Morning Thanks--the preacher

Pardon my critique. I'm a life-long English teacher, who probably graded more papers than any human being should. For most of my life I scribbled so many comments in available margins that someone like me can't leave the red pen behind, even though I've long ago shut the classroom door. 

The truth is, I enjoyed reading students' work. Didn't enjoy grading, never did; but trying to help kids write better by suggesting different phrases and sentence combos--that was a good life. Honestly. I couldn't have stayed in the classroom as long as I did if I didn't enjoy it. 

But worship is worship, not teaching. Sermons are some variant of "God speak," not just "What I did on my summer vacation." A preacher opens up what Creator of heaven and earth is saying, after all. I don't take a red pen to church; but that doesn't mean I won't scratch in some remarks at the bottom of the page. It's what I do. 

Sunday's fare was fascinating, but then "pulpit supply," generally offers up some unique draft choices. The man had physicality, which never hurts. (It'd be nice if that wasn't true, but it is.) He was tall and broad-shouldered. Articulate too. What's more, he held himself to the text of his sermon, read it from the page, which is fine. Some people--our President included--do better when don't improvise. 

He's not, by trade, a pastor, so he began by apologizing to any English teachers in the congregation, then proceeded to read a sermon that made clear no apologies were necessary. It was, saith this English teacher, well-written. Really was. 

"We all worship something," he said towards the end. Nothing particularly earth-shaking. But then he asked us what God worshiped and wandered into a kind of weird thicket. "God worships himself," he said, which feels more like a word game than anything else. But no matter--a sermon that's not fresh isn't going to grow.

What I'm saying is, the guy was smart, articulate, and a presence. He had a lot going for him, and, to be honest, was far more competent than I guessed he might be when he first walked up on the pulpit. 

I wouldn't call him "boring," either, not really. But eventually, or so it seemed, a cloud moved in around him. When people are distracted, you can see it all around, feel it even. Not that he'd lost us altogether--I don't think that ever happened. I think what happened is we lost him.

There was nothing "rote" about his manner. That he believed what he said went without question. His expression was quite vivid. He was no monotone. But we lost him somehow, and an aging English prof couldn't help but try to understand why. 

Any piece of writing--story, essay, sermon--needs conflict or struggle, some problem at its core; and that problem has to be seen and felt and not just observed. We kind of lost that preacher yesterday--or at least I did--even though what he said was stated well and not without emotion or emphasis. We lost him, I think, because we didn't see what that sermon cost him. The goods he delivered seemed to have been too easy for him to offer us. That sermon bore no signs of his struggle, no sign of him. 

We lost sight of his soul. He laid out our struggles neatly, but we never felt his. 

A sermon isn't a confessional; that's not the point. But I think we need to see ink on the sermons' margins and maybe, more importantly, on preachers' fingers, need to know that the truth God himself wants us to know doesn't come without cost--to us or to them. 

Now that's a lot of scribbling for an old teacher. This morning's thanks is still for the preacher. Just like old English teachers, he's still learning.