Saturday Night Sermons

January 7, 2017

It's Saturday night, and I am calm. Linda can attest to the countless Saturday nights when my stomach was churning, my insides jumping while I was doing my best to not withdraw into my shell. For many people, Saturday nights are a prime time to go out on the town, drinking and dancing, taking in dinner and a movie, having a good time. Not for me. Saturday night meant Sunday morning was just around the corner, and that meant sermon time!

It has been many years since I was up late on a Saturday night finishing up a sermon I didn't have time to complete earlier because I was holding down another job during the week, or was just not organized and disciplined enough to get it done right. Nonetheless, even though the sermon was done on Thursday or Friday, I couldn't get it off my mind, and for a very good reason.

A sermon is more than a lecture or a talk. The word itself comes from the Latin sermo, which means "to talk." But for the preacher, it's not an opportunity for him or her to talk, but for God to talk. If it is just me talking, anyone can take it or leave it. But if it's God talking, we've suddenly entered into some deep waters! The word sermo, or 'talk' also conjures up images of conversation rather than lecture or harangue, which is where too many sermons end up. The word leaves a bad taste in our mouths because it has been misused so often. If we hear, "I don't need a sermon from you!" we know we've crossed a line from conversation to condemnation.

Talking is what friends do when they're together. It is how we share our lives, our joys and sorrows, our fun and foibles. And that is the word we use when God sits down with us and says, "let's talk." And the amazing thing about our conversations with God is that he always gives us the last word. St. John tells us that "in the beginning was the Word." God always initiates our conversations, and always gives us the opportunity to have the last word. Hopefully, that word is another one that comes from the Latin: Credo, "I believe."

And it is all of this that made my Saturday nights so stressful over the years. It is a weighty responsibility to handle the Word of God, to do it with integrity, with intensity, without watering it down with my own words. I always tried to be aware of what my people were experiencing, and always asking the question, "What is God's word at this time, to these people?" If I missed that target, my sermon became just so many words. But if I discerned it rightly, it became a sermon, the Word of God for the people of God.

So tonight, Saturday night, I sit calmly, giving thanks for the great privilege I had for so many years. And I pray for pastor Joe, and for other pastors who bear this enormous weight of glory, that they will handle this Word with reverence, passion, and integrity, for the sake of the people God has placed in their care.

Tears of Sorrow and Laughter

January 6, 2017

Tonight during our dinner group's prayer time, we shared some pretty serious and sobering stuff different ones were experiencing, most of which none of us has direct control over. We prayed together, and soon after, said our goodbyes and headed home. But in those last moments together, I looked around the room, grateful for the love we share, love that sustains us through deep waters. To my dinner group, I want you to know how much I cherish our times together, how much I love and pray for you, that our Heavenly Father will strengthen you and give you the wisdom you need for the paths he has laid before you.

I am also grateful for comic relief. Arriving home, I took a few moments to check my Facebook account, and read this entry from a pastor friend who has young children:

"In thinking that he wouldn't have to wash his hands after using the potty, Nathan just flushed the toilet with his tongue. Needless to say, his germophobic mother is freaking out."

Which reminded me of years ago when our kids were toddlers, my brother's wife told of one of her sons coming into the kitchen and asking her to take the sucker off the stick for him. She put it in her mouth, twisted and turned it ti it came off, then rinsed it and gave it to him. A minute or two later his brother walks into the kitchen with one sleeve soaking wet up to his armpit. "How did you get your sleeve all wet?" she asked. "I was getting Kevin's sucker out of the toilet," was the answer. True story.

One of the responses to my friend's posting was a link to a similar story, which combined with the other two, had me laughing out loud and wiping tears from my eyes. Here is the link:
http://foreverymom.com/family-parenting/kids-disgusting-fancy-soap-asford-evans/

I am grateful tonight for friends whom I love, and with whom I can pray as they face life's difficulties, and for respite from them in the form of laughter over the foibles and fallacies of life itself.

A Two-Way Street

January 5, 2017

I think Linda is worried. I've had a sour stomach for the past few days, along with being tired. It hasn't stopped me from doing what needs to be done; it just made it a bit less pleasant. Today I met and prayed with a fellow pastor who's been experiencing some difficult times at his church, plowed three driveways, and met with a family grieving the loss of a beloved husband/father/grandfather. I can think of a half dozen families going through difficult times, which keeps me motivated to do what I can to help.

This helping business is tricky. Too often, it degenerates into platitudes and handouts, neither of which do much good. People don't usually need good advice; they need Good News. And they need that Good News lived out side by side with them rather than tossed into their experience like one would toss a dog a bone. One of the blessings of living in a community for thirty years is that I've been given the privilege of living alongside people in good times and bad. And it's a two-way street. Jesus said it is more blessed to give than to receive, and we see this played out repeatedly as we've lived with these same neighbors for years. If all we do is give, our neighbors are placed at a disadvantage. They feel beholden to the giver, which if there is no way to pay back a kindness, often turns into guilt, which leads to estrangement. I lent a considerable sum to a friend some years ago, and sadly watched as he went from promising to repay to slowly withdrawing from church life. If it's not a two-way street, it's not healthy.

So I sit by the fire tonight, glad to be resting in its warmth, trusting that tomorrow I'll feel better, and thanking God for the opportunity to live here in this community where the ones most in need at the moment are not objects or projects to be checked off a Christian do-good list, but friends and neighbors who have been, and will be there for me when my turn comes.

The Paralysis of Poverty

January 4, 2017

In his book "When Helping Hurts," authors Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert offer an insight about poverty that doesn't occur to most of us. Citing Nobel Laureate Amartya Sen, they state, "It is [the] lack of freedom to make meaningful choices-to have an ability to affect one's situation-that is the distinguishing feature of poverty." For those of us who live in relative comfort, it is a foreign concept to see oneself as powerless. In Christian parlance, we loudly proclaim that Christ sets us free, usually meaning that he gives us not only freedom from sin, but also from the systems that are the manifestation of sin.

If I get sick, I pray, but I also can consult a physician, even multiple physicians, can go to a pharmacy for medicines, and if necessary, I could even change my living arrangements by moving to a climate more conducive to my health. In contrast, a woman of the lowest class in India or a refugee in Rwanda may have no option other than prayer. If my neighborhood were to be awash in violence such as plagues certain boroughs of South Chicago, I have the resources to defend myself or to move somewhere else, but where does the elderly man in the projects go when the gangs are shooting up the neighborhood? When one has no options, hopelessness is usually not far away.

I'm just starting this book, and already I'm grateful for the insights I am learning from it. If we never step outside of our own personal experiences, we will never grow beyond our own self-imposed boundaries, which is one of the reasons I advocate short-term mission trips. Visiting other places as tourists only imposes our own experiences on the places we visit. Getting off the tourist trail and striving to serve and listen is how we grow. Years ago, the pastor of a mission-minded church stated that he believed that there was no such thing as genuine conversion unless it was cross-cultural. I am inclined to believe him. Colossians tells us that in Christ, we are translated from the kingdom of this world into the kingdom of God. One cannot get much more cross-cultural than that!

Tonight, I am grateful for the opportunities I have to continue growing as a Christian and a human being. And I am humbled to have been given options that have been denied to so many others.

Four Prayers

January 3, 2017

Four different friends, four different tragedies playing out before my eyes, and nothing I can do to change any of it. That's the way the day played out, and I'm pretty well played out myself. You would think after nearly forty years of preaching, I would be used to it, but it doesn't work that way. Life doesn't always have happy endings in spite of our prayers, yet we keep praying.

We pray because Jesus told us to pray, "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as in heaven." We pray because God's will is not being done on earth as it is in heaven. We pray because we believe in a God who loves us unconditionally and who works for our good. I wish I knew why some prayers are answered the way we want while others seemingly bounce off the ceiling, but I don't. So I pray with them, and we are brought together in the presence of Christ who knows their future, but better yet, knows and loves them.

In the midst of it all, I am continually amazed by the blessings that continually flood my life, and gratefully humbled at being invited into their lives. I don't know that I'll ever get used to it, but pray constantly that in some way I'll be able to be an avenue of Christ's love and mercy in their time of need.

Help

January 2, 2017

There was a time when I would have charged ahead and done it myself. Maybe it's that I'm getting wiser in my old age, or maybe it's that time last summer when I climbed the roof of our Cassadaga house to replace some shingles that had blown off the peak. That was as close to the edge of disaster as I ever hope to be. That roof was at least a 1-12-1 pitch, which for the uninitiated, is pretty steep. And high. It is a big house, and that peak is three stories above ground, which means it's a long way from peak to patio, and if one took the journey a bit faster than planned, it would hurt. A lot.

I had climbed up with half a bundle of shingles and a hammer. The pitch was so steep that the shingles kept sliding down the roof. I had to pitch them over the peak to make them stay till I could place them properly and nail them down. I had my legs on one side of the peak and torso on the other to keep from sliding off the edge, all the while trying to maneuver myself and the shingles into place. It was tricky business, and I was very relieved when I finally was able to put my feet on the ground again. Thinking back, it was a pretty stupid thing to do.

Today, my plan was to get the extension ladder to fix the fascia that had blown off the front of our house. Again, for those unfamiliar with the term (you know who you are), the fascia is the trim under the roof, the part perpendicular to the ground. The part that is parallel to the ground that connects the fascia to the house is called the soffit. Our soffit is OK; our fascia is hanging.

My extension ladder isn't big enough to reach to the peak where it needs to be. I went over to our son's to borrow his, and had to dig it out of the snow. It's big enough, but when I went to load it onto my truck, I realized that there is no way I was going to be able on my own to stand that ladder upright and extend it to the peak. Last year, I might have tried. Today, it looked like a strained back just waiting to happen. So I did the unthinkable. I waited. And texted Nate to ask if he would be able to help sometime this week.

Guys don't like to ask for help. Yesterday when Abi was locked out of her car, Linda called Johnny next door to ask if he could come over to get her car opened up. I didn't want to ask on New Year's Day, but it was no problem for her. Johnny came over and had her in her car in about five minutes. But I still don't like to ask for help. Doing so goes against the grain. And yet, there are times when we need help. Which is why God put us in families, and in the family of faith. We weren't meant to do life alone. Life is a team effort, and we cannot do it alone any more than we can play baseball or football alone. We can throw the ball around, but it takes a team to actually play the game.

So I'll wait till Nate is available. And maybe I'll even learn to ask for help for other things. And be ready to offer help to others (mostly guys) who like me, may be reluctant to ask. And thankful that I've developed a slight bit of wisdom.

Real Joy

January 1, 2017

As I drove to my destination this morning, I was asking myself why I let myself get talked into these things. 'This thing' being preaching. At a state prison. During our prison ministry weekend last November, one of my teammates threw me under the bus by telling the chaplain that I was retired. The chaplain approached me later that day to ask if I would be willing to preach on Christmas and New Years Day. I thought about it, and replied that I wouldn't be able to do Christmas, but I would be happy to do New Years. Now I was regretting my decision.

Prison ministry doesn't lie within my comfort zone. Actually, it isn't anywhere near my comfort zone. It's in a different solar system than my comfort zone. But I gave my word, and I went.

I'm so glad I did.

The worship of these men was heartfelt, enthusiastic, and moving. The gentleman who led worship could have been a preacher himself, leading the singing then launching into a mini-sermon, among other things, asking if any of them liked to dance, then telling them that they used to dance with the devil, but now it was time to dance with the Lord. All the while, he is moving and gyrating, demonstrating in body language what he was saying verbally. He would go from a whisper to shouts of praise, leading in song, prayer, and spoken word.

I felt that anything I had to say would be anticlimactic, but it was enthusiastically received with shouts of "Amen!" and "Hallelujah!" My sermon was about getting one's joy back, from Luke 1; the contrasting stories of Zechariah and Mary. They both received good news, but Zechariah refused to believe it, and missed the joy of proclaiming to the world that he was going to be a father. Mary received the news, believed it, and rejoiced in it, even though it meant hardship for her.

I told of how Zechariah kept praying for a child long after he stopped believing that God would hear his prayer, and compared it to ourselves, asking how long they've been praying yet not believing God was listening. You might imagine they would be thinking of how they prayed to be released and God wasn't answering, but that wasn't their focus. The worship leader whose joy was overflowing mentioned in passing that he had already been in for twenty five years, enough to make most men bitter. But he was overflowing with joy. Another said that he hadn't been on the streets since the middle nineties.

I wish you could have been there worshipping with these men, seeing the joy on their faces, hearing the harmonies of their praise. They are paying the price for whatever crimes they committed, but in the process, have found true freedom in Jesus. As the worship leader said, "There are people on the outside who are more in jail than we are." Prison is not a nice place to be. I cannot imagine being incarcerated, knowing that I would not see the outside for even a year or two, much less twenty five or more. And yet, I could not imagine a better way to start out the new year than with what I experienced this morning, and I am deeply thankful for the privilege of learning from these men what real joy looks like.