Indescribable Worship

Those of you who know me know that I have strong feelings about biblical worship. Elsewhere I’ve described biblical worship as …a ‘wake-up call,’ a window onto another world called the Kingdom of God; a time each week to remember both who and Whose we are so as to ‘get our story straight.' And those who know me know also that I have been distressed by the current supplanting of biblical worship with an entertainment model that treats every Sunday as a pep rally and every sermon as a little “pep talk” to pump up the faithful…by the cheapening of biblical worship through the slick, market-oriented, consumer-savvy, shallow salesmanship that dominates so much of the liturgical landscape these days. I sometimes refer to this as “adjectival worship.” You know what I mean – the irrepressible need some churches have to locate their worship in the liturgical marketplace so that the “customers” know what’s for sale on Sundays – contemporary worship, praise and worship, blended worship, purpose driven worship, creative worship, etc. I thought I’d seen it all. And then, today as Cheryl and I were driving home from a visit to an area botanical garden, we ran across a new form of adjectival worship that…well, defies description.

The sign out front of the church said it all (pun intended). “Indescribable Worship” it screamed at passers-by. I couldn’t help it; I had to stop. You see, I've experienced "insubstantial worship;" and I've experienced "incomprehensible worship;" and I've even experienced "interminable worship" on occasion; but never in all my years of church going have I experienced "indescribable worship." So I had to ask. Found the pastor and said: "What, pray tell, is 'indescribable worship?'" He, of course, was speechless. And so I set my imagination to work. Maybe it was a Quaker style worship service where everybody sits in silence. Or perhaps the congregation sings hymns without lyrics. Or maybe the preacher pantomimes the sermon. They were right about one thing: whatever it was, it wasn't easily described.

So, I did some research on “indescribable worship” in order to identify the qualities or characteristics that must be present in order for a service to be appropriately labeled “indescribable worship.” I came up with four:

1.
2.
3.
4.

Any questions?

Well, the sign worked. I was intrigued. For a minute there, I actually thought about dropping by on Sunday to check it out. I mean, no one wants to get left behind when the “next big thing” in worship comes along! Thought I might report back to you on the blog what I found out about “indescribable worship.” But then I realized, what’s the use? It’s…well…indescribable.

Getting (And Keeping) Our Story Straight

The new American Religious Identification Survey (ARIS) came out last week, and the news for nearly all religious groups in the US was not good. Since the last ARIS was conducted (1990), nearly every religious group in the US lost ground, this despite the fact that the US gained some 50 million new adults during that same period, largely due to immigration. Even Catholics and Baptists, who had believed themselves immune from the declines mainline Protestants have suffered for decades, posted significant (not just statistical) losses.

Buried in the story about the survey and the denominational decline it documents is this one little, seemingly innocuous, statement: More than ever before, people are just making up their own stories of who they are. There. Did you see it? People are no longer looking to religion in general or the Church in particular to define for them their “stories.” Now, they just make up their own as they go along. I’m reminded of Sheila in Robert Bellah’s Habits of the Heart. She’s a kind of fuzzy-thinking, postmodern new-ager whose “faith” she calls “Sheilaism.” She says: “I believe in God, but I don’t go to church or read my Bible or junk like that. My faith has carried me far. It’s Sheilaism, just my own little voice.”

You see, it used to be that that’s what we went to Church for – to listen to a Voice larger than “just my own little voice;” to find our place in a Story bigger than just “the story of our lives.” Believing that history is finally His-Story, we gathered each week, amidst the din of cacophonous voices out there–all vying to tell us who we are and what we’re about and where we’re going–to listen to another Voice and to find our place in another Story. We opened the Scriptures and in those events and persons and places and ideas we caught a glimpse of who we are and Whose we are and what we’re about. We called it “Gospel,” because it was, indeed, “good news” finally to get our story straight. It gave us altitude and perspective; it gave us purpose and hope; it gave us vision and values. And, as a result, we could re-enter that world out there with all its cacophonous voices and clamorous stories and not be deterred or dissuaded or deflected from our destiny.

Having our story straight gave us the courage to look at people with level gaze and say: “I’m a Christian…I don’t believe in Nature (sui generis and sovereign); I believe in Creation. I’m a Christian…I don’t believe in luck; I believe in Providence. I’m a Christian…I don’t believe in ethical pathology or moral dysfunction or just plain “oops” or “uh oh;” I believe in sin. I’m a Christian…I don’t believe in self-actualization; I believe in salvation. I’m a Christian…I don’t believe in conflict resolution; I believe in something harder and better–confession and repentance and forgiveness. I’m a Christian…I don’t believe we propagate ourselves through slick marketing or good customer relations; I believe in conversion and baptism. It’s harder and takes longer and reaches deeper and transforms more completely.

Forget our story and we forget who we are and Whose we are and what we’re about. That’s why we go to church on Sundays (in case you're wondering why go to church on Sundays) – to re-learn our Story; to re-claim our history and heritage; to rehearse our parts in the Play so that we don’t have to slog along through life making up our own little stories as we go.

There are still churches out there that believe that this is the mission and agenda of the Church. Not yours? Then find one that does. Hurry, while you still have your Story!

The Ides of March (Luke 13:31-35)*

In Margaret Jensen’s book First We Have Coffee, there is the touching account of her Baptist preacher father’s being voted out of his church. She describes how the news reached her. Called to the dormitory phone, she heard her sister saying, “Margaret, this is Grace.” Long pause. “Papa’s been voted out.”

She goes on to write: “Unable to share the family disgrace with anyone, I went to class and failed the biology exam for which I was well prepared … I tried to figure out what could have gone wrong with Papa’s call. In my mind, the ministry had somehow been disgraced.”

For ten years he had shepherded and loved that congregation, but now they didn’t want him anymore. When Margaret arrived home, she found her sister Leona furious. She explained life as she saw it for the Norwegian immigrant pastor: “They wanted an American pastor, one more geared to the changing times.”

“What will we do now?” Margaret asked. Her mother, taking cups out of the cupboard never looked up: “God never fails,” she said. “But it will be interesting to see how He works this one out. But first, we have coffee.”

Rejection. Feel it?

Just how severe a blow rejection is, I think, can be measured in at least two ways. Look at the lengths to which we are willing to go to avoid rejection.

In a recent report, a consumer psychologist said that now that the American economy has cooled down, Americans are going to have to learn how to shop all over again. In these tighter times, many American shoppers simply do not have the money any longer to pay “retail” for goods, and so this consumer psychologist was suggesting that Americans are going to have to learn to walk into an up-scale department store and offer the salesperson a price for a commodity that may be less than the sticker price. She went on to say that though many Americans will find this difficult to do, they can learn to do it. It is difficult for Americans, she went on to say, not only because they have never learned to do it, as people in other cultures have, but because Americans are terrified of rejection, even from a salesperson. And so this psychologist was suggesting strategies for this new generation of shoppers and encouraging them to “go ahead and try it.” “It’s not like being jilted by a lover,” she said. “It’s only a vendor, for heaven’s sake!”

And look at the reactions rejection touches off. Bo Jackson, whose athletic career ended sadly with an injury, spoke with venom in his voice about the decision by the Kansas City Royals to let him go.

“I gave them the best I had. I sold tickets for them they would not have sold had I not been playing. And what do they do? The moment I’m hurt, they give up on me! I wouldn’t play for the Royals I don’t care what they paid me!”

Rejection. Is any one a stranger to it?

Luke was certainly no stranger to the pain of it either. He writes to a church struggling with this very issue. Luke’s gospel was most likely written sometime around the mid-80’s of the first century A.D. Though the separation between the church and the synagogue was all but complete, dialog was continuing still between Jews and Christians. As a matter of fact, most early Christians were Jews, and many of them still retained ties to Judaism. The fact that as late as Acts 10 Simon Peter was still concerned about eating kosher is compelling evidence that the early Church regarded itself as a faithful community within Israel. But because these “Messianic Jews” called “Christians” also had some newfangled ideas about the law and about inclusion of non-Jews, they were rejected by the synagogue. And the charges against them were three: (1) you’ve been unfaithful to your heritage in Judaism; (2) you’ve been unfaithful to your own Founder, Who was a faithful Jew; and (3) you’ve been unfaithful to the Scriptures. And so, in part to answer those charges, and in part to encourage a Church caught in the cycle of rejection, Luke writes his two volume work, Luke-Acts, to remind his church that their Lord too suffered rejection and to invite them to “overhear” how He dealt with it.

And “deal with it” He did! As a matter of fact, our text is actually a part of a much longer section in Luke’s gospel, running from 9:51 - 18:14, in which Luke depicts Jesus as steadfastly journeying to Jerusalem and to the final rejection that awaits Him there. Luke’s so-called “travel narrative” foreshadows it: “And He set His face toward Jerusalem.”

And all along the way, as Luke tells it, Jesus encountered it — rejection. In His hometown synagogue at Nazareth, in the synagogues of Galilee, at a Samaritan village, and now, with Jerusalem looming large on the horizon, word comes from the Pharisees, of all people, that Herod Antipas is waiting for Him once He steps foot in Jerusalem. They appear on the scene, like the augur in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “Beware the ides of March!” “Don’t go to Jerusalem!”

But Jesus does a strange thing. He tells them to go back to Herod and say: “Get the gallows ready, for Jerusalem has had a lot of practice putting prophets to death. You ought to know what to do with one more.” But then, instead of railing against the recalcitrance of the Holy City, He weeps over it: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killing the prophets and stoning those who are sent to you! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood, and you would not.”

Do you see what Luke is doing? Do you see what he’s doing? By letting his church, in the throes of their own experience of rejection, “overhear” Jesus dealing with rejection, he reminds them of some things the people of God ought never forget — then or now. He reminds them, in the face of uncompromising rejection, of the steadfast love of God.

“I would … you would not!”

God’s love, Luke says, is not contingent on anything we do or fail to do. It’s not even contingent on our acceptance of it. It is unilateral, unconditional, unwavering. The synagogue may have rejected them, but God hadn’t.

And he reminds them that their Lord too had known the pain of rejection. Chapter 9:51 - 18:14 runs like a long, extended commentary on Isaiah 53: “He was despised and rejected of men.” And Luke wants them to notice: though rejected, He did not reject. Nor does He engage in self-pity, either: “You know, I just don’t understand why they don’t like me?” Motivated by a larger vision, “He sets His face steadfastly toward Jerusalem.” There’s more at stake here than feelings — even Jesus’. They could be sure that they were not now being asked to endure anything the Lord Himself had not endured.

But more than anything else, do you know why Luke wants his church to “overhear” this story? Because he wants them to remember what it feels like to be rejected lest they ever be tempted to do the same to others. To make sure they “get the point,” Luke follows this story immediately in Chapter 14 with four other stories that all take place “around the table.” The context is still Jesus’ Journey to Jerusalem and the subject is still “acceptance and rejection.” This is no pleasant stop-off on the way to the Cross. For Luke, nothing is more serious than the table. Throughout Luke Jesus sits “at table” with all kinds of people, much to the dismay of His critics. “Jesus, why do you eat with sinners and publicans? Birds of a feather, you know …”

And in Acts, the issue on which the entire story of the early Church turns is precisely this: “Who will be admitted to the table?” “Can you eat with their kind and still be the Church?” To accept someone at table is to accept them. And to refuse to eat with someone is to reject them.

It was so critical for Paul, that he once told Simon Peter off right in front of the whole church over this issue. He and Peter had been eating with some Gentiles at a church supper in Antioch, and they were having a great time until some Jewish members from the church at Jerusalem showed up. When he saw them come in, Peter got up from the table, took his plate, and went over to join them, refusing to eat with the Gentiles in the presence of these folk from Jerusalem. And right in front of the entire church, Paul stood up and called him a “hypocrite. And you think you have some tense church meetings.

But Paul was right. What made the church the Church was the fact that only here would Jew and Gentile eat together.

“Can you not eat with their kind and still be the Church?”

Lose that…lose that, and you don’t have a church anymore.

And so Luke reminds his church, and ours, that we are a Fellowship of the Rejected Lord, set into a community called “Church” where each receives the other just as all have been received by Christ.

Fred Craddock tells a story about being invited to give some lectures at the University of Winnipeg in Canada. He’d never been to Winnipeg, so he asked his host, “How shall I come dressed, it’s the middle of October.” He said, “Well, it’s a little early for the bad weather, but you might want to bring a windbreaker.” Craddock took a windbreaker.

The first lecture was Friday night. When he came out of the lecture hall it was spitting a little snow. Craddock said, “No problem. It’s a little early. It won’t be anything.”

Next morning Craddock got up and looked out, it was up to the top of the window. It had blown against the door, up to the top of the door.

The phone rang. The voice on the other end said, “Listen, this town is shut down. We were taken by surprise, nothing is moving. We’ve canceled the lecture, the airport is closed, in fact, I can’t even come and take you to breakfast.”

Craddock said, “Thanks. What am I to do?”

He said, “If you can make it down to the corner, go out of your room, take a right, go down to the corner, take another right and in the middle of the block is a bus depot. There’s a little cafe in there and it might be open.”

Well, Craddock put on his windbreaker, it didn’t even work in the room, and got his little cap, and,…I’ll tell you the truth…what he did was roll up a lot of toilet paper inside his cap to keep his head warm, and out into the cold he went, down to the corner, turned the corner, and sure enough there was a little bus depot and sure enough there was a little cafe. Craddock went inside; it was packed, wall to wall. Every stranded traveler in the country was there. Somebody scooted over and let him sit down in the booth with them. A big man in a greasy apron came over.

“What do you want?” Craddock said, “May I see the menu?”

He said, “What you want with a menu, we have soup.”

Craddock said, “Good, I’ll have the soup. Soup sounds good to me. I always eat soup for breakfast.”

Soup. He brought the soup. The soup was strange looking soup. It was gray soup. It looked the color of a mouse, but it was hot. Craddock took the spoon and tasted the soup. It was awful. He didn’t know what it was; it was awful soup. He couldn’t stand it. He put the spoon down, put his hands around his little soup stove to warm himself and rail against the world, what a horrible fix to be in.

The door opened, somebody yelled, “Shut the door!” and she did. This woman came in, she had on a coat, nothing on her head. Somebody scooted over and she got in there and the big man in the greasy apron came over.

“What ya want?”

She said, “A glass of water.” He brought her a glass of water, took out his little tablet and said, “What are ya ordering?”

She said, “Nothing, just the water.” He said, “Order something!” She said, “Just the glass of water.” He said, “Lady you gotta order something.” She said, “Just the water.” He said, “You gotta order or get out. We got paying customers here.” And she said, “I just wanted water.” And he said, “Lady, order something or leave.” She said, “Well, can I stay long enough to get warm?”

He said, “Order or leave!” She got up, the other people at the table got up, other people around her got up, others got up, Craddock got up. He said he didn’t know why, he just got up.
They all got up and started towards the door and the big man in the greasy apron said, “Okay, okay, she can stay.”

And she sat down and he brought her a bowl of that soup. Craddock asked the people there who had let him sit with them, “Who is she?”

The man said, “I never saw her before in my life, but if she ain’t welcome, ain’t nobody welcome.”

Then all you could hear was the clinking of spoons as people ate that gray soup. And Craddock said to himself, “If they can eat it, I can eat it.”

And so he took the spoon and started again to eat the soup. He said it was pretty good soup after all. Matter of fact, he said he kinda liked that soup. Matter of fact, he said he’d never had any soup like that before. And Craddock sat there and ate that whole bowl of soup. He said: “I don’t know what was in it; I’d never tasted anything like it, at least I didn’t think so; but as I started out the door I remembered what it tasted like. It tasted like bread and wine.”

“It’ll be interesting to see how God works this one out,” she said. “But first we have coffee.”

Rejection. Feel it? I tell you the truth, it’s doubtful you’ll make it through the day without experiencing it in one form or another – as victim or perpetrator.

It may well be that right now you’re caught up in its vicious cycle. Brothers and sisters, listen to Luke: God loves you; Jesus understands you; the Church accepts you just as you are.

Forget the danish! Try that with your coffee.

*I published this somewhere, but for the life of me I can't now remember where. It happens.

Waiting to Exhale*

Somewhere in his writings, though I cannot now remember where, C. S. Lewis, as only Lewis could, depicted the gravity of certain moments in our lives with a startling image. He said that there are moments which come to every life that carry such consequence, such definitiveness, moments so heavy with meaning, that the angels “hang over the balcony of heaven watching us to see which way we will go – holding their breath, waiting to exhale, to see what we will do.”

Lewis goes on to say that the situation for us is exacerbated by the fact that at the time, we don’t always know the momentous significance of those moments. From our perspective limited as it is by our place, by the modality of our existence, namely, time and space, all moments look pretty much the same. If we knew in advance that some moment of our lives, some decision we face, could “carry or crush the hopes of heaven,” we’d, no doubt, steel ourselves for the task, draw ourselves up to face the challenge of the crisis, the kairos as the Greeks say. If we only knew how large this little decision would loom once magnified by the exponential factor of the future, surely we would pay more attention to it.

“If I had known then what I know now,” we say. My, the stories that begin like that! A casual word, a tossed off action, an ill-considered decision which at the time seemed ordinary, inconsequential, even trivial. And then, “If I had known then what I know now.”

But we didn’t know. And we don’t know. And so we stumble from one moment to the next as though life were just “one stupid thing after another,” not knowing how high the stakes really are. That angels are leaning over heaven’s balcony, gasping in silent vigil to see what we will do: “Will he?” “Won’t he?”

It’s an apt image for John’s description of the church of his day. When John wrote near the end of the first century of the Christian era, the church, especially in the Roman province of Asia Minor, was suffering intense persecution at the hands of the champions of the imperial cult. You see, Christianity was gestated in the womb of Judaism, and for much of its early life virtually indistinguishable from Judaism, at least to outsiders. Rome maintained its hold on its far-flung and diverse empire by means of two ingenious strategies: it discouraged the spread of new religions (which fostered nationalism among conquered peoples), and it encouraged loyalty and patriotism by means of the worship of Rome as the “mother country” personified in the cult of the divine emperor. There were lucrative rewards for the provincial cities of the empire which fostered the imperial cult – new roads, new buildings, new businesses. Pork barrel religion it was! And so every major city in the empire had its temple dedicated to Roma where the emperor was worshiped as divine.

Oh, it wasn’t, shall we say, serious religion, as though these people believed that the emperor really was God. Oh no. It was more like patriotism, like putting your hand over your heart and saying “I pledge allegiance to the emperor, of the Republic of Rome.” Or singing the Roman version of the “Stars Spangled Banner.” It was innocuous. Nobody really believed Caesar was god, for heaven’s sake. But for the Jew who grew up with the words “Thou shalt have no gods before me” ringing in his ears, even this was too much. And so Jews were granted an exemption from emperor worship, and so long as Christians were indistinguishable from Jews, so too were they.

But in the 60’s things changed. Nero singled Christians out for persecution. And in the 90’s when John wrote, it has become “open season” on Christians.

In his famous “Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia” John gives us a sociological study of the impact of the persecution of Christians in Asia Minor. And perhaps nowhere is that impact more prominent than at Pergamum. The former capital of the province, Pergamum was perched atop an impressive acropolis overlooking a spectacular valley in which a vast population, including many Christians, lived. Temples dedicated to Zeus and Athena adorned the base of the summit of the acropolis. There was a theater there dedicated to Dionysus, the god of wine and entertainment. There was an Asclepion there where the sick sought treatment. There was an amphitheater down below in the valley where the circus performed, where blood sports were witnessed, and where the Christian, Antipas, no doubt died. But sitting on the summit of the acropolis of Pergumum as a peon of Pergamum’s patriotism was the Temple of the Emperor Trajan – “the seat where Satan sits,” John calls it. And down below, in Christian homes all over Pergamum, the argument started: “But it’s only an empty gesture, and it’ll keep us out of the arena! Why can’t you just light a little candle for Caesar? Burn a little incense? Say a little prayer? It’s not as though we really believe he’s God. It could save the kids!” And John, writing to Christians facing this desperate dilemma, warns: “hold fast your faith that Jesus alone is Lord. And though, like Antipas, it cost you your lives, it will gain you your souls.”

And to drive the point home of how desperate a decision they face, John backs the camera up and gives them an “angels’ eye view” of things. In a remarkable use of dualistic imagery, he pictures each of the Seven Churches as having a heavenly counterpart in the form of a seven-branched candelabra, a Menorah really, each with a “guardian angel” adding the oil, trimming the wick, tending the flame, keeping the church aglow. And on earth, while Christians gather in little corners and weigh their options, in heaven the churches’ angels lean over the balcony watching their church for which the Menorah stands, and holding their breath to see what they will do. And while from earth’s perspective the little compromises seem trivial and inconsequential (What’s the harm? It’s just one little candle. We’ll have our fingers crossed behind our backs.”), from heaven’s heights, the stakes couldn’t be higher: “I will come and move your lamp stand out of its place!” Somehow, somewhere, Lewis says, the angels are watching, holding their breath, waiting to exhale, to see what we will do.

It’s a haunting image, isn’t it. Decisions made, courses taken which, at the time, seem minor and inconsequential – even trivial – can carry or crush the hopes of heaven. Little innocent compromises that seem harmless enough at the time, but which, multiplied by a factor of the future, grow up to become our undoing.

This was the message of the movie Flatliners which appeared some years ago. The story was about a group of medical students who conspired to conduct a scientific study of the greatest of all mysteries – the mystery of life after death. They use a defibrillator on each other to “flatline” their EKG’s, sending each other into cardiac arrest. Then, after several minutes excursion “on the other side,” they again use the defibrillator to bring each other back, in this way hoping to gain first hand insight into what lies on the other side. Unfortunately, however, their pasts followed them back, hounding them with past indiscretions and failures and memories that can not only haunt, but harm.

The rest of the story revolves around each character’s attempt to make peace with their past. It’s a marvelous story of sin and repentance and accountability and forgiveness. And in one moving scene, the character played by Keiffer Sutherland tries to explain to the character played by Julia Roberts that his ghosts are not so easily exorcised. It seems that when he was a little boy, a fairly innocent child’s prank went terribly. Sutherland and a group of little boys continually bullied a meek, mild mannered neighbor boy, chasing him around the neighborhood and eventually up a tree. One thing led to another, and before anyone realized what was happening, the boys started throwing rocks up into the tree at the little boy. He slipped and fell, breaking his neck. And now his ghost had returned to exact revenge on Sutherland.

Julia Roberts, trying to reassure Sutherland, pleads with him just to let it go. She says: “But you were just a boy. You didn’t know what you were doing. You’re a different person now. Besides, it was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.”

And Sutherland says: “You don’t get it, do you. Everything matters. Everything we do matters!”

The stakes are higher than you think.

Years ago, when I was pastor of the First Baptist Church of Raleigh, I went to the Save-A-Center one night to pick up a few things for Cheryl – some coffee and breakfast cereal, stuff like that. I don’t know why, but it seems that they always wait until there are eleven people standing in every check out line to send the checkers out on their evening breaks. And so there we all were, standing in the check out line that wound its way down the aisle, round the frozen foods, past the breakfast cereals, to the paper towels. At the front of the line was this woman with two little boys, looked like twin boys, about four or five years old. She looked tired. Watching those boys in the check out line, I got tired. They were into everything. “You boys leave that candy alone!” “Did you hear me?” “You better leave that gum alone!” I felt sorry for her. She just had a few items to check through – a package of hot dogs, a few cans of something (I think it was green beans), a loaf of bread, and two cucumbers. When she got ready to pay, the checker said: “That’s $6.50 please.” The lady looked into her purse and took out two food stamp coupons, one in a five dollar denomination and the other a one dollar denomination. “I’ve only got six dollars.” she said. It was awkward. The checker was obviously embarrassed for her – we all were – and finally she said: “Uh…Ma’am, what do you want to do?” The boys were still picking at the candy and chewing gum and taking all the magazines off the shelf. This lady was so embarrassed and now she was panicked, desperate to do anything to get out of there. I was standing right behind her in line, watching all this, trying to keep out of those little boys line of fire, jingling a pocket full of change nervously. I started to reach into my pocket and take out 50 cents for the cucumbers and offer to pay for them myself: “Ma'am, would you let me buy those cucumbers for you?” I almost had the words out too, when I started thinking: “You know, what if she’s. . . ? I mean, she doesn’t know me. What if she thinks I’m patronizing her? ‘Yeah right. The busy businessman condescends to help the poor woman. Thanks, but no thanks. I can do just fine all by myself, thank you very much.’ I mean, I didn’t want to be offensive. Besides, she’s a woman; I’m a man. What if she thinks I’m hitting on her! Yeah, that would look great in the Raleigh News & Observer: “First Baptist Pastor Soliciting in Supermarket!” Besides, it wasn’t any of my business. You can’t just lose control like that, can you?” Finally, the woman said to the checker: “Put the cucumbers back. I thought: “Oh no, lady. Don’t do that.” It was only a minute or two, but it seemed like an hour! I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. My God, I didn’t say anything! I felt real bad. I felt real bad about it, And you know something? I had this…this feeling that somewhere, Someone was watching.

And little acts of faithfulness which, at the time, grow more out of integrity than intention, can end up making all the difference in the world for someone, and because they make all the difference in the world for someone, they make all the difference in the world.

Ruth did for me. Dr. Ruth Whitford was my major English professor in my undergraduate studies at Palm Beach Atlantic College in Florida. A graduate of Columbia, she had done post-doctoral in Renaissance literature with C. S. Lewis at Cambridge. It was she who first introduced me to the writings of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien and G. K. Chesterton and George MacDonald saying to me: “As an English major who is preparing for ministry, here are some people who bring faith and literature together effectively, and you need to be aware of them and their contributions. Her classes were celebrations of the great ideas expressed in the greatest literary works of the ages. She would sit in a circle with her majors and talk to us for an hour, completely without notes, about the lives and works of the greatest literary minds, Chaucer and Malory, Shakespeare and Donne, Moliére and Voltaire, Turgenev and Tolstoy, Kafka and de Balzac. One by one she invited them in, and they took their seats in our circle and told us their stories.

I’ll never forget a conversation I had with her one day in her office, dusty little room more congenial to books than people. I had not done well in her class that semester because I was too busy out “doing the Lord’s work,” conducting youth revivals and such instead of concentrating on my studies. She had returned an exam in class, and when she gave me my exam, a “C,” she looked at me and said, “Wayne, you don’t know how this grieves me; this is not indicative of your best work, is it.” I took the exam, looked at her and, I’m embarrassed now to tell it, said, “Well prof, I don’t have time to work for grades; I’m too busy doing the Lord’s work.” What a smart alec! She should have “done the Lord’s work” and backhanded me right on the spot. But that’s not what she did. Instead, she asked me to come by her office after class where we might “chat,” I think was how she put it.

And after the initial awkwardness, she said: “You know, Wayne, there’s more than one way to love the Lord. We’re commanded to love the Lord not just with our hearts, but with our minds too! What we do in classroom no less than sanctuary is an expression of our love of God.”
She went on: “When Jesus was asked one day to sum it all up, he quoted Israel’s creed, the Shema, and said: ‘You are to love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and strength and mind.’ But look it up. The Shema doesn’t say that we’re to love God with our minds. That’s not in there. Jesus added that. Must have thought it was pretty important, huh?”
Then she added: “Now Wayne, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not against heartfelt religion. There’s nothing wrong with emotion in faith. But Wayne, head and heart need not be enemies. You see, I’m a Christian for two reasons: because it feels right and makes sense. I wouldn’t be a Christian if it felt right and didn’t make sense, and I wouldn’t be a Christian if it made sense but didn’t feel right. I’m a Christian because it feels right and makes sense. Wayne, if you’re going to be what God truly wants you to be, you must allow your head and heart to become friends.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that she cared that much! And I was ashamed that I had hurt and disappointed someone who believed in me that much.

I left that office that day determined that, as God was and is my Witness, I would never disappoint that woman again!

And now the roles are reversed; I have to deal with students like me. Don’t tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor! Now, I’m the professor and I know just how much courage that took to risk “getting involved” with a student like that. I mean, let’s face it – I was an immature, ignorant, arrogant little jerk, and she would have been justified just writing me off. And there was a moment there when I thought she might. You could see the wheels turning as she deliberated her response: “Why am I doing this? He’s not worth it. I’ve encountered arrogance before, and I’ve encountered ignorance before, but this is arrogant ignorance! Why am I beating my head against the wall over this arrogant little know-it-all? I could be teaching students who really want to learn! I could be writing a book! I could be having a root canal, for heaven’s sake! Anything but this! Cut your losses, Ruth. Let him go. Turn him loose. Fail the little know-it-all! He’s not worth it!” And somewhere, the angels held their breath! And she looked at me, swallowed hard, and said: “Wayne, may I see you in my office?”

Years later, I went back to see her, thank her for taking the time and trouble to care about a student who didn’t deserve it. I sat with her in that same cramped little office and told her how her words had haunted me, driven me to demand from myself the best of which I was capable. She was polite. She heard me out. And when I was finished telling her my story, she looked at me a little embarrassed and said: “Well, you have me at a disadvantage. You see, I teach a lot a students. Now who are you?” Didn’t even remember me! It wasn't that she saw anything in me worth saving; she was just being a teacher, doing what she does, being present to the moment because the moment presented itself to her.

Can you beat that! She didn’t remember. But I do. I do.

I wish I knew. I wish I could tell you what matters and what doesn’t, when it “counts” and when you can “blow it off.” All I know is that maybe for someone everything matters.

And so, my brothers and sisters, John and I have a gospel word for you: “Be faithful in the place where God has set you; stand firm; hold fast, even if you live in the shadow of the “seat where Satan sits.” And in a world where everything matters, who knows, maybe, just maybe, somehow, someway, somewhere, some angels leaning over the balcony, holding their breath – waiting to exhale – will watch you, and breathe a little easier.

*A sermon on the Book of Revelation. Charts optional.