pass a parked car). The only part of jogging at which I excel is “jogger’s face.” While runners claim that they enjoy running, the look on most jogger’s faces is complete anguish. Even though I don’t jog far enough or fast enough to qualify for any genuine anguish, whenever a car or another jogger passes I huff and puff and contort my face as if my heart, lungs, and every muscle in my body are about to explode. When they are out of sight, I sit on the curb and rest.
For a couple of weeks I ran around a couple of blocks near our house. The whole trip was less than a mile (I say this only to prove that I was telling the truth when I said that I am not embarrassed by embarrassingly short distances). The highlight of my jaunt was an out of the ordinary yard about 4/10 of a mile from our house. At night, when the lights are on, you can spot it from about 3/10 of a mile away. The most striking feature is the Christmas lights. The lights, which are in a Mulberry tree, are a startling variety of colors. There’s also a red birdhouse with a black roof and an invitation to “See Rock City.” A big red bow adorns a holly wreath. Orange, purple, pink, red and white gladiolas and lilies cover every spare inch. I hope I never have to use my jogger’s face near this spot, because it’s hard not to smile at this yard.
Not long after I started jogging I had a conversation with some people who lived in the area. I asked, “What’s the story with your neighbor’s Christmas lights? That’s an interesting yard.” They quickly made it clear that the yard is not as amusing to them as it is to me: “Those stupid Christmas lights have been up for years. . . It makes me furious when I think about what that yard does to my property values. . . I am sorely tempted to buy a BB gun just to shoot those lights. . . &%$*!@.com.”
I started to rethink my feelings. Perhaps the yard wasn’t as wonderful as I originally thought. Maybe I would feel differently if I lived nearby. Perhaps 4/10 of a mile into my run, I was experiencing the “jogger’s euphoria” about which veteran joggers talk.
One Sunday evening, I was gradually, leisurely making my way around the neighborhood when I saw a woman working in “the yard” just up ahead. I sped up so that ten minutes later, when I was in need of a break anyway, I was able to stop and say: “Your yard is really interesting. Is there a story behind the Christmas lights?” She smiled and said, “Yes, there is.” She pointed to the house across the street and identified a particular window. “The elderly woman who lives there came to stay with her children seven years ago. She’s in her nineties now and seldom leaves her room. After her first Christmas here she went on and on about how much she enjoyed looking at the lights and bright colors in our yard. We’re the only view she has. When Christmas was over, we didn’t have the heart to take the lights down. We decided that as long as she’s around, we’ll leave the lights on.”
How many times are our aggravations someone else’s Christmas lights?
Leave the lights on.