My longtime friend and partner in gospel work Marshall Davis (the Reverend Doctor Marshall Davis, to be precise and proper) wrote a very fine piece last week. He has a much larger audience than I do even though he writes from the most obscure site in these United States–Center Sandwich, New Hampshire. I don’t know how many on his subscription list admired his column like I did, but I did because it struck home to me, a lifelong preacher coming to the end of his preaching days.
Dr. Davis wrote a column entitled “The Joy of Not Preaching” and opened with: “I have not preached a sermon in a church for almost three years…. I did not know at the time it would be my last.” You can read the entire piece here, but he made two points that struck me with force. First, you never know when an episode will be your last, an episode of preaching, or singing, or swimming, or kissing, or just seeing somebody who has been your friend for 50 years. You never know.
Second: “A deeper reason has to do with the content of my messages. I no longer color within the lines of traditional Christianity. I have a different message for a different audience that requires a different medium. What I have to say cannot be preached from a pulpit.”
Amen to that, as both he and I have evolved in our understanding of truth, and life, and gospel. Both he and I have encountered pushback and criticism and even (in my case) boycott from the pew-sitting faithful. There is small consolation that, as Dr. Davis points out, Jesus encountered resistance from the religious faithful of his day, which is why we have a Sermon on the Mount rather than a Sermon in the Synagogue. I closed out my church preaching career speaking to 25 or fewer people on Sundays before moving to my garage and launching a last-ditch ministry … to people who have quit going to church altogether: the de-churched.
Maybe my sanctuary sermon last Sunday was the last time for me, who knows?
I preached in replacement of a friend and colleague who was recuperating from heart surgery. He was actually taking care of his grandchildren, but that is always good therapy for whatever ails a man. It was a sermon on the Lord’s Prayer, in which I called those who want to be a Christian to live the prayer, believe the prayer, and pray the prayer. People said nice things, and I believed them.
But after that the day went downhill. After lunch, I parked myself on a couch and turned on the YouTube recording of the sermon. Within minutes I was asleep. Yes, my preaching put even me to sleep. That is pretty sad and also might be a gentle sign that it is time to put this whole preaching thing to bed.
But things got worse. I made cinnamon rolls, as I have done before; but this time something happened. They were awful. Yes, they looked good, real good (see above). But they tasted awful. I keep nibbling at them during this week in the hopes that, like whiskey, they will refine with age. But I don’t know anything about whiskey even though I was reared and educated in various spaces along the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky. I had to stop and look up the spelling of “bourbon”–that’s how misdirected I am.
Then came Sunday night football, and the Steelers looked almost ugly in losing to the Chargers. And because my first out-of-seminary preaching post was in that grand city of three rivers, I took it badly and marked up the day as a fitting end to something. Maybe preaching, who knows.
But, come to think of it, that sermon was one of the few things that went right last Sunday, so maybe I better tap down my wayward theology and keep telling people to give attention to the Lord’s Prayer. I can’t go wrong doing that, can I?
My longtime friend and partner in gospel work Marshall Davis (the Reverend Doctor Marshall Davis, to be precise and proper) wrote a very fine piece last week. He has a much larger audience than I do even though he writes from the most obscure site in these United States–Center Sandwich, New Hampshire. I don’t know how many on his subscription list admired his column like I did, but I did because it struck home to me, a lifelong preacher coming to the end of his preaching days.
Dr. Davis wrote a column entitled “The Joy of Not Preaching” and opened with: “I have not preached a sermon in a church for almost three years…. I did not know at the time it would be my last.” You can read the entire piece here, but he made two points that struck me with force. First, you never know when an episode will be your last, an episode of preaching, or singing, or swimming, or kissing, or just seeing somebody who has been your friend for 50 years. You never know.
Second: “A deeper reason has to do with the content of my messages. I no longer color within the lines of traditional Christianity. I have a different message for a different audience that requires a different medium. What I have to say cannot be preached from a pulpit.”
Amen to that, as both he and I have evolved in our understanding of truth, and life, and gospel. Both he and I have encountered pushback and criticism and even (in my case) boycott from the pew-sitting faithful. There is small consolation that, as Dr. Davis points out, Jesus encountered resistance from the religious faithful of his day, which is why we have a Sermon on the Mount rather than a Sermon in the Synagogue. I closed out my church preaching career speaking to 25 or fewer people on Sundays before moving to my garage and launching a last-ditch ministry … to people who have quit going to church altogether: the de-churched.
Maybe my sanctuary sermon last Sunday was the last time for me, who knows?
I preached in replacement of a friend and colleague who was recuperating from heart surgery. He was actually taking care of his grandchildren, but that is always good therapy for whatever ails a man. It was a sermon on the Lord’s Prayer, in which I called those who want to be a Christian to live the prayer, believe the prayer, and pray the prayer. People said nice things, and I believed them.
But after that the day went downhill. After lunch, I parked myself on a couch and turned on the YouTube recording of the sermon. Within minutes I was asleep. Yes, my preaching put even me to sleep. That is pretty sad and also might be a gentle sign that it is time to put this whole preaching thing to bed.
But things got worse. I made cinnamon rolls, as I have done before; but this time something happened. They were awful. Yes, they looked good, real good (see above). But they tasted awful. I keep nibbling at them during this week in the hopes that, like whiskey, they will refine with age. But I don’t know anything about whiskey even though I was reared and educated in various spaces along the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky. I had to stop and look up the spelling of “bourbon”–that’s how misdirected I am.
Then came Sunday night football, and the Steelers looked almost ugly in losing to the Chargers. And because my first out-of-seminary preaching post was in that grand city of three rivers, I took it badly and marked up the day as a fitting end to something. Maybe preaching, who knows.
But, come to think of it, that sermon was one of the few things that went right last Sunday, so maybe I better tap down my wayward theology and keep telling people to give attention to the Lord’s Prayer. I can’t go wrong doing that, can I?
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