![]() Some would say “especially Catholic priests.” Every time I complain about the trials of my profession, I think of people like Archbishop Romero. The revolution in El Salvador politicized everybody, even Catholic priests. It was a strife so pervasive that it allowed no one the privilege of neutrality. He lived and served in El Salvador during the great “trouble” in that country. But far from finished, I suspect….even then. He called us “strangers and exiles upon the earth.” In the ultimate scheme of things, “we ain’t got long to stay here.” My eminent and imminent successor, Jack Harnish (in whom I take great delight), says: “With each passing year, this memorial service is Annual Conference for me.” Knowing that the step that follows being retired is being remembered, I know the feeling. You are just passing through.” What did he call us? You know what he called us. “What did you expect?” says the Letter to the Hebrews. I have to give it up and leave it behind. If I have a million dollars to spare, some university will gladly establish the “Ritter Chair of Religious Rhetoric.” But I, myself, cannot occupy my endowment forever. If we are wealthy enough, we can even endow the chair. We can repair the chair….repaint the chair….rebuild the chair….restore the chair….refurbish the chair….reupholster the chair….or reposition the chair in the great living room of life. We can do amazing things to the chair….in the chair….and with the chair. Which I caught….pondered….and held for future reference. We gotta be movin’ on.”īut the student was making a broader point than he knew. He was saying: “Seminary is a rented chair. Had we folded our chairs and looked on the underside of the seat, we would have seen the name of the rental company woodburned into the surface. And they would be trucked out that night. ![]() The chairs had been trucked in that morning. The chairs on which we sit are the property of the Greater Columbus, Ohio Rent-All Society. The chairs on which we sit are not the chairs of the last (or even the next-to-last) judgment. The chairs on which we sit are not the chairs at the left hand of power or the right hand of glory. The chairs on which we sit are not the chairs of the prophets and the apostles. As he approached the microphone, he did the things that every nervous speaker does. He was the only student on the platform, chosen to speak on behalf of the graduating seniors. ![]() The visiting dignitary (chosen to deliver the commencement address) was eloquent. On this particular occasion, the speakers were eloquent. Three years previous, those churches had taken these would-be preachers under their wings….had loved them….fed them….nurtured them….and suffered their “greenness.” Now that these student preachers actually knew something….and would momentarily have degrees to prove it….they would leave for more fertile fields. Also seated there were parishioners from a number of rural Methodist churches in mid-Ohio. And the parents of the younger graduates. ![]() And seated to the rear of this robed army were the plainclothes people. The faculty and trustees, in every color of the rainbow….bedecked like peacocks. Everybody else sat in folding chairs, grouped on the grass. The platform was elevated for the seating of the dominant players. Given its setting on the banks of a meandering river, the graduation exercises were held out of doors on the lush green quadrangle. The place was the Methodist Theological School in Ohio where I was a trustee in those days. It was a Saturday pretty much like this one, albeit thirty years ago. Memorial Service, Detroit Annual Conference
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