February 27, 2000

Pastor David G. Mullen

Mark 2:13-22

Maybe we can find an answer in the story of my Dad and the pool hall. I was a member of the high school band back in my little hometown in Wisconsin. Being a pretty good trumpet player I was also a part of the smaller pep band that played for all the home basketball games. We helped pump up the crowd the whole first half of the game, put on a little performance during half time and then somewhere in the third quarter we were usually dismissed from our duties. Most of the pep band stayed for the rest of the game. And I did too, whenever the game was close and exciting. But sometimes I slipped out the back door and walked the block or so uptown to–yes, the pool hall.

Ah, the pool hall. You had to walk down a narrow little stairway into a dingy basement room about the size of a large family room. Through the clouds of cigarette smoke your burning eyes would discover three pool tables, four pinball machines, a snack bar and a bunch of high school guys–my friends and classmates--hanging out. This den of iniquity was our place, almost like a sanctuary, where we could try out one way of being men. I loved the place. My Dad hated it. In fact, he forbid me to ever go there. "All you guys do down there is smoke cigarettes, talk smart, and think up trouble. I don’t want you near the place." My going to the pool hall bothered him so much he even went out and bought a pool table for our basement, but it was a flimsy thing that warped in the humidity and was thus worthless for shooting pool.

The fateful night this story is about, I slipped out of the game during the third quarter, forgetting that Dad was sitting in the bleachers on the other side. Naturally, he saw me leave and knew what I was up to. Yup, his son had gone to the pool hall. About the time the game was over, I had just made a great shot when I looked up, and Oh-Oh, there was Dad standing by a pinball machine glaring at me. "David," —his low voice rumbled like the LORD God on Mt Sinai, handing down the Ten Commandments-- "you’re comin’ home with me, NOW." Well, I was no Moses. No, I was down in the valley with the rebellious Israelites worshipping Baal. In other words, I was in BIG trouble. I tried to save face in front of my buddies: "OK, Dad," I said, "Just let me take one more shot." Ka-pow, right in the corner pocket. You might say that Baal smiled, but Dad didn’t! Nope, judging by the look on his face, I’m sure it was all he could do to keep from smacking me a good one. There’s precious little humor in righteous indignation, you know!

Now what was the deal? Obviously, teenage rebellion. But that’s not all, by any means. What you have to know is that my Dad was not exactly an angel as a young man. In fact, from childhood on up I heard amazing stories about him. The stuff he did made me look like a saint by comparison. But he, of course, like many a good dad, hoped that I wouldn’t make the same mistakes he made. And his mission was to make sure I didn’t!

A famous preacher whose pulpit is at Duke University teases parents about their attempts to raise their kids to be good, respectable Christians. He says, "You take them to church and Sunday School, and you fill their heads and their hearts with stories about Jesus, and then you are upset when they decide not to become the doctor or the lawyer, but instead go to a third world country to work among the poor or decide to teach in inner city schools or become a pastor out in the boondocks? Maybe you better watch what you’re doing with this church business. Maybe it’s more than just a path to a respectable life."

Well, not only had I heard the stories about my Dad, it was Dad who made sure I got to Sunday School and church where from my childhood into high school I heard the stories about Jesus, over and over: Jesus, at table fellowship with the tax collectors and sinners. Jesus, forgiving the woman caught in adultery. Jesus, actually dying on the Cross for sinners. Even as little kid, I knew in my heart that Jesus’ way was far better than the ways of stern parents and teachers, or even of classmates who taunted and tormented kids who were different. Come to think of it, in fourth grade I spent months on the playground stuck befriending a gawky, smelly poor kid from the hill country north of town, because I couldn’t bear the way the bullies in the class were treating him.

So then, you see, at high school age, and a bit rebellious over the negative of definition of good my father held (good meaning, don’t do this and don’t do that), hanging out with the guys didn’t seem bad–it was instead an alternate way of being "good." Even without being directly conscious of it, the example of Jesus was forming my attitude: It is good to live beyond the anxious anger of self-righteousness. It is good to be human and accept others as they are. It was right there in the Bible: Jesus, enjoying table fellowship with the bad guys–because the bad guys were not really bad, just human–like you and me.

Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners? For those of who’ve been in the church a long time, maybe we forget what it means to follow Jesus beyond mere respectability. A famous mission trainer confronts Christians with that accusation. He says that the trouble with long time Christians is that after a while all our friends and acquaintances are more or less respectable church people. And that means we’re failing our mission. He says that every Christian ought to have a couple of non-church goin’ real live sinners in their sights–and in their prayers. In fact, when pastors and lay leaders go to his two-week seminars, he tells them to find a bar or a nightclub nearby and then makes them go there every night and get acquainted with the patrons in order to introduce them to Christ.

Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners? Because he truly loves them, accepts them, enjoys their human company. Because it’s Jesus’ mission–and ours–to seek and to save the lost.

Imagine, then, a different ending to my pool hall story. The basketball game is over, and down at the pool hall, I look up from table and see my father but this time, with a proud and loving smile on his face, he walks over to me, he slaps me on the shoulder and says, "Hey, son, how about a game of pool?" Now that would have been the gospel. Amen.