Let’s be honest. Pastors think that the most important part
of the service is their sermon. We tell ourselves it’s not, but we are too
narcissistic to really believe it. We are Protestants and it’s in our blood. Have you ever wondered
why retired preachers continue preaching way longer than they should?
After a year of preaching I have found a mix of a healthy
dose of the fear of speaking on behalf of God and an unhealthy dose of pride. On
the one hand, I am flabbergasted by my responsibility. The sermon is a moment
of incarnation as Jesus Christ takes on flesh once again and walks amidst us in
the congregation. This kind of pressure makes for a lot of restless Saturday
nights—just ask my wife. At the same time, I tend to think that I can control
God; it’s the vestiges of what we call sin. In the eyes of a pastor, a bad
sermon ruins a worship service and a great sermon is the kingdom come. But
really, I am not that important. A
poorly written sermon might reach more people than the finest theological
rhetoric.
God is not restrained and controlled by my words—thank God. And
more often than not, God is usually revealed in the messiness of worship. That’s relieving and humbling when I choose to remember it. When a
seven-year old child looks you in the face and says, “in the name of Jesus
Christ you are forgiven,” a sermon on power seems shallow. That’s Jesus, right? A gentleman lets the congregation
know that his best friend is dying while the rest of the congregation nods in
silence and Jesus fills that moment of silence and weakness with presence. These
moments are more important than my words.
We must expect Jesus to manifest himself in strange ways if
the cross is the supreme act of revelation. Cruciform revelation means that the
‘powerless’ ends up becoming most powerful and the last become first. We think
that Jesus must only be revealed in powerful words, but never forget that Jesus
is also found when you dip a piece of bread into a cup of juice. Who are we to control God?
Every Sunday a
parishioner with a mental disability rings the “Trinity bell” three times and
then holds the brass up to his teeth to feel the vibration. I am gratefully
humbled when I realize that the bell means more to him than my words. That’s where
I find grace every Sunday. For I realize that Jesus is, in fact, here with us
and it’s not because of me.
