The Secret Life of Preachers
There’s more going on in your pastor’s head than you imagine. On Sunday morning, your minister’s thoughts are as busy as a beehive, spaghetti junction, or WalMart on the day after Christmas. During some worship services it sounds like this inside your preacher’s brain:
Mary Ann brought her adorable baby to worship again. I wish she would start crying now instead of during the sermon. I can never sing this hymn without thinking, “On a hill far away stood an old Chevrolet.” It’s fun to sing this one like Bob Dylan. It’s always interesting when the youth minister prays. I wonder what the record is for the most times saying “like” and “just” in a single prayer. When we recite the Lord’s Prayer it sounds like the voice on my GPS. Why does the offering feel like a Nielsen rating? When I said the youth could usher I didn’t expect suits and ties, but who wears sandals in January? I wish I could wear sandals. Why don’t women wear hats to church anymore? I should eat breakfast before I get here. Two Krispy Kremes during Sunday school is probably a bad idea. I see the third grade Sunday school teacher gave out jawbreakers again. I wish I had a jawbreaker. I thought this part of the sermon would go better. Maybe the sound system isn’t working. I should have kept the joke about the priest and the rabbi. I need to remember to ask Ashley about the note Sam just handed her. Maybe I should ask her right now. Look at that guy looking at his watch. I’ll be so glad when football season is over. I wonder who’s playing today. Should ministers pull for the Saints? I need to put the introduction and conclusion closer together next week. I’d like to see how John the Baptist would react to a cellphone ringing. Why did I decide to preach on Jesus’ baptism? It really is confusing. I’m glad my congregation can’t tell what I’m thinking when I’m preaching.
Some Sundays pastors think like air traffic controllers a week after a crash, but on the best Sundays, nothing is more holy than the prayers that fill the preacher’s head.
God, they showed up again. If I wasn’t the pastor I’m not sure I would show up every Sunday. Annie Mae is here if I ever need to be reminded that I’m not the best Christian in the room. It must take Jim thirty minutes to maneuver his walker from his car to his pew, but he’s always here. I can’t believe Sandy made it after the horrible week she had. Her son is an alcoholic and her husband is no help, but she never misses worship. This room is filled with saints who keep coming to church to give themselves to your grace.
Thank you, God.
Singing was one of your best ideas. “So I’ll cherish the old, rugged cross.” Cherishing crosses is no easy thing.
God, make your kingdom come and your will be done in this congregation.
Forgive me for ever taking worship for granted.
Make me discontented with my apathy and grateful for the love that covers us all.
Thank you, God.
I’m glad the sermon isn’t limited to what I know—and that these gracious people understand that. It’s easy to see why you love them. Some of them are listening so intently for your Word.
I can almost picture the dove and hear you saying, “You are my beloved children with whom I am well-pleased.”
If I’m going to be a good pastor for these good people I need to give myself to you again.
Thank you, God.
On the best Sundays God speaks not only through the preacher, but to the preacher as well—more than we imagine.
Teaching the Footnotes
Leon Crane has been teaching Sunday school since Lyndon Johnson was president. He teaches a bit like Johnson would, but without the colorful language and Democratic politics. He knows the Bible like Johnson knew the Constitution. He knows Genesis to Revelation and the footnotes at the bottom of the page. In fact, more than anything else, he teaches the footnotes. Leon begins:
“The lesson today is from the ninth chapter of Luke. This passage requires scholars such as ourselves to dig deep into the first century world. Verses 57-58, and I am reading, as I always will, from the King James Version, ‘A certain man said unto him, Lord, I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest.’”
“And Jesus said unto him, ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.’”
“Now class, some misinterpret this text as indicating that Jesus means what he says and that he was not rich as we know he was. John Calvin, a French theologian and lawyer in the sixteenth century—and I’m reading from his commentary which was translated by William Pringle in 1845, I would have made my own translation but I have misplaced my copy, if you borrowed it please return it no questions will be asked—points out, ‘It is strange that Christ should say, that he had not a foot of earth on which he could lay his head, while there were many godly and benevolent persons, who would willingly receive him into their houses.’”
“Now class, whenever we come to one of the many passages in the Bible that seem to indicate that Jesus was poor, we need to look long enough and dig deep enough to find another explanation.”
“Verses 59-60, And Jesus said unto another, ‘Follow me.’”
“But he said, ‘Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father.’”
“Jesus said unto him, ‘Let the dead bury their dead. Go you thou and preach the kingdom.’”
“Now class, this is not a passage that you find in advertisements for funeral homes, but listen again to the great Protestant reformer John Calvin, ‘By these words, Christ does not condemn burial. We know that the custom of burying originated in a divine command, and was practiced by the saints.’ We can thus conclude that this passage should not be used as support for cremation.”
“Calvin then indicates that if this man had not been called to preach the kingdom he could have stayed with his father, ‘Had he remained in a private station, there would have been no absolute necessity for leaving his father.’”
“Verse 60, ‘Let the dead bury their dead. Go you thou and preach the kingdom’ is justification for church members to complain about their pastor.”
“The third would-be disciple who turns out to be a slacker said, ‘Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell, which are at home at my house.’”
“And Jesus said unto him, ‘No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’”
“In the first century Middle Eastern culture, the person who is leaving requests permission to leave from those who are staying behind. This man is asking to go home and get permission. Now he knew that his parents wouldn’t let him go wandering around after Jesus. This failure, just like the others, is only pretending to be committed. He is a mama’s boy who never ploughed a row or even drove a pick-up.”
Leon talks for an hour without using a single question mark and only a few commas. He shows remarkable expertise concerning sixteenth century interpreters, nineteenth century translators, and how to explain away the hard parts. He has extensive knowledge and an unwavering commitment to defend whatever he’s always thought. What he never does is ask, “Where might Christ lead us that we don’t want to follow?”
The people in Leon’s class study a lot of footnotes. Like many of us, they have discovered that reading the Bible as ancient history is easier than learning how to serve God.
The Former Pastors’ Club
I’m going through withdrawal. I still feel anxious on Saturday night and take a nap on Sunday afternoon—even though I haven’t done anything. I seek out former pastors so that we can talk about the glory and gunk of our former lives. Sometimes former pastors get a funny look on their faces as if they’re reminiscing about a high school sweetheart who got away. We are Wallendas without a tightrope, Kennedys without politics, Mannings without football. One of the ways I’ve been dealing with my mixed emotions is compiling a list of things I don’t miss about being a pastor.
I don’t miss knowing that the party will get louder after I walk out the door.
I don’t miss the alarm going off at 6:45 on Sunday morning.
I don’t miss looking around the Blockbuster for church members before I take James Bond to the checkout.
I don’t miss the phrase, “Pardon my language, Reverend.”
I don’t miss there being an 80% chance I’ll be called on to pray before a meal.
I don’t miss feeling responsible when it rains at the church picnic.
I don’t miss visiting a member’s third cousin in the hospital after a knee replacement, because the member “can’t get by to see her myself” and seeing the look on the patient’s face that says, “Who are you and why are you here?”
I don’t miss business meetings.
I don’t miss saying things like, “I understand that ‘You Sexy Thing’ is ‘your song,’ but I think it would be more fitting at the reception than as the processional.”
I don’t miss church members thinking I need the latest book by Joel Osteen.
I don’t miss deacons’ meetings where Jesus isn’t mentioned or wishes he hadn’t been mentioned.
Reading my list of things I don’t miss about being a pastor might lead you to think I’m feeling only joy about leaving my former occupation, but the list of things I miss is much longer.
I miss deacons’ meetings where deacons speak honestly about how to be the presence of Christ.
I miss church members thinking I need the latest book by Frederick Buechner.
I miss worship committee meetings.
I miss being called “Brother Brett.”
I miss free parking at the hospital.
I miss having an assistant whose job is to make me look better.
I miss being given fresh vegetables.
I miss people insisting on paying for my lunch.
I miss getting a stack of birthday cards.
I miss knowing that no matter what I write for the church newsletter someone kind will say it was good—even if it wasn’t.
I miss hearing children singing, pianos playing, and choirs rehearsing.
I miss bragging about my church.
I miss sitting at the front during worship. I didn’t realize it’s the best place to hear the choir.
I miss deciding which hymns we’ll sing.
I miss reading the Bible aloud and saying, “This is the Word of the Lord.”
I miss serving communion.
I miss baptizing young Christians.
I miss welcoming new members into the church.
I miss seven-year-year-olds hugging me because I’m their pastor.
I miss senior citizens asking me to pray with them.
I miss knowing homeless people by name, and being known by name.
I miss the sacred gift of being invited to share the suffering of broken-hearted friends.
I miss the saints who called me their pastor.
Law and Grace on the Way to the Pulpit: A Sermon for Preachers
Every week you tell yourself to start the sermon earlier, so on Monday morning you pour a cup of coffee and take out the file for the next Sunday.
What were you thinking when you decided to preach on the prodigal son again? What could there possibly be left to say?
The story has been worn so smooth in the telling and retelling that you’re tempted to start the sermon by asking, “How many think you know just about everything I’m about to say? Is there anyone left who hasn’t heard a preacher suggest that we should call this the parable of the waiting father? If I point out that feeding pigs would be particularly disgusting for a Jew will that be news?” You once heard about a minister who preached the parable from the point of view of the fatted calf. Maybe you should try that.
Or you could preach about the poor cook trying to throw together a barbecue at the last minute.
You could talk about the prodigal’s mother. Or the grandmother? The little sister? The family’s pastor?
What about a sermon on the harlots in the far country? Does anybody ever think about their feelings?
Once you heard someone suggest a three point outline of madness, badness, and gladness. Or was it sadness? Wouldn’t sadness be in there? Or what about this outline—he wanted his ten, he fell into sin, and he came home again.
The story has become so tired in the preaching and repreaching that it makes you tired just thinking about it. It’s almost a relief when the phone rings.
Bessie calls each Monday. She’s an accomplished sermon critic. It’s like having Pauline Kael in the fifth row every Sunday. Bessie teaches the Rebecca/Ruth class and feels the need to tell you everything that happens there. You know she liked the previous pastor more than she likes you so you always pretend you’re listening.
On this occasion she has a new issue, “Pastor, do you know what your little Minister of Education said to me yesterday?”
“No, Bessie, I don’t.”
“He asked if I thought my class would be more comfortable meeting in the parlor.”
Scott’s a fine Minister of Education—and there are precious few of them—but he should have asked before running headlong into this particular fiery furnace.
The Rebecca/Ruth class is all that’s left of a senior adult department that was thriving only three short decades ago. They meet in the largest room in the church with a grand piano, a stained glass window of the Good Shepherd, and the only American flag you haven’t hidden.
When Charlotte’s bursitis isn’t acting up, there are five women meeting in a space that will seat 100. At the other end of the hall there’s a young adult class running 25 in a parlor that might hold 15 comfortably.
Bessie continues, “I’m not one to complain”—it’s good that she can’t see you roll your eyes, “but he needs to respect his elders. We’re the people who built this church. We worked hard. We earned our place and you can’t give it to people who just showed up. Do you think your precious thirty-year-olds tithe?”
You try to make it clear that you understand how much the Rebeccas and Ruths mean to the church. “Bessie, I know how hard you work. I appreciate everything your class has done. In fact, the Rebecca/Ruth class is probably my favorite class in all of the world.” You say this with your fingers crossed.
Bessie has just given up and said goodbye when the phone rings again.
This caller begins, “You’d don’t me. My family lives about a hundred miles from you. We raised our son right. His father and I dropped him off at church every Sunday. My son doesn’t work hard, but as long as he was under our roof I knew he was safe. But now he’s at college and he’s an English major. We thought he was going to get a nice business degree. He’s spending money like the government is going to bail him out. I think his fraternity may have a few drinkers. I need you to invite him to your church. I know he’s up on Sunday mornings, because when I call he’s always out. But you can’t tell him I asked you to call.”
You’re off the phone before you realize that you’ve agreed to call a college student and act like you pulled his name and number out of the campus directory at random. His first question is going to be, “Did my mom tell you to call?” You decide to answer, “Yes, of course she did. You know your mother.”
You don’t get back to the sermon for three days. Every Monday you make a list of things you need to get done, and every week you learn again that you’re not in charge of what you’ll get done. You have to respond to fifteen e-mails. You think of church before the internet as the good old days. The chair of the stewardship committee is worried about last month’s financial report and wants you to talk to the committee about it. You spend too much time preparing for Wednesday night. There’s a reason no one picks Judges for the Annual Bible Study. And then, horror of horrors, you get the shocking news that on Sunday morning—without you even noticing—an eleventh grade girl wore flip flops while taking up the offering. You could make money selling bumper stickers at preaching conferences that say, “Church happens.”
On Thursday you tell yourself, “I have to write my sermon and I have to write it right now. If the Holy Spirit shows up great, but I need a rough draft by the end of the day.” When you went to seminary, some dear church people gave you a complete set of The Broadman Bible Commentary. At the time, you thought it was the most liberal thing ever written—now, not so much.
You read material you’ve read before: how the younger son would have been expected to keep at least some of the inheritance to support his father in his old age. You’re relatively certain your children aren’t saving to support you either. When the son comes to his senses the word used is a medical term. Doctor Luke describes the response of a person who has awakened from a fainting spell. You wish you had rich doctors in your congregation so that a detail like that would jump out.
Then you find something. The Talmud describes the ceremony of the pessausa. A father disowned a son by taking a pot filled with burnt corn and nuts and breaking it in front of the house. It’s like the shun of the Pennsylvania Dutch. No one was ever to speak to the boy again. The pessausa was applied only to Jewish males who married immoral woman or lost money to Gentiles. The prodigal must have wondered if his father would disown him. Now that’s interesting, somewhat. You’re just not finding much that’s going to move them to the edge of their pews—unless you actually throw a pot of burnt corn.
When you took preaching at seminary—which is for many the high point of their lives—you thought that every week you’d be examining textual variants and parsing verbs, but it’s been a while since you opened your Greek New Testament. You wonder if there’s anything on desperatepreacher.com. What would you get if you googled Fred Craddock plus Luke 15? What would happen if you suggested that the younger brother is like Sarah Palin’s future son-in-law Eli? Would it be wrong to describe the party as tailgating at a Georgia game?
Just before you give up for the day, you find something in The New Interpreter’s Bible. Your favorite New Testament scholar, Alan Culpepper, writes, “In the end we all return home as sinners, so Jesus’ parable invites us to trust that God’s goodness and mercy will be at least as great as that of a loving human father. The elder brother represents all of us who think we can make it on our own, all of us who might be proud of the kind of lives we live.”
That’s pretty good. Your church has lots of proud people. You’ve got some who think that “charter member” implies infallibility. You have wealthy folks who believe the money they give puts them in charge of who gets a party. You have deacons whose mothers must not have hugged them nearly enough. And you understand the older brother. You feel underappreciated much of the time.
It’s time to write the central idea. Your first preaching textbook insisted that every sermon needs a focus of ten words. You’re going with, “This church is filled with elder brothers who need to repent.” It’s eleven words—close enough.
On Sunday morning, you tell the old, old story, yet again. Once upon a time there was a father who had two very different sons. The younger is completely unreliable, and the older thoroughly dependable.
One day the older brother overhears his irresponsible little brother ask their father for money so he can go out on his own. The older brother thinks: “Now, he’s gone too far. Dad’s going to hit the roof.”
But to his amazement, the father writes the biggest check any of them has ever seen. The younger son slaps a “Party Animal” bumper sticker on the back of his camel and rides off.
The older brother never says a word. With his baby brother gone, he has even more work to do—though not much more. He works in the field all day every day. Every muscle aches. Each night he works late and falls asleep exhausted only to get up early the next morning to do it all again.
Then one evening as he comes in from the field, sweat dripping down his face, he hears music. It’s the first music he’s heard since his brother left. He smells charcoal briquettes and asks a servant what’s going on: “Your brother’s returned and your father’s having a barbecue.” Can you believe this? This young upstart ne’r-do-well ungratefully demands his inheritance, takes the money to Las Vegas, blows every cent on booze and bad women, and when he comes slithering home, his father throws a party.
It’s easy to understand the older brother’s reaction. We know this feeling. It’s when you find out that your friend who never goes to the office on Saturday is paid more than you are. Why is the world so unfair? Why can’t people get what they deserve? Why do some have everything handed to them on a silver platter? The unfairness of almost everything makes us keep track of the unfairness of almost everything.
The older brother confronts his father with what he knows to be the truth: “All these years I have worked like a slave. And I’ve never had a party.”
You’ve told this story so many times. You know it so well that your mind wanders and you look at your congregation. You really look at them. There are older brothers so far out in the field that they can’t hear the music. Scribes and Pharisees get lost in the rules. Bessie just wrote on her order of worship. You’re going to get a call in the morning.
A few prodigal sons, wandering in the far country, haven’t figured out it’s time to come home. Sometimes sinners waste their lives running from the rules. The college student with whom you had an awkward conversation isn’t there, but one of his fraternity brothers, who had the misfortune of going to college in the town where his parents live, is there on two cups of coffee and four Tylenols.
Then it hits you—something you hadn’t recognized before, something you wished you had thought of on Monday morning. Your congregation isn’t just elder brothers and a few prodigals. The room is filled, more than anything else, with waiting fathers and mothers.
Bill Parsons sits on the back row, because he has trouble walking. His son is an alcoholic. Bob’s never been good at tough love. He’s always waiting with open arms and a new pair of shoes, a ring, a robe.
If she had been there, Lee Ann Seely, who’s in the choir behind you, would have been praying every day for the prodigal, his father, his brother, for everyone and everything. She prays as though she is helping God carry the burdens.
Fran Patterson, in the balcony with the youth, would have been constantly e-mailing the prodigal. She would send a care package during finals even though he dropped out.
Donella Ware, always on the third row, would have invited the prodigal’s mother for coffee. She would have listened carefully, like a real friend.
Claudine Marion, on the left near the front, loves planning parties. She would have had steaks waiting in the freezer and a recipe for charcoal-grilled T-bone fatted calf with broiled onions cowboy style taped to the fridge.
Dan Freemyer is on the right, halfway back. He would have gone to the pig sty to get the prodigal, taken him to Dan’s house, showed him to the shower, loaned him his best suit, and gone with him to talk with his father. Why didn’t you see it before? God’s church is filled with people who love like God does. You are surrounded by saints who want to welcome you and anyone else who will come to the party of God’s grace.
These loving people are the way God is waiting to embrace you and Bessie and the freshman with the hangover. God loves us all—even ministers—through God’s family.
You’re coming to the end of the sermon. The older brother stands in the yard feeling sorry for himself. His father asks him again to come in and have some fun. Then the father walks toward the party he had hoped would bring his complaining child back to life. As he looks at his angry son, the father feels old. The music from the party drifts from the house and hangs in the air between them.
Then suddenly the father is no longer tired. The joy of his heart overflows into his feet. He begins to dance, hoping the music that he can’t resist will bring his child, his true inheritance, his delight, back to him.Standing in the pulpit, during your own sermon, right there in church, you hear God calling you to come home, inviting you to see that there’s a party going on and join in the dance.
Should I Have Named My Son Karl Barth?
The earliest I could get an appointment at the seminary housing office was at 9:00. I was coming from seven hours away, so I left at 1:30 on Monday morning. I’m fairly certain the good people at student housing would have given me an appointment at 4:00 in the afternoon, but I was too excited to wait. I was as wound up as any seminary student has ever been wound. I was pumped to learn Hebrew and Greek backwards and forwards. I planned to read Augustine’s Confessions in the original Latin. (I didn’t mention this to anyone, because I wasn’t sure Augustine wrote in Latin.) I intended to pray thirty minutes every morning. I was planning to meet a beautiful, intelligent seminarian. We would get married and name our children Martin Luther and Karl Barth—Martina and Karla if we had girls.
I was unreasonably excited for a long time, but then after a while, I calmed down. The exhilaration gave way to the routine. Hebrew and Greek never quite clicked for me. Augustine’s Confessions is long. I bought a copy of Cliff Notes on the New Testament. When I woke up late I prayed in the car on the way to school. I did marry a beautiful, intelligent seminarian, but we named our children Graham and Caleb—for which they are grateful. I got so used to seminary I had no desire to leave and stayed seven years. That’s not the record.
When I was called to be the pastor of my first church, I was beside myself with excitement. I couldn’t believe they were going to pay me to stand up on Sunday and say, “I’ve been listening carefully and this is what I think God wants us to hear.” It was my job to see hurting people in the world and ask how God might be calling the church to respond. I was going to stir things up and lead my people to take faith more seriously. My church was going to become a beacon for Christ, a shining star for social justice, a guiding light in the evangelical world. All that and I would get a private room at youth camp.
I was unreasonably excited for a long time, but then after a while, I became more realistic. The exhilaration gave way to the routine. Sundays seemed to roll around every four days. One member fell asleep during every sermon. Deacons meetings weren’t all that I had dreamed. When we got stirred up, it usually didn’t have anything to do with social justice. I got too old for youth camp food, but I loved being a pastor, so much so that I pastored four churches over twenty-two years. But on too many days the excitement gave way to reasonableness.
The prospect of teaching at a seminary delighted me. On my second day I went to the library and checked out The Joy of Teaching. I’m re-reading all of the books I assign. Maybe I’ll remember the Hebrew and Greek I’ve forgotten by osmosis. I love the idea of teaching and learning about Christ’s church, studying and sharing the ideas of Christian scholars, and being part of a grace-filled community.
But I am also afraid that the excitement will be overcome by practicality. I fear that when I am trying to share my love for the church I’ll remember that “dysfunctional church” can seem redundant. I could skim the books I’ve read before. I haven’t yet read The Joy of Teaching, but I’ve figured out there is no sequel titled The Joy of Grading.
It’s understandable when we settle into patterns of thinking and acting that are reasonable and expected, but if we don’t hold on to some of the imaginative, dream-filled enthusiasm the Spirit sends we’re not following Jesus. God calls us to maintain some level of unreasonable head over heels devotion to Christ. God leads us beyond cautious, routine, carefully measured faith to extravagant possibilities. Every once in a while when we feel the Spirit pulling us to do something rare, we should act on the belief that we heard God say, “Go.”
Church Shopping?
I thought this would be fun, but now I’m not so sure. For the first time since 1983, I’m—and this phrase shouldn’t exist— “church shopping.“ When I recently went from being a pastor to being a professor, I also went from minister to prospective church member. Like many, I started out secretly wishing for another church just like my last church, but that’s not going to happen. Now I’m trying to figure out what I’m looking for—and how I’ll convince my family when I’ve found it.
I worry that I will look for things that church growth experts say visitors look for. When I was a pastor I secretly thought, “We want to be the church for people who are serious about church. The ones who ask shallow questions would be better off in another church.“
Now I’m wondering how superficial I want to be.
Should I pick a church for frivolous reasons?
How much do I care about convenient parking?
Are we looking for smiling greeters who wear name tags with big letters so that we don’t have to stare at their chests?
Will we notice how clean the building is? Is cleanliness really next to godliness?
Do I want to wear a suit each week or buy Sunday best Bermuda shorts?
Will I be put off if Sunday school doesn’t start on time? (If I feel strongly about punctuality, I may have to join the senior adults.)
What do we most want from Sunday school? Is it insightful teaching, a sense of community, or Krispy Kremes? Should chairs be set in rows, a circle, or traded for bean bags?
Will the sanctuary have comfortable seats?
How many points can I deduct if there is a flag?
Will they choose bad hymns? (Like everyone else I define these as hymns I don’t know.) Should I care if we don’t sing the third stanza?
Will they play inappropriate musical instruments? How unfair is it to believe organs are more sacred than drums?
How disappointed can I be if all the ushers are male?
Will it make me crazy if the pastor is younger than I am?
Can I subtract from their score if the preacher walks around during the sermon?
What if the minister preaches more than twenty minutes?
What if the pastor tries to be funny and it doesn’t work?
What if he or she doesn’t ask lots of rhetorical questions?
What if I find it’s harder to listen to a sermon than preach one?
What if the church’s idea of ministry is the men’s group meeting at the Waffle House the first Saturday of the month?
What if former pastors make lousy church members?
I do understand that the churches in the New Testament didn’t have parking lots, name tags, or buildings. I need to ask better questions:
Should I choose a church home on the basis of my preferences or should I look for something more?
Does the church reflect God’s joy?
Do we feel the presence of the Spirit when we’re together?
Do we welcome those who are left out?
Does everyone in the church look like me?
Does the church pray about the war and the hungry?
Do we care for the lost and the poor?
Does the church challenge us to a deeper faith? Do we think new thoughts and serve in new ways?
Can my family help this congregation share the love of God?
How comfortable should we be?
Should we be part of a struggling church that demands more than we want to give?
What church would Jesus join?
Last Sermon
The number of people who go to blogs to read sermons may rival the number of people still planning to be Hillary’s running mate, but I recently preached my last sermon at Broadway Baptist Church. I struggled with what to say in a last sermon. This is what I ended up with.
“We’ll Always Have Broadway”
We’ll always have Casablanca. If you’ve ever seen it you’ll never forget it. It’s still the same old story.
It may be that more people know more lines from Casablanca than from any other movie. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, Ingrid Bergman had to walk into Humphrey Bogart’s.
“Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”
“Was that cannon fire? Or was it my heart pounding?”
“Kiss me! Kiss me as though it were the last time!”
“Why did you come to Casablanca?”
“For health reasons, I came for the waters.”
“What waters? We’re in the desert.”
“I was misinformed.”
Then the final scene when Rick tells Ilsa to get on the plane to Lisbon and freedom: “You’ve got to listen to me. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.”
Ilsa cries, “But what about us?”
Rick almost smiles: “We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have it, we’d lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back.”
“But I said I would never leave you.”
Rick heroically answers, “And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Here’s looking at you, kid.”
It’s a classic farewell scene because the ones saying goodbye know that at its best, goodbye is the promise that we’ll always keep what we’ve been for each other. We’ll never lose what we’ve given each other.
The word goodbye has a wonderful origin. Goodbye is the shortened version of the phrase “God be with you.” Goodbye is a sacred word when you hear the grace of “God be with you.”
It was “God be with you” when David said “goodbye” to Jonathan. We usually think of King David with somebody else: David and Goliath, David and Saul, David and Bathsheba. David would want to be remembered by this pairing—David and Jonathan.
Before David showed up, Jonathan was the hero. He led the Israelite army to victory in a battle with the Philistines. The people were glad that Jonathan would one day occupy his father’s throne. But with David’s slaying of Goliath, Jonathan’s popularity began to fade in comparison. He could have been jealous—most of us would have been—but instead Jonathan recognized how much alike he and David were. He loved David as his own soul. Instead of thinking of David as a rival to be feared or hated, Jonathan finds a kindred spirit. These two friends become inextricably bound.
Jonathan gives David his robe, armor, sword, belt, and bow as signs of their friendship. By giving these particular gifts—gifts belonging to the heir apparent to the throne—Jonathan is saying that David should be king in his place. It would have been easy for Jonathan to resent David and yet he chose to love rather than envy him.
As David’s popularity grows, Jonathan’s father becomes David’s archenemy. Jonathan is, for a short time, successful in keeping peace between King Saul and David, but not for long. Saul gets worse and Jonathan finally arranges this charade with the bow and arrows to let David know that the time has come for him to leave.
When David and Jonathan say goodbye for what they think will be the last time, they cry, hug, kiss, and cry some more. Finally Jonathan says: “Take care of yourself. Remember that God will be between you and me forever. Goodbye. God be with you.”
This is one of the great friendships of all time—Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, Thelma and Louise, Bert and Ernie, Lewis and Clark, Laverne and Shirley, Batman and Robin, Lucy and Ethel, Rocky and Bullwinkle, David and Jonathan. Each one makes the other better. Even when they part company, their friendship has an impact that stays with them every day for the rest of their lives.
We might guess that this farewell is the end of David and Jonathan’s story, but we would be wrong. Listen to the 133rd Psalm: “How wonderful and beautiful when kindred live together in unity. It’s like the dew which falls on the mountains of Zion. God ordains this blessing.” This Psalm ties together the love of friends and the grace of God. It may have been written by David, or by a friend of David’s. Either way it’s possible that these holy words wouldn’t have been written if it hadn’t been for Jonathan and David’s friendship.
Listen to the Book of Proverbs: “Friends love at all times, through all kinds of weather. They stick together in all kinds of trouble.” “Some friends play at friendship, they come and go, but a true friend sticks closer than one’s nearest kin.” These Proverbs may have been written by Solomon—David’s son—or a friend of Solomon’s or someone who knew the story of David and Jonathan. In any case, these sacred words may have begun with a friendship that lasted beyond the goodbye.
Lasting friendships are rare—so rare that our society has become cynical about friendship. You’ve heard the saying, “With friends like these who needs enemies.” It’s not a compliment to friendship. One cynic defined friendship as a boat big enough to carry two in sunny weather, but only one during a storm.
Most of us know lots of names and have few real companions. Some of what we call friendships are just arrangements by which we exchange favors. We have acquaintances from whom we hope for common courtesy and not much more. We don’t have high expectations for most of our relationships.
Some of our cynicism grows out of the prevailing attitude that we’re on our own. The car pool lane is mostly empty. You don’t see many bicycles built for two. Ipods outsell stereos. Friendship seems to be losing the day to an unchristian individualism.
One of our culture’s biggest lies is that we don’t really need each other. You’ve known grown children who decide, sometimes for good reasons, that they don’t want their parents in their lives. They proudly assert their independence, “My parents and I aren’t on speaking terms.” But they keep talking about how they aren’t talking. The more they protest, the more obvious it becomes that they may not trade Christmas cards, but the parents are still a huge part of their children’s lives. You’ve known parents who have tried, sometimes with good reasons, to disown their children. They may be able to stop talking about their sons and daughters, but they’re never far from their thoughts. It’s true for all of us. When we try to let go of someone we’ve loved, we discover that our lives are irreversibly entangled. Self-centeredness doesn’t work.
Four centuries ago, John Donne had it right: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
We’re in this together. Sometimes we get busy doing things that we think are important and don’t see that the more important thing we’re doing is investing ourselves in one another, helping each other become who God intends us to be. You’ve seen the bumper sticker, “If you can read this, thank a teacher.” If we know anything of hope, forgiveness or friendship, then we have someone to thank.
Friendships that last forever, that make us better human beings, aren’t just an option for people of faith. God calls us to commit ourselves to friendship, work at it conscientiously, not be too disappointed when some we thought were friends fail, and keep being the best friends we can be. Jesus said, “Love one another as I have loved you. They will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”
We must pray for each other, weep with each other, and rejoice with each other. To be Christ’s friends, we have to be each other’s friends, conceivably even to lay down our lives for one another. It’s a high price to pay, and Jesus doesn’t pretend otherwise, but the implication is that it’s worth every cent. We love God by being true friends.
We love God through all kinds of friendships, friendships that surprise and sustain us, friendships with those who are older than we are and younger than we are, friends we knew we would be our friends from the moment we met, friends for whom it took years to discover that we’d been friends all along, and friends who move closer during the hard times.
Before I came to Broadway I knew all about friendships where you say “Hello” and compare notes on books and movies. Broadway taught me about friendships where you say “I love you” and compare scars.
I used to secretly believe that I was for the most part self-sufficient. My idea of ministry was that people who have it together help those who don’t. I won’t ever believe that again, because you taught me about sharing ministry and the love of God that’s deeper than any false sense of independence. I now understand that when someone carries your burdens or lets you carry theirs, that’s Christ’s church.
Jesus had only three years of ministry and yet he spent most of that time with a small group of friends. The New Testament calls Jesus’ friends, “the body of Christ.” They had become part of him. It was no longer Jesus and his friends. They were the church. They were inseparable.
There are people we haven’t seen in years who affect our lives every day. Think about the family member who loved you the most, the best teacher you ever had, or the closest friend you’ve ever known. Those people may be long gone in one sense, but in a far greater sense they will always be part of who you are. We can’t conceive how much less our lives would be without those people. Each one of us is a fragile web made up of the people who made us. Touch any part of the web and the whole thing shakes.
Do you remember the scene in It’s a Wonderful Life when just as Mary and George are about to leave on their honeymoon there’s a run on the Bailey Building and Loan? The customers ask where their money is and Jimmy Stewart tries to explain, “It’s not just here. Your money is in Martini’s house and Peterson’s house and Schmidt’s house. We’re all in this together.”
Where is Broadway? It’s in you and me. It’s in Donella Ware, Kathy Madeja, Rod Hickman, Annessa Robbins and everyone who’s part of this community of grace. But it’s not just here. Broadway is also in everyone who’s ever been changed by this family. It’s in Hazel Morris, Steve Shoemaker, and Doug Dickens. It’s in the people they love. Broadway is in a hundred places we’ll never know about. It’s in every minister who’s gotten to serve here. It’s in every church they serve. Broadway will soon be part of a theology school in Atlanta. We’re all in this together—not just today, but forever.
This gracious family will always be one of the best parts of who I am. I will forever have a Broadway-shaped hole in my heart, but I will also have a Broadway-shaped faith, a Broadway-shaped hope, and a Broadway-shaped love. You’ve taught me so much about friendship, grace, and love. I’m a better person, because of you. I’m a better Christian, because I was privileged to be part of this church. By the grace of God, we’ll always be in this together. We take one another wherever we go. Whenever we say goodbye, it’s a promise. In our coming and our going, God will be with us.
Dear Next Pastor,
I’m leaving Broadway Baptist Church after seven years of an amazing and sacred rollercoaster to teach preaching at the McAfee School of Theology in Atlanta. I’ve worked hard at saying good-bye, and am learning that I’m not very good at letting go. This is a letter I’m leaving in the pastor’s desk at Broadway for the next pastor.
Dear Pastor,
I am sure that you are getting notes and letters from your new and wordy congregation so don’t feel like you have to write me back—especially since I wrote this long before any of us knew who you were.
The first days at a new church can be overwhelming. You may feel like you have gotten married when you have only just begun dating. For better or worse (and I’m sure it will be better), the people who have chosen you to be their pastor will have a profound impact on the person you become. The minister is at the congregation’s mercy.
That’s what makes you fortunate. Your new church is a community of grace. People at Broadway live like Christians. If you pay attention, then they will teach you to do the same. If your experience is anything like mine, then every once in a while in the middle of a conversation, you will suddenly realize that you are speaking to one of God’s beloved children. I would love to give you my list of favorite saints and sinners, but I suppose part of the fun is making your own list.
Your new church has a remarkable commitment to worship. Carlyle Marney said, “Worship is an antidote for fatigue.” That was never truer for me than at Broadway. Worship encompassed my head, heart, and imagination. Worship with this church confirmed what was genuine in my faith and life, and disturbed what wasn’t. During the sermon I was often distracted with thoughts of how fortunate I was to get to preach to a congregation that listens for God.
Your new church has an amazing commitment to ministry. Broadway people are concerned for the least of God’s children. They take seriously Jesus’ love for the poor and outcasts. The church works hard to welcome everybody. You’ll see some delightfully surprising friendships.
Your new church is filled with interesting people. We have some fascinating left wing radicals and some gracious right wing diehards. They encourage their preachers to tell the truth—light and dark, tears and laughter. Most churches discourage honesty. Broadway insists on it. This church taught me to think more deeply about following Christ. They led me to rest in the grace of God while, at the same time, struggling with the meaning of faith.
Before I realized that no one laughed, I used to say that the only person I envied was Carol’s second husband. I am now also jealous of you, because you get to be the pastor of a church that goes beyond the routine in an extraordinary variety of ways.
I hope I will be a good predecessor (I needed someone to tell me that Jerry and Mikey are the same person). If I can ever be of help, please give me a call. I would be delighted to give you unneeded and unwanted advice. (I hope you keep Ash Wednesday, World Hunger Day and the discipline of silence. Don’t start the Gospel of Luke on Wednesday nights unless you have five years to finish. Good luck on footwashing. I think nylons killed it forever.)
I know how blessed I was to be part of a congregation through which God makes ministers more whole. If you haven’t already, thank God for the sacred privilege of serving with Broadway. I always will.
Your predecessor
A Preacher Goes Parrothead
The church is supposed to teach the world about joy and it often works that way, but sometimes it happens in the other direction. Some church members decided that Carol and I needed a break—the kind that lasts about three hours—and bought us tickets to a Jimmy Buffett concert. We didn’t want to be rude, so we went. Their gift was even more generous than you might guess, because we ended up in the middle section down on the field not far from Jimmy. I admit I wouldn’t want Jimmy Buffett to teach my son’s Sunday school class, but it was fun.
Jimmy is a balding sixty-year-old. The theme for this tour is “The Year of Still Here.” If you’re Jimmy Buffett—who’s crashed planes and boats—still being around is an accomplishment. One of his songs is “Growing Older But Not Up.”
The band is made up of graying AARP members with artificial knees and orthopedic shoes who have been with the band forever and never make it on to the jumbotron, and a couple of dancers in their twenties who get lots of jumbotron time.
You might think that people as old as Jimmy Buffett are too old to attend a Jimmy Buffett concert, but the audience was filled with senior citizens as well as children. Jimmy, the troubadour for baby boomers, wrote a song twenty years ago titled “A Pirate Looks at Forty.” One preschooler held up a sign that said “A Pirate Looks at Four.”
You get the feeling that most of the crowd has been to these concerts before. For one thing, they dress for the event. Grown-ups wear parrot noses, parrot heads, shark fins, straw hats, flowered shirts, hula skirts and pirate suits. I saw several carrying swords and a few with surfboards. There was a 35 foot sailboat in the parking lot. What were they thinking?
It’s a participatory event. We sing along. One of Jimmy’s best-selling albums is titled, “Songs You Already Know.” We didn’t need chairs, just an X where we could stand if we chose to stand where we were supposed to stand.
Jimmy made several references to religion. He claimed that the Pope came to his concert in Houston, blessed the cheeseburgers (a Buffett reference) and told Jimmy he’d long been a parrothead.
Jimmy also said, “Church attendance might be down in the morning, but for those worried about that, well, for me, this counts as church.”
This was a comment I found objectionable. It doesn’t count for church. Carol and I made it to church the next morning, but there were moments Saturday night that were joyful in ways that the church should be joyful.
The concert was meant to be fun and it was. It was like being at the beach without the irritating sun, sand, and water. People want to feel joyful. They’re willing to work at it.
I found one element especially interesting—the beach balls. At any given moment, hundreds of beach balls were flying through the air. Sitting near the front on the field meant we had more beach ball action than people fifty rows up the bleachers. One beach ball caused Carol to spill much of her $5 Dr Pepper.
What I enjoy most about the beach balls is thinking about how they got there. Hundreds of people thought, “I like it when we throw beach balls, so I’ll stop and buy one on the way to the concert.” They do this knowing there is not a chance in a thousand that they will be bringing their beach ball home. Once they launch it it’s not coming back. They are making a contribution to the party.
Here’s my point, and you may be surprised to hear I have one. Church is supposed to be about gathering to make a contribution to the party. In the Old Testament one third of the tithes that were given at the temple went for feast days. Think about that. 33% of their budget went for parties. They believed that those who love God should give thanks and celebrate.
Each one of us should bring joy with us to church, joy to share, joy that will multiply.
Sometimes we try so hard to make everyone think like we do that we miss the fun of it. We plan. We program. We process. We work. We worry. We argue. We disagree. At times, we bring our most disagreeable self to church.
We don’t celebrate enough. We don’t laugh enough. We need to sing and smile and give thanks for God’s gift of joy.
Caleb Younger on His Father’s Preaching
My fourteen-year-old son Caleb was asked recently to speak about his father’s preaching at a Sunday school assembly. Here’s what he said.
Preacher’s kids listen to sermons differently. Normal kids listen with interest or take a much deserved nap. I listen with fear—afraid that I’m about to be mentioned.
February 2001, my father’s first sermon at Broadway
He preached, “I took a job in Indiana in 1986. Graham was born three years after that. We moved to Kansas in 1990. Caleb was born three years after that. We moved to Waco in 1996 and stopped forever our pattern of having a child three years after moving.”
This seems innocuous, but it started a vicious pattern of mentioning me whenever he wants to sound clever.
April 2001
My dad preached, “Thank you to your ministers of housing Nancy and Jim in whose guest house I am staying. On Saturday night when my whole family was here Caleb suggested that we could all move in to the Thurmond’s house.”
I was only seven years old, but I don’t think I seriously suggested that we live in someone else’s house.
December 2003, the Sunday I was baptized and my tenth birthday
“Today my son turns the big one-o. After a decade you’ve seen a lot. You’ve skinned your knees on the sidewalk of life and said goodbye to your invisible friends.”
“Caleb entertains his family with improvisational comedy that comes from somewhere other than our genes. He loves the Agape Meal. His record is nine pitchers of tea. I was unimpressed with this number until the Thursday night I was given tea-pouring duty and fell seven pitchers short of the record.”
“During the summer Caleb helps in the adult clothing room. He particularly likes calling out the name of the next person to be served. He thinks his specialty is pronouncing Hispanic names.”
A few notes. I still have my invisible friend. His name is Jose, and I’d rather not talk about him. The tea record is eleven pitchers. I don’t do improvisational comedy. Like all the great comedians, I prepare.
March 2004, after a spring break trip on which my father was pulled out of line at the airport for a security check
The next Sunday he preached, “The woman behind the counter said ‘Uh, oh’—never a good sign. I’d like to think I was chosen at random, but it may have been my ‘Peace on Earth’ sweatshirt that made me a suspicious character. I was led down a long corridor with my family following behind me. Caleb was asking, ‘What did daddy do wrong?’”
I think he misheard me. What I actually said was, “They finally caught daddy.”
November 2004, my dad preached on my basketball tryouts“
On Saturday morning the air in the H.F. Stevens Middle School gym was thick with the smell of yesterday’s heroes’ sweat socks. The anxiety was palpable as they shot free throws. The line seemed forty feet from the goal, but, and I probably shouldn’t mention this, my son Caleb hit two of three.”
The question is how much was my anxiety increased by the prospect of having my free throw percentage announced at church on Sunday morning.
August 2005, after our trip to Paris my dad talked about sitting next to a French family on the train
He preached, “An eleven-year-old, Charlotte, offers me a potato chip. I say merci—which exhausts my French. She says that she speaks ‘a little English,’ but she’s actually quite good. When Caleb walks by I introduce him to Charlotte.”
It’s bad enough to have your dad introducing you to French girls on a train, but how many people does he have to tell about it?
November 2005
Dad preached, “I find myself spending an increasingly large amount of time waiting for my children. I wait for Caleb’s bus. I wait for Graham’s basketball practice to end. I’m supposed to refrain from yelling “Hey sweetie” when I first see them if their friends are around.”
He never refrained.
February 2007
Dad preached, “On the Sunday after Christmas I was on vacation so we visited another church. You know about mega-churches with praise teams, big screens and Starbucks in the lobby. This was the opposite. The processional began with bells and smells—a hand bell ringer with no timing and a fog machine. Caleb was sitting nearest the aisle. When the cloud got to him, we couldn’t see him, but we heard him coughing.”
I had a cold. Sue me. I had a cold. I could go on and on like my father does, but I’ve finally decided that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s figured out a way to make me listen. He wants me to listen because it might be about me. That’s what good preachers do.