|
LINKS TO THE SERMONS |
|
| “Reflections of an Aging
Warrior” I’ve been spending some time attacking the weeds in the lawns around the church. I know I’m not going to win the war. It’s rather like the governments war on drugs; you’re not going to win and you know it going in. The other side outnumbers you; they have more resources, more determination, and more motivation. And every time you win a minor skirmish, there is an army of new recruits waiting in the wings to take up their fight. So it is with me and the weeds, I know I’m not going to beat them. In a way it’s a metaphor for advancing age. When I was young, I wasn’t interested in engaging in any battle that couldn’t be won, and won quickly so I could get on to the next thing. Of course, back then I saw most battles as winnable; I believed that righteous perseverance would always be vindicated. Now I see life and its challenges differently. The axiom, “It’s not whether you win or loose but how you play the game,” is starting to ring truer – and maybe not “how you play the game,” but rather, “that you play the game.” So, I don’t expect to win the war with the weeds, but somehow it’s energizing to engage in the battle, even if the outcome is predestined and hopeless. It feels good to know that I have fought the good fight. I have let the encroaching weeds know where I stand; they have felt the suborned ounces of my weight and though they sneer in disdain they cannot remove the luster from the certain reality that my cause is righteous and somewhere the God who has historically been the champion of lost causes will take notice. Forth I go, armed with neither herbicide nor electronic devices, armed only with my trusty, rusty weed popper. To paraphrase the immortal words of Abraham Lincoln: “The world may not long remember the weeds popped here, but the world will be changed by the fact that one man stood against the encroaching hoards and though he did not prevail, held his ground with dignity and popped weeds until he was finally too pooped to pop. Or, if you prefer: “The world will be better for this, that one man scorned and covered with grass stain, still strove with his last ounce of courage, to pop the unstoppable weeds.” It’s something like that, that Paul wrote to his young apprentice, Timothy. “The time of my departure has come,” he said, “Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge will award to me on that day.” “I have kept the faith.” There is no grander epitaph. You have been around me long enough now to know that I am not above a certain amount of self indulgence in my preaching. So, on this the occasion of 65th birthday, I decided to cast aside all restraint and engage in full-blown introspect and nostalgic retrospect with ample amounts of self-pity thrown in. Some of you may think that being 65 makes me a spring chicken but today is about my crises not yours so try to drum up a little empathy. Some of you may be thinking that this sermon is starting to sound a lot like a retirement speech. Let me assure you, or dash the hopes of some of you, be saying it is not. I have not finished my course. I still have some game to be left out on the playing field. The One who called me to this ministry more than 40 years ago, has not given me a release. And, I just might be making progress against the weeds. This is not a retirement but it is an acknowledgement of transition into a new phase. It’s something I do not do easily or without grumbling but something life forces on us all whether we chose to go “gentle into that good night” as Dylan Thomas wrote, or to “rage against the dying of the light. Everyone has to face up to the phases along the way, the pivotal ages: 13, 21, 30, 40, 65. Paul Simon wrote in a song, “How terribly strange to be 70.” I’ll report on that in a few years. Gail Sheehe in her book called “Passages” said that there is a predictable life crisis every seven years that then leads us into the next plateau. I saw an interview with Ricardo Mantoban once; he said his career could be separated into five stages. The first stage could be characterized by the phrase, “Who is Ricardo Mantoban? The second phase was, “Get me Ricardo Mantoban.” The third phase, “Get me a Ricardo Mantoban type.” Fourth, “Get me a young Ricardo Mantoban.” And fifth, “Who is Ricardo Mantoban?” Another way of characterizing the phases is with the 20 – 40 – 60 rule. When you are 20 it is very important to you what other people think of you. When you are forty you enter the phase where you could care less what other people think. Then at 60 you realize that nobody has thought of you for a very long time. I prefer to think of my life stages as being characterized by my evolving attitude toward Disneyland. In the first phase, when someone calls and invites you to go to Disneyland you get all excited, you grab your coat and head out the door. In the second phase, when someone invites you, you get all excited and you really want to go – then you get to thinking about the crowds and the traffic - $75 for an admission, $10 for a rubber hamburger, long lines at all the good rides, how tired you’re going to be the next day – and you say, “Not this time but call me next time,” and you mean it. The third phase is when you get the invitation and you realize that you don’t care if you ever go to Disneyland again – but you don’t want anyone to know that because it makes you sound like such a foggy. So you make up an excuse why you can’t go. The fourth phase is when you don’t care if you ever go to Disneyland again and you don’t care who knows it. That’s the phase I’m in. A philosopher I read divided life into four parts; he called them, to be, to do, to do without, and to depart. I’m entering the “to do without” part. Disneyland is one of the things I choose to do without, but other things are being chosen for me. I don’t run as fast as I once did nor do I recover from illnesses as quickly; all that is to get me ready for the phase where I won’t be able to run at all, or recover at all. I’m having to give up exalted notions about career advancement. When I get a letter from the bishop’s office it’s not about how they are considering me for the largest church in the conference but an invitation to a pre-retirement seminar. The Jurisdictional Conference will meet this summer and elect two new bishops. My name won’t come up. Of course it never has but now, if it did, I am disqualified by my age. I’m probably not ever going to get better at what I do and the church I serve will get by on what I have to offer. I will not be the centerfold in the next issue of the Clergy Journal. Lest you have lost track of the text for today or assume that I have, let me assure you that all of this is to put you in touch with the mind-set of Paul as he writes to young Timothy (and to the Corinthian church): the reflections of an aging warrior. I was at the graduation ceremony when my nephew graduated from Asbury Seminary to begin his ministry in the Wesleyan Church. I gave him a hug then words sprang to my lips unbidden, words I had not contemplated in advance. I said, “If you stay in the church long enough and love it enough, sooner or later, it will break your heart:” the reflections of an aging warrior. Listen to the advice Paul gave Timothy at the beginning of his ministry. “Preach the word, be urgent in season and out of season, convince, rebuke, and exhort, be unfailing in patience. The time is coming when people will turn away from sound teaching and from the truth. As for you, be steady, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry.” These are not the words of a man who has enjoyed what we would think of as remarkable success in his ministry. He has lost as many as he has won. The other apostles weren’t sure if they trusted him. Some of the churches he started fizzled. Some rejected his leadership and turned back to pagan practices. Sometimes people listened and sometimes they beat him up. After giving himself to this ministry for his lifetime, what is there to show for it? Certainly no mega-churches. There are a hand-full of little congregations scattered around Asia Minor – that’s all - all small enough to fit into someone’s living room. The only big numerical success the church had was back on the day of Pentecost when 3000 joined the church. The Bible doesn’t mention numbers after that. You could bet that it would mention numbers if there were any to be mentioned. The churches are tiny and shaky. Their pastors are pleading with them to endure the persecution and hold fast to the faith. Most members have one foot pointed toward the door. That’s what Paul had to show for his efforts. Still Paul could say, “I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith. There is a crown of righteousness waiting for me.” Paul knew how tenacious the weeds were going to be. But he also knew the un-uterable joy of fighting the good fight on the side of righteousness regardless of the hopelessness of the cause or the slimness of the possibility of a favorable outcome. That was the ministry he was challenging young Timothy to join. Because he also knew that there was a God of lost causes who notices when someone weighs in on the side of righteousness in a hopeless quest against unbeatable odds. That little bunch of scared Christians meeting in peoples living rooms around Asia Minor had no chance at all against the cultures, traditions and powers that stood against them, yet here we are. Here we are. We are the church now. We are the only ones that stand against the weeds taking over the world. I’d like to leave it to the big, rich, powerful churches but it’s never been them. I’d like to leave it to the church hierarchy, the board secretaries and the bishops, but it’s not them. They aren’t the church, we are – just us. God in his outrageous wisdom has entrusted us with the message that the world needs in order to survive, “We hold this treasure in earthen vessels.” The world’s weeds are growing out of control. Anybody with any sense knows it’s un-winable, particularly with the primitive tools we have at hand. But, that’s anybody with any sense; since when has Christian faith been sensible? We shall let the world feel the suborned ounces of the weight we have left. We shall fight the good fight, unconcerned about the odds; the victory has already been won by our Lord and our Christ. We shall engage the weeds armed only with faith, determination to leave it all out on the playing field like Paul did, and the assurance that once we have passed through all the phases and stages this life has to offer, the next phase will be the reception of a crown of righteousness awarded by the Lord of Life on that day. Remember that scene in Monty Python when the Black knight is blocking the road. So the battle begins and he chops off the Black Knight’s leg but he keeps fighting. So he chops off the other leg – then his arm. He puts his sword in his other hand and keeps coming so he chops off the last arm. And the Black Knight now legless and armless says, “Come over here and I’ll bite you.” That’s how we Christians are. I’m popping the weeds one at a time; never mind that right next to me is an unpopped one that has just dropped 10,000 more seeds that will lay dormant until the next rainy season stirs them to life. But, that’s okay because in the spring I’ll still be here, armed with this primitive weapon and a certainty that my persistence in this futile quest does make a difference in the cosmic scheme of things – that the God of lost causes sees and is pleased. So, when I do finally finish my course I too can announce with confidence, “I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith.” |
|
.................................................................................... Friends | |