I think I'm shrinking when I
talk here, I could see over this
thing.
It's good to see you. It's good
to be invited. I do come under
protest. I received an email
from the office of Jim Waits,
Fund for Theological Education,
and was my dean here for more
years than I care to remember.
And the email was addressed,
apparently, to a large group
because it said to faculty,
nuts, and bolts, and didn't say
which I was.
And I will go ahead, but I will
wait for a ruling on such a
treatment as that. He was my
dean, but he needs to get over
it. He hasn't been dean in a
long time.
It is good to be invited back.
I'm grateful to him and to you.
The art of ministry is what I
was told is the theme, the art
of ministry. Not too many years
ago, a title like that would not
fly. In America, it would not
fly because ministry was
suspicious of art. Art had
nothing to do with ministry.
Ministry-regarded art is just an
abbreviation of the word
artificial.
That which is honest and true
and worthy of good consideration
is not artful. It's
straightforward, sometimes
crude, never pleasant. But art,
art is froth. It's whipped
cream. It's optional. It's a
flourish. It does nothing for
anybody, actually. It's the curl
of carrot on the side of the
plate. It's a little sprig of,
what is that green stuff?
Parsley, yes. It's a little
sprig of parsley, but it's not
the meat and potatoes at all.
Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. said,
there is a mainstream in the
middle of American history. He
called it anti-intellectual. I
think it would be better to say
anti-cultural. That's suspicious
of that which is well done.
If you show signs of having
rehearsed and having prepared,
then obviously it is not of God.
I went to seminary with that
conviction. And in the class in
public worship, Dr. Osborne
said, you will on Friday turn in
your prayers. I said, how do you
turn in a prayer? Well, you
write out the prayers and turn
them in. I went to his office,
made an appointment. Writing a
prayer, give me a break here. So
those were my camel's hair and
leather girdle days. And I
didn't really see much point in
polishing up. And most of
America, I think, was with me.
If you are well groomed, there's
something suspicious about you.
If you're well prepared, what
you do is pull your shirt tail
out and saunter about and don't
prepare and be. Now that's
genuine. That's really genuine.
If you read a book, that's
interesting. It cannot be true.
It's interesting.
The war between something as
high as ministry and something
as clever as art didn't get
along too well. It was believed
that art was for the elite, the
few. Those who had the leisure
and the money could indulge in
art. The rest of us labored in
the fields of God, somewhat
crude mud on our shoes, but
honest and on target. That was
fairly commonly believed and
still believed in many places. I
think it's at the heart of much
of the come as you are movement
in the church. And the ministers
don't realize how long it takes
in front of the mirror to look
casual.
We know better now that it is
not true that there is enmity
between art and ministry. But
what is art anyway? It is a
meaningful and pleasing
arrangement of sounds and colors
and movements and shapes and
actions that do affect people. I
asked Maya Angelou once years
ago when we were on a program
together and she read some of
her own poems and afterwards I
said, why if you're engaged in a
struggle to bring rights to the
woman in America would you
choose poetry? So fragile a
craft is poetry to do such a
mighty battle. And she said,
well, I've never been asked that
before. But I think the truth of
the matter is that the poem goes
straight to the heart. And then
she laughed and said, you
preachers can bruise around on
everybody with the broadsword if
you want to. She had a point. It
was believed that art was for
the few. No, no, no, no. The
poorest of the poor will have
their art. Nettie and I passed
by shack town, shacks, metal
shacks, cardboard shacks outside
of Cape Town, South Africa.
There was nothing from nothing
from nothing there, not even a
blade of grass. But out in front
of those shacks with a small
radio up on a rock, a girl who
looked to be about five had the
radio turned up and she was
dancing. She was dancing with no
reason to dance except you have
to dance because you are created
in God's image. And creation,
Milton taught us, is itself a
poem. There's power in it. The
poorest of the poor. Where we
live in Appalachia, there are
some very, very poor people. But
some of the men folk at night
will peel the plywood finish off
of a bedstead or the head of a
bed and cut it and cut it and
cut it every night after work
until finally they have made a
fiddle and they'll play for the
dance. They don't have anything
except music and art. You can
reduce people to the lowest of
the low, put them in chains and
they'll learn to drag that chain
to a familiar cadence. Put them
on a pile of sticks and they'll
carve one into a flute. Take
away all art and they'll find a
way to get wild berries and draw
on the face of the cave. Art is
not optional and it's not at the
top. Art is where you begin.
This is who we are. Up in our
area in the mountains, in the
program with which I'm now
working that Catherine
mentioned, we provide music and
art and storytelling for all the
three and four-year-olds in Head
Start. Over 400 children singing
and playing and drawing and
remembering and playing little
instruments and they're so poor,
they're poorer than Job's Turkey
except for one hour each week
and then they're on top of the
world. That whole idea of, Mr.
What was it? May slow, you start
with biological needs and then
go to security needs and safety
needs and love needs and then
when you get to the top of the
pyramid, there's a little music
and dancing. That's just
opposite of the way it is. Well,
I'm not talking about art. I
don't know much about art. I
just think the topic is
appropriate.
That's not really the question
we've learned about ministry as
art. We just haven't learned who
should be in the ministry.
Should I be in the ministry? If
I can only be sure of that. That
is the one burning question from
age 18 until by present age of
75.
Have I been called into the
ministry? The oldest question I
guess the human race has asked
of God is, will you show us a
sign? We had it a while ago with
Gideon. God said, Gideon, I want
you to lead my people. Yes, sir.
However, I'd like to be sure.
Little dew on the fleece and dry
on the ground and so it was and
how that's good.
Now, and God put up with that
because we want to be sure. We
want to be sure. Max, you don't
know Max. Max was a junior at
Colorado State University with
an undeclared major. You know
what that is, don't you? I don't
know where in the world I'm
going with any of this stuff.
Undeclared major. And he was a
junior already and they were
saying, look, do something. He
said, okay, social studies. That
was kind of a twilight zone for
him. He didn't know. He was at a
little church out there in
Greeley, Colorado, throwing
hoops with some kids of middle
school age. Their mothers had
all picked them up. He was there
alone. It was getting dark out
behind the church, still
shooting a few hoops. What am I
going to do next year is my
senior year. Am I going to keep
doing this at the church? What
am I going to do? And he reached
down and pulled up a tuft of
grass, threw it up on the hood
of his old car, and he said to
God, if you want me to be a
minister, blow that grass off my
car.
Later on, I asked Max, well, did
God blow the grass off the car?
He said, no. I said, well, what
are you doing in the ministry?
He didn't blow the grass off
your car. He said, well, what
kind of God would it be who
would do what I told him? Well,
good point. Franz Werfel, Franz
Werfel, the Austrian German who
wrote that beautiful book years
ago called The Song of
Bernadette about a Catholic
girl. This is written by you, by
a Catholic girl who had this
extraordinary, she said, she
said, extraordinary experience
of God. The Song of Bernadette.
He wrote a preface. Mr. Werfel
wrote a preface to his book. He
said, as for the story that
follows, I want you to
understand. Whoever wills to
believe will not need final
proof. Whoever does not will to
believe, final proof is not
enough. Well, that's nice, but
still, if we could only be sure,
if I could only be sure, I sing
with the rest of the church, I
ask no dream, no prophets
ecstasy, no sudden rending of
the veil of clay, but I don't
mean it. I would like something.
What I have asked for most of my
life is not simply some yes from
God, but a yes that was loud
enough for the people around to
hear it. Because I can say God
answered my prayer and my
friends look at each other and
say, you know, he's been that
way. I would like for God to
answer the prayer in a voice
loud enough for everybody to
hear it. Confirm, confirm it.
Jesus one day, according to the
Gospel of John, was standing in
Jerusalem, and he stopped in his
teaching and looked up to heaven
and said, Father, glorify your
name. And the voice from heaven
said, I have glorified it, and I
will glorify it again. And some
standing around said, an angel
spoke. Others said, it
thundered. I believe we're going
to have a shower. Now, if I had
been in Jesus place, I would say
God a little louder, please. So
all of them will hear it. When
Paul was on his way to Damascus
and had that extraordinary
experience of Christ, he fell to
the ground. He was not alone.
There were companions with him.
But when it was all over, he
asked his companions, did you
see anything? Well, there was
this bright light, but it was
noon. Why not?
Did you see a face? They said,
no. He said, I saw a face. He
was Jesus. Paul said, did you
hear anything? They said, well,
I heard a noise or something.
Why did you hear a voice? He
said, didn't hear a voice. I
heard a voice that said, go into
the city. I have chosen you. Did
you all hear it? We didn't hear
it. We didn't hear it. If only
the others had heard it. Why
doesn't God call people into the
ministry in a voice loud enough
for the whole family to hear?
But when I go to ordination
services, I can pick out the
parents every time. They're that
big-eyed couple just absolutely
stupefied. Is that our daughter?
Is that our son? My land of
living.
If I could only be sure, a whole
industry, a whole industry has
developed from ancient time to
the present day to answer the
question of our uncertainty, our
anxiety, our not knowing. How
can I be sure? It's called
fortune telling. And people have
gone all over the world to get
an answer. One of the really
beautiful, painfully tragic,
beautiful stories in the Bible
is the story of King Saul at the
close of 1 Samuel. Saul, that
tall, handsome first king of
Israel, facing the Philistine
army the next day. He and his
two sons were also in the
military. And Saul wanted some
word from God about tomorrow.
It's getting late. He called in
the prophets. Is there any word
from God about tomorrow? And
they said, we haven't heard
anything. He said, maybe I can
dream the word of God. And he
lay on his couch and he couldn't
sleep. So we got from the temple
or the tabernacle that little
box of dice-like thing called
Urim and Thummim. And he shook
those and tossed them out to see
if he'd get some message. And he
didn't get anything. And so
finally, contrary to his own
conscience, and contrary to the
law which he had established, he
put on a disguise and went to
the tent of the fortune teller
at indoor. But she recognized
him and she said, what is this,
a sting operation? Something
like that. And he said, hush
woman, I have to know about
tomorrow. Such a sad story. Like
the one presented to you from
Acts 16, Paul and Silas in
Philippi trying to minister. And
here's this fortune telling
girl, she's a slave, but the men
who own her are making a lot of
money because people will flock
to someone who can make you
sure. It feeds off of
uncertainty and worry and
anxiety.
And when Paul cast the spirit of
fortune telling out of the slave
girl, they put him and Silas in
prison. That's a moneymaker.
Last fall, I was with a group of
20 ministers. I was along as a
teacher of sorts in Greece,
going to some of the places
where Paul had ministered and
studying his letters. And on the
way south from Philippi, we went
through Delphi. And when there's
a temple of Apollo, what a
marvelous place, once so wealthy
in such an attraction, one of
the centers of population,
because to Apollo was given the
gift of fortune telling. And
this is the way it worked. A
person would come to the temple,
a priestess, a woman would come
out and greet them. They would
give her large sums of money.
And she would tell their
fortune, will my husband be home
from the war? Will my baby be
born healthy? Will my ships of
grain be caught in the storm on
the sea? Will the army be
successful in war? Questions,
questions, questions, questions.
She went into a hallucinatory
trance, sometimes by chewing the
leaves of the laurel tree,
sometimes from the fumes of
earthquake crevices in the
rocks. And in this state, she
would speak in tongues, speak in
tongues. And then there was a
priest there that interpreted
what she said. And the people
went away, sure.
We spent some time, these 20
ministers, and I spent some time
there. It was fascinating,
especially to hear one of the
people there recite how it
worked. And people came, kings
and peasants and everybody from
all over the world came to find
out for sure. One of the group,
one of the fellows in the group,
one of the ministers, seemed
kind of sad or down or
something, melancholy. I said,
what's the matter? You didn't
enjoy this? He said, oh yeah.
But I was just thinking, he
said, if I had lived back then,
I probably would have come here.
I said, why? I would like to be
sure. Am I where I am supposed
to be? Doing what I'm supposed
to do? Yeah, I would have spent
all my money here.
And the person who said it has
been in the ministry, I would
guess 25 years.
If only I could be sure. Is it
possible to be sure? Well, the
reason I came down from the
mountains is to tell you, yes,
it's possible to be sure. I'm
sure you were gathered to hear
that. But you can. The only way
I know that you can be sure is
that if you can hear, if you can
hear the groan of God over
what's happening to creation,
started off as a garden. And
what is it now? A landfill.
Violence and decay and graft and
corruption and hurting and
hurting and hurting and
injustice and inequality. And
you know, you know, God's
groaning. If you're one of those
chosen people, can hear the
groan of God. You're in. Years
ago, I had a class in, it was a
New Testament class. We were
reading the New Testament, we're
reading the book of Romans in
Greek. So you can imagine it was
a small class. It was not first
year Greek. It was a pretty good
size class. Second year Greek,
about a half that number. And
then I offered as an elective a
third year, we would just read
and talk about Paul's letter to
the Romans, bring to class only
a Greek New Testament, nothing
else, no paper, no notes, no
translation. Let's just read,
you know, I think we were down
to about six.
One of the fellows in the class,
one girl, five fellows, I think.
One of the fellows came in a
little late, already had on his
tennis outfit. It was a one-o
-clock class. I hated one-o
-clock classes. Wasn't too fond
of morning classes, really. But
he came in already for tennis,
had on his little stuff with
alligators on it, you know, the
little shorts and the shirt
matched and the socks matched.
And he had a can of tennis balls
in his tennis racket and a
Nestle's Greek New Testament.
And he shoveled all that under
his seat and opened the New
Testament. Sorry I'm late. Well,
I was a little aggravated.
You're not supposed to come into
a Greek class. Happy.
And he obviously was happy.
You're supposed to creep like
snail and in great pain and
please don't call on me. That's
the way you do it. And he came
bouncing in like tennis anyone.
But he stopped off at the Greek
class on his way to the court.
So naturally, I called on him
because we were at a place in
Romans, Romans nine, that is
tough as toenails. If you get
into third year Greek, any of
you stay up a little longer that
night because that is tough
reading. I called on him. I
said, would you translate the
first four or five verses? So he
did. Beautiful. Well, I've got
to do something here. I said,
well, identify the nouns. He
identified the nouns, talked
about each one of them, you
know, in that passage Paul says,
I'm telling you the truth. I'm
not lying. God is my witness. My
conscience is my witness. The
Holy Spirit is my witness. He
says, I have great sorrow,
lupē. It's the Greek word used
to describe a woman having a
baby, pain. I have great sorrow.
It's the word that was used to
describe Jesus in Gethsemane,
lupē. And unceasing anguish,
odunē, anguish, just the sound
of the word in his anguish,
odunē. It's the word used to
describe the rich man in torment
who didn't share his food with
anybody and he's in anguish.
It's the word Paul says, I have
this sorrow and this anguish. I
get up with it in the morning, I
go to bed with it at night. It
never stops. I could almost wish
myself to be damned if it would
save my people.
I said to him, the student, the
tennis boy, I said, tell me
about that verb, I could wish. I
could almost wish. He said,
yeah, eukomanē, that's first
person singular of eukomai. I
desire a wish, but it's an
unusual form. He said, some
people call it inchoate, not
imperative.
Some call it tendential,
imperfect, inchoate, imperfect.
It expresses something that's
almost but not quite. I could
almost wish myself to be damned
for their sake. And he just did
that. So I said, shut up, you
know. He just did it so well.
When the class was over and he
was getting his can of tennis
balls and a tennis racket and
was ready to go bounding to the
court, I stopped him. I said,
would you stop a minute? He
said, yes. I said, what did you
think about what you read from
Paul? He said, what? And I said
that sorrow and anguish and
could almost wish myself to be
lost if it would save them. He
said, oh, Prof, I consider that
really non-professional. It's
not very professional. I said,
what do you mean? He said, well,
it's not professional to get
that close to people. Pretty
soon, their problems are your
problems. You should keep your
distance from people. Otherwise,
you will never have any freedom.
See you.
For a moment, I almost envied
him. I don't know if he went
into the ministry. You know,
it's possible that he went into
the minister as a professional
and is still doing it as a
professional.
But I felt heavy about it
because if he did, he would miss
that almost unbearable joy of
hearing every once in a while
the groan of God and trying with
all your art and craft to doing
something about it.