LEARNING TO SWIM – AGAIN

Rev. Dr. Kathy Fuson Hurt

FBC, May 25, 2008

Scripture: Matthew 6:24-34

 

 

            You know the light bulb joke series, how many of whatever/fill in the blank does it take to change a light bulb, and you may have heard the series of light bulb jokes that focus on different religious traditions. The response each time supposedly captures some essential truth—or essential shortcoming—of the tradition. For instance, the love of Episcopalians for tradition and legacy shows up when the question, “How many Episcopalians does it take to change a light bulb?” is answered, “Change a light bulb? Why, my grandmother gave that light bulb to the church!” Pentecostal religion’s focus on ecstatic experience, on “falling down in the Spirit,” is highlighted in their style of light bulb changing that requires three Pentecostals for the task: one to turn the bulb, and two to catch it when it falls. For the ungrasping mind of Zen Buddhists, light bulb change also requires three people: one to change the bulb, one not to change the bulb, and one to neither change nor not change the bulb. Quakers forgo changing light bulbs, for they have an inner light; Calvinists who affirm predestination likewise forgo changing the bulb, as God clearly predetermined the bulb’s burning time and when it would go dark.

            And the, the Baptist answer to the question of how many Baptists are needed to change a light bulb: 109, assigned as follows: 7 on the Light Bulb Task Force subcommittee, who report to the 12 on the Light Bulb Task Force itself, appointed by the 19-member Church Board. The 10-member Finance Committee then reviews their recommendation with an eye to its impact on the budget. If all approve, the matter goes back to the Board for a vote, and then a congregational meeting is called. Should the decision to change the light bulb be approved, the matter will be referred to the 9-member Property Committee for action, who then research the kind of bulb needed and where to purchase it for the best price. In time, a bulb is acquired and given to the church custodian to make the change—at which time the custodian discovers that another bulb has burned out.

            The joke actually highlights one of the strengths of our Baptist tradition, namely our concern for individual autonomy and for a democratic process in congregational affairs. We resolutely insist that all voices count, all perspectives are valued, and we conduct our business in a way that honors each individual voice—even when doing so results in a lack of efficiency, another bulb going out.

            But the joke likewise points to a less attractive side of Baptists, something we tend not to speak of though we may experience it. There is a certain labored quality in our collective life, a tendency to become overly task-oriented, to work hard all the time and to feel guilty for not doing enough. It is as though we are suspicious of anything simple, or as though we cannot believe that something like changing a light bulb could be straightforward, and no one person could be trusted to handle it. I remember the preachers of the Baptist church of my childhood thundering, “We Baptists are happy people! We are happy, because we know we have been saved!” Yet—if our happiness was so obvious, why the need to insist on it? How happy can people be at church when church is all about work to be done?

            Once upon a time out of time we moved through the world easily, fluidly, like skilled swimmers, always supported, acting and speaking without thinking. For there was no need for thought, for there were no decisions to be made, for things simply happened. Life lived itself, requiring no assistance from us for its unfolding, carrying us along in its smooth stream. We did what there was to do, said what there was to say, accepted whatever the stream of life brought us, drifted with its flow.

            After a time in time it became known among us that thought was necessary, that swimming required mental discipline and concentration, for the lifestream was not to be trusted. Rocks might appear that we would have to dodge, around the next bend might be an unexpected drop-off, alligators sometimes surfaced in the most tranquil places, and we could not rely simply upon our automatic responses to cope with these hazards. Unceasing attention, an unblinking eye that scanned the unpredictable flow and my undependable self was essential in order to stay on top of the current.

            So we lost our once natural skill in swimming and became careful and deliberate in our movements through life. The mind, not the instincts, determined the appropriate stroke. Concentration, not buoyant water, kept us afloat. And we learned not to speak, not to act, not to feel, not even to think, without conscious examination. And thus our minds became powerful instruments, capable of solving problems, quick to grasp complexities, adept at discerning a safe course through the treacherous life stream. But we yearned secretly for our simpler past, when we could swim without thinking about swimming.

            In time, out of time, God looked upon us, the children, struggling to live a life no longer easy, questioning selves no longer dependable, longing for a lost, undivided existence, and decided to befriend us. So God sent prophets, wise men and women, great teachers, one after another, all pointing the way back to our heart-free, heart-whole life. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin . . . . But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you? Do not be anxious about tomorrow,” taught God’s messenger Jesus. “Nakedness, matted hair, fasting, covering oneself with dust and ashes, lying on nails—none of these things can purify a person. There is no such thing as ‘enlightenment,’” taught the Buddha, another messenger. “The wise person knows how to do nothing. How useful it is to be useless!” taught Lao Tzu, yet another messenger. And though we were entranced by these teachings, felt drawn to follow them to freedom, we first had to think it over.

            There is a long and honorable and awe-inspiring tradition of activism in this church. Almost since its beginning, the people of the First Baptist Church of Granville have been doers, activists, highly responsible people with a highly developed social consciousness, an abiding sense of concern for the world and a willingness to plunge in and take action without regard for the negative consequences that could follow that action. The world has needed us, needed the people of this church, for a long time, and will likely always need us.

            But over time, taking the bearing the weight of the world on our shoulders takes a toll. I have heard some of you worry about burnout, about loss of energy, about a church experience that becomes more about duty and effort and work than about joy. Not that work cannot be joyful, and often has been for this congregation. Many of you talk of the time when you built a Habitat for Humanity house as a time when a large job with lots of work involved was also a time of high energy, good spirits, joy. And as some fret now about the absence of energy and a feeling of joy in the church, one solution proposed is to find once more some sort of work to do.

            Perhaps that will help, being engaged as a congregation again in a large-scale work. Yet I wonder whether such a solution—work—could also be the problem. For a church of doers, where activism is the dominant quality of church life, can become a church that is out of touch with the other side of the spiritual life, the part of spirituality that is not about task, but about gift. We are called to work, to be about the business of building God’s kingdom; we are also invited to lie back, let the waters of grace support and carry us. Along with challenging us to feed the hungry, help the poor, heal the sick, and visit the prisoners, Jesus also reminded us to consider the lilies that do no work, that neither toil nor spin. A full spiritual life is equal parts work and rest, equal parts task and gift, equal parts saving the world and savoring, enjoying the world in all its beauty.   Too much preoccupation with the task side of spirituality can result in our forgetting that we are limited, finite beings, that we are at root dependent every moment on one another and on the Source of Life itself.

            One of the best reminders of the gifted part of experience is the ordinance of baptism that we observed here this morning. None of us baptizes ourselves; rather, we are baptized, baptism is done to us, God’s act by which we are claimed, loved, and called. Reflecting on the experience of baptism can help counteract our tendency to be caught in what Quaker author and teacher Parker Palmer terms “functional atheism,” the habitual style of churches that occasionally pause for thirty seconds or so to reflect, pray, and mention God’s name, then move briskly into business and work with never another mention of God, as though the whole task of being a church depended entirely upon the members and what the members do, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the support and guidance of the Spirit.

            This weekend, Memorial Day weekend, is regarded in our culture as the unofficial beginning of summertime, when (at least in theory) life moves at a slower pace. Perhaps we could experiment this summer with taking that theory seriously in our spiritual lives by attending less to all the work that needs doing and attending more to all that is done without any input from us at all. Such a shift in focus can be risky, as it may lead us down paths we never imagined taking as the lure of the Spirit grows stronger than the nag of an overdeveloped superego. Sometimes when people stop working so hard and start listening to their lives, floating along with the stream rather than trying to work against it, they drift into surprising places: they fall in love, embark on adventures, take risks, become pastors, join unconventional churches, go in directions they never imagined taking. This summer spend some time recalling the baptismal waters, or some time resting in actual waters, remembering that first lesson as you learned to swim. And in case you can no longer remember, here it is again, our first lesson in swimming, our first lesson in life, our first and abiding lesson of God:

 

 

                                         --Philip Booth, First Lesson