Pastors

The Playful Preacher

Richard Hansen

“Rich, you’ve got to try harder!”

An earnest student, I had conscientiously visited everyone on the hospital floors assigned to me. I had written detailed verbatim reports. Now, my clinical pastoral education supervisor was frustrating me.

“What more should I do?” I replied.

“Just try harder” was his enigmatic reply. So I tried harder. But every week his exhortation was the same. One day, in anger and frustration, I blurted out, “I can’t try harder! I give up!”

“Good!” he replied, softening immediately.

The lesson I learned fourteen years ago still lingers: trying harder doesn’t work. It’s like a pair of Chinese handcuffs: the harder you pull, the tighter they get. Only by pushing both fingers together (the opposite of trying harder) will the handcuffs release.

The same is true in my preaching. When I work too hard to make an impact, when I assume too much responsibility for changing others, I can inhibit the very changes in my listeners I desperately seek. My well-intentioned efforts actually make matters worse.

In his book “Generation to Generation,” Edwin Fried man speaks to the paradox of trying harder: “If we assume that any chronic condition that we are persistently trying to change will, perversely, be supported not to change by our serious efforts to bring about change, then it is logical to consider the possibility that one way out of this paradox is to be paradoxical.”

The paradoxical way: to become less serious and more playful.

But that’s not easy for me, one whose spiritual ancestors are John Calvin and John Knox. They were passionate for the gospel, but playful? Still, having wrestled with the paradoxes of trying too hard, I decided to lighten up. Here’s what I’ve discovered.

COLORING INSIDE THE LINES

Playfulness is sometimes misunderstood.

One of my early attempts came while preaching about sexuality. To introduce the sermon, I asked both the men and women to read responsively some of the more graphic passages from the Song of Songs. Sure that I had made my point, I playfully asked when they were finished, “Did any of you know this X-rated material was in the Bible?”

I was met with stone-faced, hostile silence.

The following Monday, a line of unhappy campers were parked in the reception area for their turn to file into my office: “We don’t use that kind of language in church!” Even a woman of my own baby-boomer generation, whose support I had come to expect, said later, “If I’d had to say ‘breasts’ one more time, I would have died!”

One person’s playfulness is another’s irreverence. So it is wise to know your congregation’s limits.

Another try with my current church brought better results. A guest preacher had described being so excited when his football team scored a touchdown that he jumped off the couch in front of the divided, pumped his arm up and down, and shouted, “Yes, yes, yes. YES!” So I decided to use his antics the following Sunday after a soloist had just sung a deeply moving piece.

“There’s just one thing I want to say after James’s song,” I said in my best preacher’s voice. I paused. Then, pumping my arm, I said, “Yes, yes, yes. YES!” Everyone who had attended the previous Sunday roared with laughter.

My former congregation would have seen this as irreverent. But not this church. They considered it playful–and appropriate.

Playfulness is more than spontaneity. Witty, extroverted preachers are not necessarily playful. Nor is it a worship style. “Free” worship styles can also have cemented boundaries–just try something that isn’t spontaneous!

Neither is playfulness reverse psychology. It’s not stating the opposite of what I desire. (“Guess what? Our church does not need your money this year.”) Such obvious gimmicks are both ineffective and false.

Playfulness does not misrepresent or deny the truth; it creates a new dynamic–within me.

“The major effect of playfulness and paradox is on the perpetrator,” says Friedman. “It takes him or her out of the feedback position. It detriangles and changes the balance of the emotional interdependency. It is the change in the structure of the triangle that gets the other person functioning or thinking differently.”

In preaching, I am the “perpetrator.” Becoming more playful affects me more than my audience. I lighten up. Playfulness frees me from trying so hard to make an impact. Hence, the emotional triangle involving me, the congregation, and the message changes. People are free to listen without activating their defenses. The possibility of impact actually increases.

That’s the paradox.

AROUND THE MAGINOT LINE

I’ve found it helpful to identify who in the congregation I feel most responsible to convince. Ironically, these are often the very people I will never touch. Why? They have built a Maginot Line.

The Maginot Line was the impenetrable system of barriers and bunkers built by France to protect itself from Imperial Germany after World War I. In World War II, however, Hitler didn’t attack France through the Maginot Line. His Panzer divisions made a sweeping detour around it through Belgium. France fell swiftly.

When preachers try too hard to make an impact, klaxons sound and bunker walls go up. My people often know what I’m going to say even before I say it (they know the issues I’m most serious about). When facing a Maginot Line, frontal attacks are valiant but ineffective.

Rather than slug it out in a frontal attack, wisdom suggests a detour. What is the last thing they expect me to say on this issue? What would make them laugh? How can I good-naturedly (not spitefully) be playful? Why am I trying so hard with them anyway?

In a sermon on God’s destruction of Sodom, my self-diagnosis revealed that I especially wanted to reach the folks who cheer for judgment rather than, as Abraham did, pray for mercy. My detour began with a playful scene of righteous folks building grandstands on the hills above that evil city to enjoy the Lord’s impending judgment:

“With football-stadium fervor, they waved banners and chanted, ‘Go God–crush Sodom!’ But Abraham was not cheerleading. Sodom included his own nephew, Lot. For Abraham, Sodom could never be just ‘them,’ those evil people not like us. There is some of ‘us’ in Sodom, for Abraham and for all of us. Realizing this prompts us to pray for God’s mercy rather than cheer for God’s judgment.”

(One elderly farmer who obviously didn’t take the detour said to me afterward, “While you were preaching, all I could think about is wishing God would push the whole city of San Francisco into the ocean!”)

TO STING LIKE A BEE

Trying-harder preaching often goes hand in hand with an over-emphasis on content. As a young preacher, I was certain that if I marshaled enough exegetical evidence (from the original languages, of course), I could bludgeon my listeners into belief. My sermons were like boxing matches: I didn’t always score a knockout, but I expected to win on points.

Since then, I have joined the Mohammed Ali school of homiletics. I must learn to dance like a butterfly if I want to sting like a bee. The footwork of the sermon (how you say it) is just as, if not more, essential than the content (what you say).

Of course, you remember the cartoon of a boxer who dances all over the ring, obviously impressed with his footwork, only to be knocked out by a single punch. Footwork is a means to an end–impact. Playful sermons are not intended to impress the listener (or the preacher) with one’s creativity. They are used to communicate truth.

Once I wanted to preach about the Lord’s Supper as being a prelude to the Messianic banquet. I wanted to communicate the joy felt by the early church as they celebrated this event. However, only by coming at the sermon in a lighter fashion could I detour around my church’s years of solemn tradition. The Sacrament had an aura more of wake than banquet.

I hit on the idea of having eyewitnesses report on their joyful experience. Rather than using real people, I imagined what caterers present at the meals might have observed.

The sermon opened with two caterers pausing for breath while serving the heavenly banquet. Soon they begin to reminisce about their previous catering jobs for the Lord. They remember the joyful Old Testament feasts in the Temple, Jesus’ upper room meal with his disciples, the agape meals of the early church, and twentieth-century expressions that somehow (in the caterers’ minds) lost the intended joy. Finally, the caterers gesture at the people enjoying the heavenly banquet and ask each other, “When they were back on earth, do you ever wonder if they really understood what they were doing?”

This sermon, “Observations of God’s Caterers,” was my fancy footwork around the entrenched expectations of my listeners. Because it was screened through playful, imaginary characters, most who listened did not feel defensive or threatened.

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE

Some of us need permission to be playful. Like my personality, my preaching tends to be serious: to travel well-worn intellectual pathways, expressing the doctrines of the faith in centuries-old imagery. Fortunately, I also have some friends who release me to be playful with the great themes of my faith.

One such friend is Frederick Buechner. Another is C.S. Lewis. While studying, I keep an anthology of one or the other close at hand. I often dip into it for fifteen or twenty minutes as I begin thinking about my sermon. Their playful ideas, even on topics completely unrelated to my theme, push me to play with ideas as well. In their company, I see fresh approaches to the old, old story.

One such approach is playing the Devil’s Advocate. Serious preachers like me often have so many points to make, we skip over the questions that perplex our listeners. I have to keep coming back to the question: How might my message not ring true with life on the street?

While preparing for a sermon on Jesus’ challenge to enter the kingdom of God like a child, a woman in one of our seeker Bible studies came to mind. Deathly afraid of being manipulated, she would be repelled by Jesus’ challenge. To her, children are vulnerable.

That caused me to imagine other objections: Is reclaiming childhood innocence a sentimental illusion for an adult? If Jesus is talking about naive, simple-minded faith, what adult wants that?

Soon I not only had lots of questions to ask the text on behalf of my people, but the questions pushed me beyond the pat answers I might otherwise have offered.

PLAYING WITH WORDS

“The difference between the right word and the almost right word,” wrote Mark Twain, “is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”

That’s a helpful reminder. Words are the raw materials of sermons. The right use of words can inject a sermon with needed doses of playfulness. Here are some questions I ask myself to add freshness to my words:

Can it be understood in different ways? While preparing an Easter message on the Emmaus road experience, I noticed that when the doubtful disciples were confronted with the risen Christ, they “disbelieved for joy” (Luke 24:41, RSV).

It dawned on me that “I can’t believe it” can be understood in two ways: either as an expression of doubt or as an ecstatic expression of joy (like when the 1980 U.S. hockey team won an Olympic gold medal against overwhelming odds: “I can’t believe it!”).

My sermon traced the journey each of us take with the disciples. It began with the “I can’t believe it” of doubt and despair while trudging down the Emmaus road and ended with the “I can’t believe it” of joy, hugging and dancing in the presence of the risen Christ.

Does it mean the same thing to all people? Fresh off the farm, I once heard several teenagers in inner-city Minneapolis exclaim that a sleek passing car was “bad.” I was their youth worker.

“What’s bad about it?” I asked naively. “It looks neat to me!”

That embarrassing moment started me thinking of events in life we wrongly interpret as bad in the literal sense but which a sovereign God sees as being ultimately good.

Does it have a little known or surprising meaning? Dr. Ian Pitt-Watson, professor of preaching at Fuller Theological Seminary, once preached a sermon in which he playfully countered the common assumption that Jesus’ beatitude “blessed are the meek” implies wimpish weakness.

He observes of the word meek: “In the French Bible the word is translated debonnaire–debonair!–with overtones of courtesy, gallantry, chivalry (remember Hollywood’s ‘golden oldies’ and Cary Grant in his heyday?). Debonair: gentle, sensitive, courteous, modest, unpretentious–yet strong and brave and fun and happy.”

Debonair Cary Grant released meekness from the negative images from which I had imprisoned it.

Will different age groups hear it differently? Recently I introduced a sermon by narrating a comic strip showing Barney, the preschooler’s purple dinosaur, being swallowed up by a fearsome Tyrannosaurus Rex from Jurassic Park. I began, however, by asking the congregation, “When you hear the name Barney, who flashes into your mind?”

I offered some possibilities that occurred to me as a child of early divided (Barney Fife, Barney Rubble). Shaking hands at the door afterwards, the older generation bombarded me: “I thought of Barney Oldfield,” “I thought of Barney Google.”

Introducing the sermon by simply playing with one word arrested the attention of several generations.

Not every sermon can or should be playful. But when we find ourselves trying harder to little effect, we may be caught in the handcuffs of trying harder. Freedom comes as we can say with Bill Murray, an alumnus of Saturday Night Live, “Hey, I’m serious!”

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Richard Hansen is pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Visalia, California.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

To Illustrate

IDENTITY

In the town of Stepanavan, Armenia, I met a woman whom everyone called “Palasan’s wife.” She had her own name, of course, but townspeople called her by her husband’s name to show her great honor.

When the devastating 1988 earthquake struck Armenia, it was nearly noon, and Palasan was at work. He rushed to the elementary school where his son was a student. The facade was already crumbling, but he entered the building and began pushing children outside to safety. After Palasan had managed to help twenty-eight children out, an aftershock hit that completely collapsed the school building and killed him.

So the people of Stepanavan honor his memory and his young widow by calling her Palasan’s wife.

Sometimes a person’s greatest honor is not who they are but to whom they are related. The highest honor of any believer is to be called a disciple of Jesus Christ, who laid down his life for all people.

-L. Nishan Bakalian Beirut, Lebanon

STRENGTH

On my way to a conference in Colorado, I was driving uphill along a major interstate when I overtook a freight train going the same direction at a slower speed. The train was being pushed uphill by two locomotives that sounded as if they were straining at full power. I’m a flatlander from the Midwest. Is this how trains move in mountainous terrain? I wondered.

A few minutes later, I gradually came alongside the front of the nearly mile-long string of cars. There I found five more locomotives pulling the train. Seven engines in all! Where I come from, I rarely see more than three.

That train was a lesson for me. I had been under serious strain for some time. I was feeling tired and was wondering whether I could persevere under the pressure.

How like God, I thought. When I am pushing a load uphill with all the strength I have and feel like my energy level is depleted, he wants me to know that he is in the lead pulling with power far greater than mine.

-Richard Mylander St. Cloud, Minnesota

SACRIFICE

Judy Anderson, whose husband is the West Africa Director of the World Relief Corporation, grew up as the daughter of missionaries in Zaire. As a little girl, she went to a day-long rally celebrating the one-hundredth anniversary of Christian missionaries coming to that part of Zaire. After a full day of long speeches and music, an old man came before the crowd and insisted that he be allowed to speak. He said he soon would die, and that he alone had some important information. If he did not speak, that information would go with him to his grave.

He explained that when Christian missionaries came a hundred years before, his people thought the missionaries were strange and their message unusual. The tribal leaders decided to test the missionaries by slowly poisoning them to death. Over a period of months and years, missionary children died one by one. Then the old man said, “It was as we watched how they died that we decided we wanted to live as Christians.”

That story had gone untold for one hundred years. Those who died painful, strange deaths never knew why they were dying or what the impact of their lives and deaths would be. They stayed because they trusted Jesus Christ.

-Leith Anderson Eden Prairie, Minnesota

HEART

In September 1993, with the Major League Baseball season nearing its end, the first-place Philadelphia Phillies visited the second-place Montreal Expos.

In the first game of the series, the home team Expos came to bat one inning trailing 7-4. Their first two batters reached base. The manager sent a pinch hitter to the plate, rookie Curtis Pride, who had never gotten a hit in the major leagues. Pride took his warm up swings, walked to the plate, and on the first pitch laced a double, scoring two runners.

The stadium thundered as 45,757 fans screamed their approval. The Expos third base coach called time, walked toward Pride, and told him to take off his batting helmet.

What’s wrong with my helmet? wondered the rookie. Then, realizing what his coach meant, Pride tipped his cap to the appreciative fans.

After the game, someone asked Pride if he could hear the cheering. This person wasn’t giving the rookie a hard time. Curtis Pride is 95 percent deaf.

“Here,” Pride said, pointing to his heart. “I could hear it here.”

Sometimes we hear things most strongly in our heart. Curtis Pride heard the fans’ approval in his heart. It’s in our hearts that God wants us to know his approval of our faith in Jesus Christ. “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children” (Rom. 8:16).

-Harry J. Heintz Troy, New York

CONFESSION

Early in 1993 British police accused two ten-year-old boys of the brutal murder of two-year-old James Bulger. The two boys pleaded innocence.

During the two-week trial the young defendants responded to police questioning with noticeable inconsistency. The climax of the trial came when the parents of one of the boys assured him that they would always love him. Confronted with irrefutable evidence linking him with the crime and the assurance of his parents’ love, the boy confessed in a soft voice, “I killed James.”

The miracle of God’s love is that he knows how evil we are, yet he loves us. We can confess our worst sins to him, confident that his love will not diminish.

-Greg Asimakoupoulos Concord, California

HOLY SPIRIT

In the book “Healing the Masculine Soul”, Gordon Dalbey says that when Jesus refers to the Holy Spirit as the Helper, he uses a Greek word, paraclete, that was an ancient warrior’s term.

“Greek soldiers went into battle in pairs,” says Dalbey, “so when the enemy attacked, they could draw together back-to-back, covering each other’s blind side. One’s battle partner was the paraclete.”

Our Lord does not send us to fight the good fight alone. The Holy Spirit is our battle partner who covers our blind side and fights for our well being.

-Tom Tripp Colusa, California

EVANGELISM

While serving with Operation Mobilization in India in 1967, tuberculosis forced me into a sanitarium for several months. I did not yet speak the language, but I tried to give Christian literature written in their language to the patients, doctors, and nurses. Everyone politely refused.

I sensed many weren’t happy about a rich American (to them all Americans are rich) being in a free, government-run sanitarium. (They didn’t know I was just as broke as they were!)

The first few nights I woke around 2:00 A.M. coughing. One morning during my coughing spell, I noticed one of the older and sicker patients across the aisle trying to get out of bed. He would sit up on the edge of the bed and try to stand, but in weakness would fall back into bed. I didn’t understand what he was trying to do. He finally fell back into bed exhausted. I heard him crying softly.

The next morning I realized what the man had been trying to do. He had been trying to get up and walk to the bathroom! The stench in our ward was awful.

Other patients yelled insults at the man. Angry nurses moved him roughly from side to side as they cleaned up the mess. One nurse even slapped him. The old man curled into a ball and wept.

The next night I again woke up coughing. I noticed the man across the aisle sit up and again try to stand. Like the night before, he fell back whimpering. I don’t like bad smells, and I didn’t want to become involved, but I got out of bed and went over to him. When I touched his shoulder, his eyes opened wide with fear. I smiled, put my arms under him, and picked him up.

He was very light due to old age and advanced TB. I carried him to the washroom, which was just a filthy, small room with a hole in the floor. I stood behind him with my arms under his armpits as he took care of himself. After he finished, I picked him up, and carried him back to his bed. As I laid him down, he kissed me on the cheek, smiled, and said something I couldn’t understand.

The next morning another patient woke me and handed me a steaming cup of tea. He motioned with his hands that he wanted a tract.

As the sun rose, other patients approached and indicated they also wanted the booklets I had tried to distribute before. Throughout the day nurses, interns, and doctors asked for literature.

Weeks later an evangelist who spoke the language visited me, and as he talked to others he discovered that several had put their trust in Christ as Savior as a result of reading the literature.

What did it take to reach these people with the gospel? It wasn’t health, the ability to speak their language, or a persuasive talk. I simply took a trip to the bathroom.

-Doug Nichols Bothell, Washington

REMAINING IN CHRIST

On a recent ski trip, I saw to my surprise a blind person skiing. The blind skier, wearing a bright pink vest, stayed directly behind an instructor, listening for directions on how and when to turn.

Over the next several days I saw many blind skiers, invariably following the person who gave them the information they needed to make it safely down the mountain.

Remaining, or abiding, in Jesus means following him in the same way.

-Steve Winger Lubbock, Texas

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Pastors

Great Worship with Modest Means

Bill Giovannetti

I didn't choose to become a church pianist. I was in high school, attending Grace Gospel Church in Chicago, when our regular pianist moved away. Since I had endured piano lessons, the mantle fell on me. My skills hovered somewhere between John Thompson Levels II and III. I was hardly ready for prime time.

For the big day, I learned "To God Be the Glory." The leader led, the people sang, and I played. I finished the song about two measures ahead of the congregation (what I lacked in technique I made up in speed). But it didn't matter. They loved me enough to overlook my mistakes, and they loved God enough to worship him anyway.

Each week I practiced one new song, and each Sunday our congregation endured not only my narrow repertoire but also my nervous accelerando. We had heart, and we had spirit, but no one would have accused us of excellence.

I blush a little as I think about it. Still, when I am tempted to envy big-league churches with their drama, orchestra, and professional singers, my mind slips back to those days on the piano. Was our worship any less spiritual or powerful for its modesty? I don't think so.

Since becoming a pastor, though, I have often forgotten that truth. Years after my not-ready-for-prime-time debut, I found myself striving for perfection in worship, and giving my small church a lot of headaches in the process.

What I had to re-learn was that is possible to worship God well with modest means. Here are the values that helped us do that.

AUTHENTICITY OVER EXCELLENCE

Excellence is overrated.

Before planting Windy City Community Church, I had been pumped up by speakers inspiring church leaders to excellence. So I committed myself to avoiding sloppiness. Everything we did would be done with excellence.

In pursuit of musical excellence, though, I became oppressive. I pressured our music directors to recruit better singers, to wave a magic baton to make them sing better than their ability. No matter how much pressure I exerted, however, our musical teams could not satisfy me. We were a small church with a limited pool of talent, and I was raising the bar to a height only a large church could clear.

Then I stumbled upon an uncomfortable truth: What I had nobly justified as excellence turned out to be something else–my ugly need to impress. What my church needed to worship God was not Broadway musicals but authenticity–people worshiping God in spirit and in truth. Authenticity, relating honestly to the Lord, was more important than excellence, doing something well.

Authenticity, however, isn't an excuse for laziness. Excellence is a legitimate value within the church. It's tough for the congregation to worship when they're squirming because the worship leader or special musician is embarrassingly flat.

But when we pursue excellence at the cost of authenticity, the church suffers. I've learned to be satisfied if worship leaders possess decent musical skills. And if some of them are exceptionally talented, that's a bonus. But in recruiting worship leaders, we look first for authenticity–and just enough skill not to embarrass the congregation.

This sends an important message to the congregation: a person doesn't have to be spectacular to serve the Lord. If we say that God uses ordinary people, why only promote extraordinary people?

Shifting from excellence to authenticity has changed the songs we sing. Just as a football coach must send in plays the team can run, so the music director must select songs the church can sing. We won't be singing Handel's Messiah anytime soon; we enjoy a treasury of hymns and praise songs that are simple, singable, and powerful.

We occasionally tinker with the music to make a song easier to sing. For example, "Great is the Lord," by Michael W. Smith, contains a big finish with the words "Great is the Lord" repeated five times. On the last repeat, the music instructs us to sing something like "Great is the (pause four beats) Lord!" Every time we tried that, people belted out "Lord" during the pause and were embarrassed. What makes a dramatic finale for a performance makes for a confusing flop in congregational singing. So we eliminated that pause.

Putting the stress on authenticity over excellence has also affected my preaching.

For the first five years of my pastoral ministry, I preached from manuscripts. In the writing phase, I labored over every word. On Sundays before church, I made last minute corrections on the computer and printed out thirteen pages of notes. I brought them into the pulpit and basically read my manuscript to the church. Though I occasionally ad-libbed, I normally stuck close to the notes.

One Sunday disaster struck. Halfway through printing my sermon, a fuse blew and damaged the disk. I could neither access nor print my sermon notes. A week's study was electronically imprisoned. I had to leave for church, so I scribbled my outline on a single sheet of legal paper, dashed out the door, and preached (on the subject of the Holy Spirit). It went surprisingly well.

Why? In part because I was forced to shift from a focus on performance to authenticity. Instead of giving words, I was giving myself. That day authenticity became more important to me than excellence. Through this little calamity, God taught me to quit fussing over my sermons till they were like overcooked eggs.

W. H. Griffith-Thomas advised young preachers:

Think yourself empty

Read yourself full

Write yourself clear

Pray yourself keen

Then enter the pulpit

And let yourself go!

LEADERSHIP OVER MUSICIANSHIP

Pastor Jones needed a music pastor. He contacted Melody Smith, an old friend from seminary days whose musical gifts were beyond question. An excellent pianist, she could sight-read, transpose, arrange, play in a band, and accompany both soloists and the congregation with equal skill. She displayed an obvious love for the Lord; her character was above reproach; she related to others in an authentic way. It seemed she was the ideal choice.

After considerable discussion, Jones invited Melody to join his staff as music pastor. Patting himself on the back, Jones thought, That's one less ministry to worry about.

When Melody arrived, she quickly won the hearts of the people. Her solos led them into the presence of God. She radiated godliness.

A few months passed in sweet harmony, but then discordant notes began to be heard from the music ministry. A persistent discontent surfaced among the two dozen music volunteers. They bickered over song selection, solo schedules, even the tempo of the music. Musicians arrived late to rehearsals. Though church attendance was growing, the number of musicians stayed the same.

Morale plummeted into the bass clef. Melody grew increasingly upset and finally asked Pastor Jones to intervene. After all, God had called her to make music for his glory, not to referee fights.

Jones had already noticed other problems in the music ministry. Little things. Week after week during morning worship, the slides that projected song lyrics were out of order. On a regular basis, the soloist began with a dead microphone. Stage lights burned out without replacement. Melody wanted to play music, not worry about details.

But most disturbing to Pastor Jones was that while the quality of music had improved, the congregational singing had deteriorated. They had moved from being worshipers to being observers. The music ministry had become a performance.

For months Pastor Jones spent considerable time troubleshooting the music ministry, wondering what was happening, trying to get to the root of the problem. One day the root problem became clear: at the head of the music department was a musician, not a leader.

It takes a leader to inspire a congregation to enter wholeheartedly into worship. It takes a leader to create a system to care for the details. It takes a leader to resolve conflict and maintain morale. It takes a leader to motivate others to volunteer for service.

Melody's love for God and her musical talent could not compensate for her lack of leadership. The most important strength of a music leader is leadership, especially when the person is working with volunteers.

Your church may not have the resources to attract top-notch musicians, but the best person to lead the music department may be sitting under your nose: a man or woman who loves the Lord, who has decent pitch and tempo, and who can lead people.

GIFTS OVER IMITATION

Early in the life of Windy City Community Church, we experimented with "seeker sensitive" worship services. We tried drama, Christianity 101 messages, and shorter worship periods.

Attendance dropped. One Sunday, after sitting through a particularly painful skit (I forced the drama group into it before they were ready) and preaching a weak, uninspired message, I knew something had to change. What we had been trying was foreign to us.

I began asking myself questions: Who are we as a church? Who am I as a pastor? Just what is our mission anyway?

Then I did what many pastors do when all else fails: I went to a seminar. I figured that might help me discover my personal mission and the mission of my church. With a dictation recorder in hand, I interviewed dozens of pastors from all over the country, asking one question: "What is the mission of your church?" (I didn't have the answer, so I hoped to borrow someone else's!)

It turned out we were all in the same boat. Some pastors spoke vaguely about the three E's: evangelism, edification, exaltation. Some talked about their church constitution and their mission statement that filled ten pages. Others confessed they didn't know what their mission was. No one answered with a concise, clear sentence. We were like sermons without propositions.

Almost in despair, I approached the seminar speaker. Like me he pastored the church he had planted. I stuck out my tape recorder: "What is the mission of your church?"

Without hesitation he replied, "To mobilize an army to fulfill the Great Commission by developing nonreligious people into fully-formed followers of Jesus." He explained that fully formed followers of Jesus "love God with their whole hearts, love the body of Christ, and love the world for whom Christ died."

"How can I decide," I pressed, "if my church should be seeker sensitive?"

Without batting an eye, he asked, "What's your passion?"

That question of four years ago still echoes in my mind. God has wired some leaders one way and me another way. My God-given passion is to expound the Word to believers. I'm not a Christianity 101 kind of guy. I get excited about Christianity 201. That's my contribution to the Great Commission. I don't have to do it all.

All of a sudden, like a dog that gets out of the yard, I felt release. Free at last! I could be myself.

I could also let my church be itself. We started to organize our church around our gifts. We planned our worship around the people we had instead of around the people we wished we had. Whatever resources God had given us were enough to accomplish his will in our place at this time.

God expects us to give him only "such as we have."

SMALL CHURCH, GREAT GOD

We're surrounded by media offering practical help in the Christian life. Publications, seminars, and counselors offer ways to better marriages, relationships, finances, parenting, and self-esteem.

What the church offers that these resources cannot is meaningful corporate worship.

What makes for meaningful corporate worship?

While the list of important qualities is long–biblically true, practical, relevant, sensitive to the culture, visual, focused, and so on–only one rises head and shoulders above the rest: transcendence.

Transcendence means we catch a glimpse of God and his throne and recognize we are in his presence. Transcendence is what makes a worship service meaningful. Our two most significant tools, singing and preaching, must lead people to God.

Transcendence means doing for our people what Elisha did for his servant. When the servant saw the Syrian army surrounding them, he panicked. At that moment Elisha could have talked about confidence and self-esteem. He could have probed the source of the servant's fears. Instead Elisha prayed that God would lift the veil and give his servant a glimpse of heaven's victory.

Elisha gives us a model for meaningful worship. We may not have drama, exceptional music, or even well-crafted sermons, but the quality of transcendence week after week will provide our people with a bedrock foundation for life.

Transcendence, at first glance, seems easier to convey in a large church with high, vaulted ceilings, a powerful sound system, and an aesthetically inspiring sanctuary. How do you get people meeting in a country church or grade-school gym to lift their eyes to the greatness of God?

It's not a matter of money. Transcendence comes from the content of preaching and singing. It's seeing who God is, and leading people to see themselves in light of who God is.

Someone has said that if you want to convey to someone how scary a certain road is, you don't tell them that it is scary; you show them what it is about that road that terrifies. Likewise we convey transcendence when we help people see the greatness of the invisible God.

That's done by praying and singing about the glory of Christ in heaven, which a church with modest means can do. What's important is not what people see around them but what we help them see with their imagination.

Preaching recently on the despair many people feel, I said, "If we could take such a person into heaven, where they could stand before the risen Christ, with myriads of angels on their right, millions of saints on their left, gold under their feet, and then help them see what God is doing, their emotions would change."

When Martin Lloyd-Jones, the great Welsh preacher, came to Aberavon, Wales, he came to a bleak, despairing coastal town. The working-class community had suffered economic depression, high unemployment, and low education. Yet Lloyd-Jones was determined to preach God's transcendence. He brought a great vision of God. Not surprisingly, the church flourished under his ministry.

When the church of my youth let me play the piano, I learned a lesson that will last a lifetime. I learned we can worship God meaningfully even if our means are modest.

********************

Bill Giovannetti is pastor of Windy City Community Church In Chicago, Illinois.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

The Last Taboo

John Ortberg

For today’s leaders, it’s the sin none dare confess.

The sloth is a tropical mammal that lives much of its life hanging upside-down from tree branches. When obliged to descend to the ground, sloths crawl along a level surface at the rate of ten feet a minute (meaning their top sprint is one-ninth of a mile per hour).

Sloths are generally sluggish and inactive; they build no nests and seek no shelter even for their young. They sleep 15 to 22 hours a day, rising in the late afternoon to eat whatever leaves may be close at hand. Being so passive, they are virtually untrainable, although occasionally you'll find one working as a denominational official or on a roadside construction crew.

From time to time, a sloth hangs around my home and office, a discovery that has surprised me. I'm familiar with lots of my faults, but I never suspected this one. Up to now, I've been careful to whom I admit it.

I'm careful because sloth is our society's unforgivable sin. It is almost never mentioned. I can't remember the last time I heard anyone confess it.

Think of job interviews. When someone is asked, "What's your biggest weakness?" 90 percent of the answers are variations of "I work too hard," and "I tend to be too perfectionistic." When have you heard someone say, "I'm just too darn lazy"?

But I've discovered that I have to quit playing this game. Psychiatrist and best-selling author Scott Peck says that ultimately there is one great impediment to spiritual growth "and that is laziness. If we overcome laziness, all the other impediments will be overcome. If we do not overcome laziness, none of the others will be hurdled. … Spiritual growth is effortful, as we have been reminded again and again."

Here are some ways I've tried to make that effort and so deal with sloth.

It’s easy to be a sloth

One reason people don't admit sloth is they don't recognize it. Sloth is deceptive.

In the past I would have considered anything but sloth to be one of my problems because I seem to be so busy. Sloth doesn't necessarily mean we're doing nothing. Sloth is the failure to do what needs to be done when it needs to be done—like the kamikaze pilot who flew seventeen missions.

I came gradually to the realization that this was a temptation. I would have a task I didn't look forward to—say, setting up an appointment to confront someone about a broken relationship. Suddenly, a myriad of other tasks leapt up and begged to be done. I would clean my desk, call a staff meeting, write two articles for a newsletter we didn't even publish.

I did a lot. But over time I discovered that all too often I didn't do what needed to be done when it needed to be done. Just as most alcoholics don't live on skid row, most sloth-aholics don't spend their days eating bon-bons and watching "The Young and the Restless."

That's why Scott Peck notes that even workaholics can be lazy. They may work furiously but only because they are trying to avoid doing something truly needful.

Frederick Buechner, in his book Wishful Thinking, put it this way:

"A slothful man … may be a very busy man. He is a man who goes through the motions, who flies on automatic pilot. Like a man with a bad head cold, he has mostly lost his sense of taste and smell. He knows something's wrong with him, but not wrong enough to do anything about. Other people come and go, but through glazed eyes he hardly notices them. He is letting things run their course. He is getting through his life."

Unfortunately, too often that's been a description of me.

Signs of secret sloth

When I have confessed my struggles in this area with a few carefully chosen confidants, their response—without exception—has been: "What? You, too? I thought I was the only one." Apparently we all struggle with our own secret forms of sloth. (I know only one person who I'm certain never struggles with laziness. He's four years old. We're hoping it hits him soon.)

Max DePree, author of Leadership Jazz, wrote that one of the most difficult tasks of leadership is intercepting entropy, which he defined loosely as "everything has a tendency to deteriorate."

He listed signals of deterioration:

—relationships become superficial

—there is little time for celebration and ritual

—leaders try to control rather than liberate people

—day-to-day pressures push aside our need to envision and plan goals

—there is a noticeable loss of grace, style, and civility in our conversations and lifestyles.

Typically the entropy I most need to intercept is my own. Sloth is like gravity; you have to deal with it every day. So I have learned to watch for six tell-tale signs that help me diagnose its presence:

1. My desk top and office get messier.

2. I run late.

3. I stop doing things my wife appreciates, say keeping the grass under three feet high. I've agreed to do it but find myself not doing it.

The problem is not energy. For example, after several marathon days-up before dawn, running non-stop until late–I may come home to a free evening but only have enough energy to drag myself down the hall and collapse in the chair. I'd like to help around the houses but I've given everything for the ministry.

Then the phone rings. I summon my last reserves to pick up the receiver. It's a good friend. several guys have gotten hold of a gym, and a basketball game starts in forty-five minutes.

What happens next is a miracle. Energy, strength, and vitality swarm back into my body like the swallows returning to Capistrano.

4. I find telephone messages I haven't returned since the Carter administration.

5. I experience an odd combination of hurry and wastefulness. I rush in the morning, telling my wife I have no time for breakfast. no time to see the kids off to school; too much to do. Later in the morning" I read the sports section or make an unnecessary phone call.

6. I have a sense of dis-ease at the end of the day: I just don't feel right about what I've done or been that day. When God created the world, he spent time at the end of each day reflecting on what he had done and finding a sense of rightness to it. "It was good," he said. Restedness flows out of a sense that what needed to be done is what got done. God never hit the weekend and said, "Thank me, it's Friday."

The spiritual consquences

For a long time, I didn't understand the spiritual significance of sloth. I thought it was simply a matter of developing better work habits, becoming more motivated, of working harder, or perhaps just working smarter.

A billion-dollar cottage industry–the motivational market–has emerged precisely because we no longer understand the true significance of sloth and hence don't know how to respond to it. We go from motivational speaker to seminar to book to tape, as if we were basketballs with slow leaks trying to find someone or something to pump us up, to counteract our tendency to deflate. We pay money for people to quote platitudes and cite bad social science research and tell exciting stories that psyche us up to run a little faster, work a little harder, stay a little later.

Not that motivation is bad. I'd rather be motivated than de-motivated. But isn't there something deeper?

The Bible doesn't really call us to be more motivated or more productive workers. The relevant image in Scripture is fruitfulness. Not busyness. Not even productivity. Fruitfulness.

A godly person, the Bible says, is like a tree planted by rivers of living waters. Trees are not frenzied or frantic. They do not attend seminars on "releasing the redwood within them." They do not chant slogans: "What the sap can conceive, the branch can achieve." They do not consume vast amounts of caffeine to keep up their adrenaline.

Trees are unhurried. They are full of activity, though most of it is unseen. Mostly, a tree knows where its nourishment comes from. It is deeply rooted. It does not wander from its source. It is not easily distracted. A tree has learned to abide.

If you abide in me, Jesus says, you will bear much fruit (John 15:5).

Abiding in Christ is the great antithesis to sloth. Sloth demands no effort but gives no rest. Abiding is effort filled but is the place of nourishment and renewal. "Take my yoke upon you . . ." Jesus says (a surprising offer to make to tired people), "and you will find rest for your souls" (Matt. 11:29).

One year in the middle of the Easter season, I found myself lacking the energy to minister effectively or even pray well. I talked about this with my spiritual director, and she suggested that I get up for an hour at night to reflect on the crucifixion and pray. (She had two techniques for waking me up at 1 :00 a.m. One was to set my alarm clock. The other, designed to let my spouse sleep undisturbed, was to drink three glasses of water before going to bed.)

I had never done anything like that before, and frankly the thought of losing sleep was not appealing. But I was amazed by the uniqueness of praying at night. There was a stillness that is never available during the day. Somehow the reality of another world was much more accessible at an hour when my usual world was so quiet and remote. In the darkness and the eerie silence, I felt as if I was actually "keeping watch" with Jesus. And in keeping watch with him, I found rest for my soul.

The irony of sloth, of course, is that it isn't even refreshing. You never talk to someone who says, "I vegged out in front of the TV last night from dinner to bedtime, from The Evening News to The Late Show, and it was such a life-enhancing experience. Today I feel so full of vigor and energy; it's good to be alive!"

Our society teaches us to oscillate between frenzy and collapse. We commute and cocoon. We have lost the rhythm that develops between abiding and fruitfulness.

Abiding consists of all those activities of body and mind that put me in the place where I can receive life from God, including such things as prayer, sleep, solitude, eating, hobbies, and long conversations. Of course, none of these activities in and of themselves guarantee that I will be abiding. They become abiding when I learn how to meet God in them.

Giving sloth the second degree

To keep sloth at bay, I have learned to ask myself four questions periodically (assuming I've made room in my schedule to do this).

1. Has sloth shown up in my life with my family?

For me this is sloth's first likely hiding place. Sometimes I operate under the delusion that I can get away with channeling my best time and energy to ministry and giving my family what is left over. But I get little warning signs:

A married couple sits in my office. She grew up a PK; she pours out her anguish over how her father spoke so movingly about family life and attending to feelings and right priorities, while life at home was another story. She is still trying to pick up the pieces. I struggle to keep listening. Inside I am asking myself, Is that me? I think I'm on the right track with my kids, but how do I know? Will one of my little girls be in somebody's office in fifteen years? What will she say about her daddy?

Though the pastoral schedule constantly hammers away at my goal, I want at least half of my best energy to go for my family.

2. Am I spending too much time on urgent but unimportant tasks?

Stephen Covey, author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, offers a helpful distinction. He notes that work can be placed in one of four quadrants, depending on its degree of urgency and its degree of importance.

Quadrant I is work that is both urgent and important, for instance, sermon preparation: important because it's one of my critical contributions, urgent because Sunday's coming!

Quadrant II is work that is important but not urgent, for instance, developing leaders: the church will be crippled if this doesn't happen, but this task has no natural deadlines as does preaching.

Quadrant III involves tasks that feel urgent but lack importance; answering the telephone usually falls in this category.

Quadrant IV tasks are neither urgent nor important: reading the cartoons in LEADERSHIP, unless you find one you can use in the sermon.

One of the keys to effectiveness is finding which tasks lie in Quadrant II, because unless I am intentional in my approach to them, they're likely to go undone. The real danger, Covey points out, is that the human machine is only wired to be able to cope with a certain amount of urgency. If I spend too much time in Quadrant I, I'm likely to spend most of the rest of my time in Quadrant-IV activities as a way of recovering. I become vulnerable to sloth. Once I've identified my primary Quadrant-II tasks, I can realign my schedule.

This has helped me eliminate some Quadrant-IV activities. I'm currently on a year-long "TV fast." It started accidentally; I decided during a time of repentance-focused praying to give up TV for a week. I found myself spending more time with my children at night, having leisurely talks with my wife, going to bed earlier and waking up more refreshed. I said to myself, "Why is this penance? This should be celebration; watching TV should be an act of penance!"

3. Am I serving in areas where my giftedness and sense of fulfillment lie?

I want and need to be giving a good portion of my time to tasks that use my gifts-preaching and leadership, for example. These tend to energize me, and they tend to be tasks that are in fact needful. On the other hand, counseling drains me in a hurry. Too much of that, and I find I don't have the energy or will to give myself in areas where I could really contribute to the kingdom.

You can only push this question so far, though. "That's not my area of giftedness" can easily become a cop-out for refusing a Spirit-prompted call to servanthood. I'm not sure any of the disciples would have said taking a basin and washing everybody else's dirty feet fell in their area of giftedness.

And it provides a dangerously spiritual-sounding reason for not working in the nursery: "Sorry. I took the 'Wagner-Houts Modified Spiritual Gift Inventory,' and 'nursery' is not in my area of giftedness." (I keep hoping one of the more radical paraphrases of the New Testament will translate Ephesians 4:11, "And God has appointed some to be apostles, some to be prophets, some to be evangelists, and some to be nursery workers. … " It would become the pew Bible of choice in every church in America.)

Nonetheless, if I find myself working consistency outside of my giftedness, I need to rearrange my activities.

4. Am I living too much in the future?

Sometimes I get overwhelmed because I look too far ahead. In my first year of preaching regularly, I was badly afflicted with PMS (pre-message syndrome). I was cranky, irritable, and suffered mood swings that became more extreme as Sunday approached. This was compounded by a crowded schedule—in addition to virtually full-time ministry, I had a 25-hour-a-week internship in clinical psychology, and I had to write a dissertation. For an entire year, except for those weeks when I did not preach, I didn't take a day off.

I found something odd. The more hours I put in, the less productive I became. I would spend hours staring at a blank sheet of paper, thinking of all the sermons I would have to write that year, wondering where all the ideas would come from.

I finally realized that my busy calendar was a bad mistake. I was paralyzed, unable to do the few things I needed to do today because of the many things I needed to do tomorrow.

Psychologist David Burns talks about how irrational this is. Imagine, he writes, that every time you sat down to eat, you thought about all the food you would have to eat during your lifetime Imagine a huge room with tons of meat, vegetables, Twinkies, Fritos, and thousands of gallons of ice cream-and before you die you've got to consume every bite.

"Just the sight of it all makes me sick," we would say. "This one little meal is a drop in the bucket. There's no point in eating it."

The secret is, of course, we eat only one meal at a time. It's amazing how much we can consume in a lifetime if we eat it one meal at a time.

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own" (Matt. 6;34).

Scott Peck says, "Those who are in the relatively more advanced stages of spiritual growth are the very ones most aware of their own laziness. It is the least lazy who know themselves to be sluggish. … The fight against entropy never ends."

I'm hardly in the advanced stages of spiritual growth, but becoming aware of my sloth has advanced my spiritual growth. I've seen sloth for what it is, even in its subtle disguises. And I've learned, as Peck notes, that life is a constant choice between comfort and growth.

As for me and my ministry, I've chosen growth. And I'll start on that tomorrow, right after I get through writing that newsletter article.

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

Majesty in the Mess

Doug Scott Saint Martin's (Episcopal) Church Radnor, Pennsylvania

“Pray for my Poppy and Mummy, please, ’cause they’re dead, you know.”

I looked at the woman in the last row, short of stature, shortened further by age. Her lips, unhindered by teeth, quivered slightly, and her eyes betrayed an almost frantic fear that I might not grant her request. Poppy and Mummy, huh? No pastor should ever be made to say words like Poppy and Mummy in public prayer.

I smiled patiently. “What were their first names, dear?”

Her eyes grew wide, presumably in surprise that I should ask so foolish a question. Crossing her legs and folding her arms, she straightened her bowed back in the institutional, stackable poly-chair (14 decorator colors available), and said, “Why, Poppy and Mummy, of course!”

Of course. “Any other prayer requests?” Those seated before me frowned slightly, scanning their memories for friends troubled by illness, children threatened by divorce, death anniversaries.

No others. Just Poppy and Mummy.

DIGNITY AT RISK

This is my other congregation. This is the Society of St. Johnland, a nursing home. I hold my monthly Eucharist in the dining room. Like my larger congregation, it is comprised of some faces that are constant in their presence, others that come and go; faces that are attentive, faces blank. Unlike my other congregation, all the faces here are wrinkled.

My St. Johnland congregation consists almost entirely of women brought here from some hospital, only occasionally from their homes or the homes of their children. Some are clear-minded, others disoriented. Most are in wheelchairs. Some twitch, some drool. Some rave, some mumble continuously.

Some know the responses by heart, others just listen. Some are of my denomination, most aren’t. It doesn’t really matter, to me or to them. I’m a Christian minister, and they are Christian folk, and when you’re 92 and can’t sit up straight in your wheelchair and expect to die in the not-too-distant future, that’s good enough.

While I’m not slumping in a wheelchair, I am suffering from another infirmity. Truth be told, I haven’t enjoyed this part of my job. I do it faithfully, but it is a duty not a pleasure.

Yes, I realize the importance of this ministry. I have two grandmothers and a great aunt in nursing homes, all well into their nineties. And I know some young minister probably sees each of them only as another slouching woman in a wheelchair. I’d like to tell him she’s not just another old lady. She’s the one who always had blueberry muffins for me when I visited. She’s the one who taught me to love my Bible, not The Bible, but my Bible. She’s the one who told me wonderful stories about how my mom and dad behaved when they were five, nine, twelve, sixteen.

So I try not to leave too quickly. I try to linger, touch every hand, look deep into every eye, speak a few words, listen some. I really wish I enjoyed it more. Because I know how important it is.

But I retch when they leave more drool in the chalice than the wine they sipped from it. And they scream at each other in the middle of the canon:

“What did you say?”‘

“I’m praying!”

“What?”

‘”I’m praying!”

‘”You’re what?”

“Will you shut up! I said I’m praying!”

And I stifle the gag reflex when I pass by to share the heavenly meal, and they are sitting in their own feces. And now I’m supposed to pray for Poppy and Mummy yet somehow maintain the dignity and majesty of the service. I wish I could say I loved this work, but, God forgive me, I don’t.

A DIFFERENT SORT OF MAJESTY

I turn back to the dining table that serves as my altar with its eclectic assortment of linens, some of them of ecclesiastical origin, others old damask napkins pressed into use. The silver service is a mismatched collection of oddments, among them an old, hinged pill box for a ciborium.

I stare at the pill box and think of the dozens of times I watched my mother’s mother reach into a similar box containing tiny saccharine tablets which, when dropped in her coffee, sent a little stream of bubbles to the surface, and we, separated by 60 years, would watch together their effervescent dance.

I remember the many simple meals at my father’s parents, table when the presence of carrot sticks, celery stalks, and black olives on the table testified to the solemnity of the feast.

I remember my father’s aunt who solemnly presented me with her most prized possession once I graduated from seminary and set up my own apartment-a faded and stained tablecloth embroidered in ancient cross stitch of frayed threads. It had covered her table for twenty years, maybe thirty.

And suddenly, they are here with me, these three venerable ancients who focused so much of their attention on me, who lavished so much love on me. I see them asking some too young Reverend to pray for their Poppy and Mummy now that they are walking the border of the Twilight Zone. And maybe for their grandson, too. He’s a minister, you know.

I decide to forget about majesty. We’ll pray for Poppy and Mummy. Moving through the Prayer for the Whole State of Christ’s Church, I start to think how it’s going to sound, so that when it comes, the words are shaped by my grin-one so wide that all my teeth show and my eyes wrinkle.

Here I am–the proud inheritor of 400 years of dignity, clothed in ancient garb-offering words of power: “And we also bless thy holy Name for all thy servants departed this life in thy faith and fear, especially thy servants Poppy and Mummy, beseeching thee to grant them continual growth in thy love and service. … “

I face my little congregation at the end of the prayer, and she’s sitting in the back row beaming. Her entire appearance has changed, and she radiates a sense of peace and accomplishment.

THE TRAP

Now I extend the invitation to confession, and as I read, I see this scene as if from outside of myself and am horrified at my haughty and pharisaic response to her simple request. I am suddenly aware that I have fallen into The Trap. That is, conducting the business of religion without being at one with the need of my people. My concern for majesty almost obscured my practice of mercy. My agenda had almost excluded hers, and through hers, Christ’s.

And now, kneeling for confession, I remember that most fundamental precept of ministry–that I Impede the kingdom if I try to shape it. That I am the one to be shaped, molded by the Christ whose kingdom I serve.

Christ died for Poppy and Mummy, for their eternal salvation, and for the hope of this woman. It is only by the grace of God, working through this fragile saint who spoke despite her fear, that I was permitted this precious glimpse of the kingdom.

I leave St. Johnland, but I’m looking forward to going back.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

Postcards from God

Bob Moeller

It was 10:00 a.m. the day before Thanksgiving. In just a few hours the doors to our inner-city church would open, and we would host our urban neighbors, many of whom were Native Americans, to a free Thanksgiving dinner.

I was making last-minute preparations when I heard a loud knock at the front door. Another interruption, I thought as I trudged toward the door. When I opened the door, I was greeted by two delivery men from Sears.

“Will you sign for this?” one of the men asked as he shoved a clipboard my way.

“Sure, what is it?”

“A freezer,” he answered.

“We didn’t order a freezer.”

“Someone did,” he said. With that, he and his burly partner pushed past me and wheeled a full-length deep freeze up the steep steps and into our church.

As I studied the invoice, I discovered a sister church had purchased the appliance for us. That’s strange, I thought. They never told us it was coming.

My mind returned to the Thanksgiving dinner. Within a few hours, the first flakes of snow started coming down. In Minnesota in late November, that can mean anything from a dusting to three-foot snow drifts. On this particular day, it meant the worst. By 4:00 p.m., the flakes had turned into a major-league blizzard. The timing couldn’t have been worse. By that late hour, all the food for our dinner had been prepared–a dozen turkeys, nearly a hundred pounds of mashed potatoes, and scores of piping-hot pies.

But we had no one to eat any of it. All our food and effort was about to go to waste.

That’s when we remembered the gift we had received only hours earlier. We wrapped the food and carried it upstairs to our new storage freezer. One week later we held the postponed dinner and served a hot Thanksgiving meal to a church packed with grateful neighbors and needy friends.

Looking back, I realize we received more than an appliance from a department store that day. We received a postcard from God.

What’s a postcard from God? It’s one of those providential, serendipitous events that appear in our lives and ministry–a reminder that God has not forgotten us. For me, it’s like receiving a short note that reads, “Dear Bob, I was thinking of you today. Just thought I’d let you know. Love, Your heavenly Father.”

The ways in which he sends these timely postcards are as unpredictable as they are amazing. The net effect seems always the same: to encourage and strengthen us, often when we need it the most.

I’ve noticed several characteristics in the postcards I’ve received from God. Perhaps these observations may help you recognize your own E-mail (encouragement mail) when it arrives.

A VARIETY OF COURIERS

While in college preparing for ministry, I worked as a part-time staff member at our church. One morning late in the semester, having run out of money, I slumped down in the college coffee shop and muttered, “Well, God, I guess I don’t get breakfast this morning. I thought you had promised to provide for my needs, but today I must be on my own.”

I watched other students gulp down steaming pancakes, slice up sizzling bacon, and enjoy plump omelets. Meanwhile I was gorging on self-pity.

Just then I looked up and saw a layman from our church standing in the doorway to our coffee shop.

“Hi ya, Bob,” he waved.

“Jim, what are you doing here?” I asked.

“I sell light bulbs now. Thought I’d make a sale or two here. I ended up discounting the price to include my commission. But hey, it’s God’s money isn’t it?”

He slapped me on the back and said, “Hey, can I buy you breakfast?”

I am sincere when I say I had never seen him on campus before that day (our church was more than ten miles away) nor did I ever see him there again. As I gulped down my hot, golden waffle, I also had to swallow the disbelieving, unthankful attitude I had cooked up only minutes before. God had used Jim, an ex-convict turned light-bulb salesman, to remind me God does not forget about the needs of his people.

NEVER LATE

The years have taught me that God’s timing is perfect. When I’ve needed help and motivation to continue on, he is always on time. His postcards are never a day late or an hour behind schedule.

Once our congregation took a significant step of faith to hire an additional staff member. Some in the church rejected the idea from the beginning. The critics predicted financial catastrophe if we went ahead with the plan.

The crisis came during one pivotal board meeting. The board reports showed the critics appeared to have been right. Giving was well below needed levels to fund the position. Though we had prayed carefully about the decision and though the new staff member had known the risks involved, it seemed we had made a big mistake.

I had my concession speech prepared. Then, near the end of the meeting a board member produced a letter he had received from an attorney that week. It announced that one of our members who had recently died had bequeathed half of his estate to the church. We would soon be receiving a check for more than was needed to cover the additional salary for the entire year.

I watched the color drain from the face of one of the most vocal critics. We had come down to the eleventh hour, but God sent us a postcard reminding us he always knows what time it is.

IN HIS OWN WAY

For a time I doubted my call to the ministry. During that season of uncertainty, I was invited to preach in a black church. That morning I delivered a message I had used several times before, but this congregation responded with much more enthusiasm. They seemed to urge me on. I felt a sense of joy trickling back into my soul and began to feel uplifted.

Then, during the middle of the sermon, an usher appeared, walking down the center aisle with a tall glass on a tray. She came all the way to the front and handed me a glass of cold orange juice. Not knowing exactly the proper etiquette for this church, I put my sermon on hold, drank down the juice, and thanked her.

I then went on with my message. Again I felt love and encouragement from the congregation urging me on. When I finished speaking, something happened which I was totally unprepared for–the congregation rose and gave me a standing ovation. I felt neither pride nor arrogance that day–actually it was a humbling experience. Though I felt unworthy, I was thankful for such a display of affirmation.

I realize the danger of interpreting events and circumstances as messages from God. Our own ego needs and distorted perception can twist situations to fit our own agenda. But that day it seemed to me that God was encouraging me to continue on in the work I felt called to. He had signed that postcard in his own distinct signature, using a loving congregation as his pen.

ALWAYS TO THE RIGHT ADDRESS

Unlike letters or packages that arrive at the wrong address or even the wrong city, I believe God sends his postcards precisely where they need to be delivered.

I was driving to our denominational headquarters one late winter day following a sleet storm. The road was glazed with a fine quarter-inch layer of ice. But since the interstate was virtually devoid of traffic, I pressed on, driving cautiously through the countryside. I came over a slight hill and to my horror discovered a car parked crosswise, straddling two lanes.

I pumped my brakes and managed to stop my car only inches from the vehicle. Inside it an elderly woman gripped the steering wheel, staring straight head and making no attempt to move.

Suddenly, in my rear view mirror, an 18-wheeler appeared, going full bore. When he saw the scene in front of him he pulled the cord in his cab, and his air horns bellowed like angry bulls.

No time for braking. With his speed and momentum he would surely jackknife on the ice, sending his truck into both cars. He loomed closer in my mirror, and I closed my eyes to prepare for the impact.

It never came.

Instead, a deafening noise and a blinding spray of snow passed me at 50 miles per hour just to my left. The entire rig disappeared into a furious snow squall in the median area. When the truck came to a stop, it was buried up to its wheels in snow.

As I got out of my car the trucker emerged from his cab. We were both shaking. Dressed in a leather vest and cowboy hat, the driver stood on the shoulder of the road and shook my hand.

“The Lord must have been looking out for both of us today,” he said.

“He certainly was,” I stammered.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m a pastor,” I replied.

“I’m a Baptist minister’s son,” the trucker grinned. We turned toward the elderly woman’s car to see if she was unharmed. Before we could reach her, she pulled away and disappeared over the next hill. We were both so glad to be alive we didn’t even care.

God sent an unusual postcard that day–a near crash exchanged for a flurry of blowing snow. Out in the middle of nowhere, God knew the precise location to send a clear message–that he had a pastor and a pastor’s son in view and that he had reasons for both of them to go on living.

POSTSCRIPTS

Piles of unwanted junk mail are delivered daily, much of it to pastors, it would seem. As catalogs, sales brochures, newspapers, and a host of other materials accumulate on my desk, my goal is to dispose of the piles as quickly as possible. In the same way, our lives and schedules can become cluttered with committee meetings, weekly deadlines, and urgent calls to make. Our goal can become simply to get through the day.

In the midst of sorting through such clutter, it’s easy to overlook the simple notes our heavenly Father sends to remind us of his love. When I take the time to sort through “coincidences” of my life, I discover simple but much-needed messages reminding me, “I love you. I haven’t forgotten you.”

Signed, Your God.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

Rethinking the Sunday Night Service

Len Kageler Long Hill Chapel Chatham, New Jersey

Toying with my coleslaw, I tuned in to the conversation at the other end of the table. (District Prayer Conference is a wonderful place to get inspiration and encouragement, as well as to get a feel for what lay people think about churches and pastors.)

A rotund and thickly bespectacled woman was clearly speaking to more than just her friends across the table. “I guess–for a new church–it’s a good one, but … ” Her voice trailed off, and her little audience leaned forward to get the real scoop. “They don’t have an evening service.”

Her listeners shook their heads.

“And you know what else?” She leaned forward, this time with even more graveness than before. “Pastor Marks doesn’t even want one!”

Eyes rolled heavenward, mouths opened wide, they stared at each other in disbelief.

Not in the mood for dessert, I quickly made an exit. They were talking about a daughter church ours had begun, and Pastor Marks was a good friend. It was true. Wilsonville Alliance Church did not have an evening service.

I was jealous. Very jealous.

FOUR STRIKES AGAINST IT

Fourteen years have passed since that overheard conversation, and since then my feelings about Sunday evening service have swung from negative to mildly positive, but it is not hard to recall why I viewed Sunday evenings with a combination of dread and distaste.

Fatigue.

Weekends are anything but relaxing for a pastor. As a youth pastor, I was usually out late on Saturday nights. Sunday morning the alarm went off at 6:30. I arrived at church around 8 A.M. for the 8:30 service. By Sunday night my adrenaline wanted to be down not up. I wanted to veg, not put on my suit and tie and pretend I was happy for yet another chance to be with the saints.

The pressure of the empty sanctuary.

As pastors we are not supposed to be overly concerned about noses and nickels, right? We aren’t trapped by the success syndrome, deriving our self-worth from the number of people who walk in when the janitor unlocks the sanctuary door, right? But I haven’t met a pastor yet who doesn’t pay attention–a great deal of attention–to those twin gauges of ministry success.

I felt if we were preaching the Word, if the people were spiritual, if the music was excellent, people would be eager to return to their pews Sunday night. But week after week a thousand eager people showed up Sunday morning, and seven hours later less than a hundred returned.

Our attendance on Sunday night was either bad or really bad. On really bad nights I whispered to myself, “It’s an ego-strength night.” It takes tremendous willpower to cheerfully lead a service in a virtually empty sanctuary.

Feeding the already fed.

Most of the people there on Sunday evening had already had personal devotions, a Sunday school lesson, and an hour of excellent worship and preaching. If they’re like me, they already felt well-nourished. More feeding on Sunday night was the last thing we needed.

The arm twisting that often goes with Sunday night.

In the last twenty years, I’ve been on staff at three churches with evening services. I’ve heard church leaders exhort the pastoral staff to “beef up” and “revitalize” the evening service. I’ve seen a good senior pastor branded as liberal for altering the Sunday night schedule to include quarterly home meetings. I’ve seen church leaders declare their opposition to a “dog and pony show” on Sunday night–films, outside musical groups, and other “entertainment”–and seen those same church leaders usually absent themselves on Sunday night except when we did have something special.

My negative attitude about Sunday night services, however, has moderated in recent years.

EVENING MEMORIES

First, I had to acknowledge that the evening service was and is meaningful to a subset of the congregation, mainly pre-baby-boomers. They have vivid memories of their younger days when churches were bulging on Sunday night. The music was dynamic, the preaching was evangelistic.

In that generation if you were spiritual, you attended church on Sunday nights. “Lukewarm” churches did not have evening services; good, Bible-believing churches did. That was the paradigm.

As a pastor I owe evening service attenders both respect and consideration. After all, they have had to make significant adjustments to other facets of church life. On Sunday morning I ask them to put up with guitars and synthesizer. I challenge them to support small group ministries. They have had to get used to the same church bulletin page announcing the Ladies Missionary Luncheon and the HIV Positive Support Group, the Adult Children of Alcoholics Group, and the Divorce Recovery Group. Problem people are coming out of the closet everywhere.

To many of the older generation, it is confusing, disturbing, and makes them feel insecure. Some worry that the church is being overrun by a godless culture.

These people are part of the church, and I respect that for them the evening service is a familiar, reassuring part of the church. Sunday evening is time for targeted ministry to our pre-boomers.

THE COMFORT OF CASUAL

The Bible does not say Sunday evening services must be in the sanctuary. In Seattle we changed location to the fellowship hall. We continued our usual style of service with singing and Bible teaching, but the atmosphere became more informal. Everyone–even the pastoral staff-stopped dressing up for Sunday night. We came casual and felt dose together in a small room instead of far apart in a large room.

In other words, we accepted that the culture has changed, that no matter what we did on Sunday night, short of cash rebates, we would not get the response of decades before. We stopped looking at Sunday night attendance as a spiritual issue. We freed ourselves from the burden of the empty sanctuary.

The evening service devotees weren’t thrilled initially about the change. They quickly adjusted, though. They saw the pastoral staff more relaxed and happy to minister. They liked the warm feeling of being together–reminded of the time when church seemed more like family.

I wasn’t as tired on Sunday nights. It helped that I didn’t have to dress up, and I found the new ambiance refreshing.

Time is passing. The percentage of pre-babyboomer Christians is declining as they make their inexorable march toward that heavenly home where the worship service never quits. As long as they find it a meaningful ministry, I will ungrudgingly give time to the Sunday evening service.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

The Celebrity-Pastor Syndrome

Bob Shank

I pastor a large church started in the early 1980s. Several years ago the founding pastor abruptly resigned, disqualified (in the opinion of the elders) from ministry.

Like most pastors of fast-growing American churches, the founding pastor had a charismatic personality. People swarmed to his church, irresistibly drawn to his warmth, and the church began its meteoric rise. But one Sunday morning, when he stood up and essentially said, “It’s been real, folks, but now I’m burned out. Good-bye.” The congregation went into shock. The full story behind his departure was not publicized.

Enter yours truly.

I arrived knowing about the turmoil that preceded my coming. But I wasn’t prepared for what I found. I naively thought that becoming the senior pastor of a large church with a fourteen-year history was like becoming president of General Motors: I would take over the GM legacy, give it a few distinctives, and ride its momentum into the future. I fully expected its people would be committed to the institution, that they would, in general, support their new leader. I thought they would hand me GM and, at the conclusion of my tenure, I would hand it back.

I was wrong.

The church I’m pastoring isn’t GM; it’s Delorean. Here’s why.

THE FOLLOWING

It didn’t take me long to recognize an unfortunate truth: a large percentage of people who attended here were not committed to Christ or this church. Their allegiance was to a personality.

I call these people “the Following.” For this crowd, the theological, philosophical, and directional distinctives of the church were wrapped up in the person of the founding pastor. When he left, the big question for the Following was “Will the new pastor be like the old pastor?” And, of course, it’s next to impossible to fill the shoes of the Following’s beloved.

Not everyone in the church was tied into the charismatic leader, however. There were those whom I call “the Church,” who, in contrast to the Following, are connected to the community of Christ and the institution of the local church.

When the smoke cleared, the people who called this church home were more likely to be part of the Church than the Following. They exhibited at least one characteristic of spiritual maturity: loyalty to the local church, not a personality. These are people who, if I resigned today, would stay on. They are committed to this institution and its people, not me. In general, they’re supportive of me, but to them, I don’t hang the moon.

Neither of these two invisible groups wear name tags. But their true identity is revealed in crisis.

Why do growing churches teem with Followers? I think one reason is that many of today’s churchgoers are not attracted to doctrinal statements or a particular philosophy of ministry. People look to the personality projected from the platform. They’re the “I’m of Paul, I’m of Apollos” crowd of 1 Corinthians.

Today’s intimacy-starved culture fuels this phenomenon. People who have no friends flock to our churches. Some have never experienced an open and trusting relationship and are looking for surrogate fathers. Many come from broken families where the pinnacle of intimacy was getting along with mom’s new boyfriend. They are the casualties of our shallow and relationally impaired culture.

So a sort of fatal attraction develops between church attenders and the celebrity pastor.

This person, who weekly gets up in front of the church and speaks from his heart, is more honest and direct (whether he’s feigning it or not) than anybody else in the lives of the Following. Sunday morning, then, becomes the most meaningful interaction they’ve had with anybody all week, however shallow it may be. Most of their other relationships and conversations are, at best, superficial. That the charismatic leader (at least in a large church) could pick only a few of them out of a police lineup doesn’t seem to matter.

“You’ve changed my life,” they say–and we’ve never seen them before.

Welcome to the age of cyber-intimacy.

FAIR WEATHER TICKET-HOLDERS

For the Following, church is a one-hour event on Sunday morning for which they’ve purchased season tickets. They consume that hour as they would a Boston Celtics’ game. If you’re winning, they’ll keep coming. If not, they’ll give you the benefit of the doubt–but only for a short while. If you continue to lose, they’ll stop buying their tickets. They move on. They switch team loyalties easily (especially if another celebrity pastor goes to a church nearby).

But I can’t place all the blame on our consumer culture.

The modern church is often the one selling the season tickets. It’s easy for the entrepreneurial pastor to fall into the trap of thinking Sunday morning is an event–that this Sunday has got to be better than last week, that unless people leave each week saying, “This is the best service ever,” we’ve failed.

But when I think like that, I reinforce a certain deadly mentality among those coming. Many of them believe they’ve got a line-item veto: “We liked the opening prelude but not the second song … .” If they exercise their veto often enough, they’ll soon be gone.

That’s like my kids judging my wife’s cooking: “Well, Mom, we’d have scored you higher, but tonight’s presentation is a little weak. You don’t have any green on the plate.” That doesn’t fly at our house. The only question that matters is “Will it nourish them and help them be healthy kids?” (And it doesn’t have to be better than last night for it to be healthy.)

In short, a lot of people who were coming to this church have stopped buying season tickets. Now, three years after the founding pastor resigned, church attendance is down by 50 percent.

EXORCIZING OLD GHOSTS

I’ve tried not to take it personally. But when you become the new pastor of personality-driven church, your worst moments are displayed in front of your most severe jury. The Following use worship time on Sunday mornings to measure you against their idol.

I received no four-star ratings my first two years here. On the weekends, I felt like a guest speaker. And during the week, I felt like a management consultant acting as the church’s CEO. But at the end of each day, I didn’t feel like its pastor. The church, in reality, was still being led by the former pastor’s ghost.

I felt terrorized by the unsigned letters, the signed letters, the people who came to my office saying, “I speak for a lot of people,” and the large numbers of people migrating to other churches. So shortly after I arrived, I attempted to rally the troops by refocusing the church on its mission–its vision, values, and priorities.

Gun-shy, I appealed to the past. When I unveiled my proposal to the church leaders, I said, “This vision for the church is reliable because it came from the eighties, from the former pastor himself. Honest to goodness. This was his mission, and it’s still our mission. We’re just trying to restate it.” Essentially I was saying, “If the founder said it, it’s legitimate, but if it’s set forth by me, the new pastor, it’s not.”

I regret that now. I had been emotionally bullied by the ghost of my predecessor.

I finally had to convince myself that, despite the attitude of the Following, I’d been called as their new pastor. I wasn’t some guy who just crashed their party. And if God had in store the same vision for the nineties that he did for the eighties, that would be fine by me. If not, so be it. I was not here to preserve a church built around a human personality. I was here to discover what God wanted this church to be now and in the near future.

I’ve since concluded that the megachurch church that loses its pastor (a relatively new phenomenon) is like a family that loses its dad. If the wife remarries, the new husband’s unique personality will alter the disposition of the entire family. That can’t be helped. The new dad is not like the old dad.

In step families, it’s not unusual for the first few months, even years, to be trying for all. Only after a period of adjustment is the family finally ready to ask, “What are our new dreams now as a new family?”

Likewise, a church’s chemistry will be a synthesis of the personality the church brought to the relationship and the new pastor. So, while this isn’t my church, it will inevitably–and legitimately–reflect my personality. The makeup of this church family has changed. And that’s okay. Emotionally, I had to come to terms with that truth before I could help this church discover their new dreams.

RIGHT-SIZING THE CHURCH

After a forest fire ravages a stand of timbers, the landscape is naked, blackened, dead, and strangely quiet, empty of life. Yet next spring, new shoots push up. The forest floor begins to green, and new life is born.

Likewise in our church, the ranks were thinned considerably, but new growth is slowly emerging. We’re experiencing a sort of springtime. That’s the good news. The bad news is I’ve just learned an uncomfortable truth about growth: I, too, am creating a Following. Many say they are attracted to this church because of my preaching. I’ve discovered I’m having an effect not unlike my predecessor (though on a much smaller scale).

“It ain’t right, but it’s so”–that’s what my friend’s grandmother used to say. Her witty saying is appropo to our culture’s crazy penchant for following the preacher instead of Christ. The phenomenon baffles me, but I can’t deny my leadership creates a Following. However, as John the Baptist said, “I must decrease, and he must increase.” I’m committed to making sure Christ increases in the lives of the Following.

One way I can decrease is by not playing the numbers game. I’ve stopped making numerical growth the goal of ministry (admittedly, this is easier to do when you’ve just lost half of your congregation).

In the marketplace, today’s corporations are becoming smaller. In fact, the nomenclature has changed from down-sizing to right-sizing. Down- sizing suggests that before it was right to be big but now it’s okay to be small. Right-sizing implies the corporation was too big in the first place.

The temptation for pastors is to do whatever it takes to swell the ranks.

Take something as simple as the worship service, for example. A popular preacher can tell the music pastor, “Placate the people. Give them what they want and don’t upset them. Then I’ll get up and do my thing.” The result will be a service without flow or unity, but if people like the music style, they’ll rave.

I took a more hands-on approach to planning the service. When I unified the style of music, a chorus of complainers grumbled in four-part harmony: “We don’t like the music anymore. And if it doesn’t return to our tastes, we may leave the church.” Their assumption was that purpose of worship was to please them. I found out quickly that no matter which direction I went with the music–more contemporary or more traditional–I couldn’t please everyone.

I felt threatened, quite frankly, when the prospect of losing more people seemed imminent. But I mustered the courage to say, “Well, let me give you the list of ten churches in the area I’d recommend. We don’t handcuff you here.”

And many left. Perhaps this church needed to be right-sized.

PREACHING INCONVENIENCE

Not only must we guard against a runaway fascination with numbers, we have to be intentional about converting our Following into the Church. In other words, we must help them grow up, to mature.

This necessary conversion is a chronic problem of all churches but especially of those intentionally targeting non-Christians. The sheer numbers of new believers puts an enormous load on the staff. Seekers are used to being catered to. That’s why they started attending in the first place.

But the mentality mutates into something like this: “The longer I come to this church, the more demands I have the right to make.”

These people enter our churches never having met Christ. Then, through multiple exposure to the Christian message in a non-threatening format, they invite Christ to be their master. That’s wonderful. But often, many drop out shortly thereafter saying, “I’m not getting enough on Sunday morning,” but what they mean is, “I want more inspirational, entertaining, biblical insights.”

In essence, they’re saying, “Now that I am more mature, it takes more to wow me, and I demand you meet my needs at my convenience or else … “

The New Testament message, however, is that mature believers will be more sensitive to the needs of those around them, not to their own desires. To experience fully the benefits of Christian community, they must serve. That’s what the Church does. You can spot easily those who have been converted into the Church. They are the ones saying, “My needs are great, but I’m willing to be inconvenienced.” (Paradoxically, when takers become givers, many of their unmet needs get met.)

So my preaching has become clear on this point: the more mature you become, the more you will be asked to be inconvenienced. We’re raising the level of expectations we have for Christians. For too long, the American church culture has expected the world to conform to a Christian lifestyle while lightening its expectations of Christians. People tend to rise or fall to the level of expectations.

Just as I have to be specific about how seekers can come to Christ, I must make clear the expectations Christ has of his followers. And, ironically, I’ve found most seekers are not turned off by a sermon challenging the comfort zones of the believer. In fact, they are more likely to regard highly the Christian faith if they really get an honest dose of what it’s all about.

My story is not over. The internal bleeding caused by this church’s founding pastor has stopped, but the damage to the internal organs is extensive. The patient needs lots of rehab and tender loving care.

And while that’s happening, I aim to decrease, and trust that Christ will increase.

********************

Bob Shank is pastor of South Coast Community Church in Newport Beach, California.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

The Odd Couple of Sermon Preparation

Steve Mathewson

Before I entered pastoral ministry, a seminary professor’s life convinced me that a fondness for deeper study and a passion for ministry don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

I’m not sure I can pronounce the name of the theologian of whom this professor wrote his doctoral dissertation. But I can pronounce most of the names of the unwed mothers to whom he and his wife have opened their home. His family has also ministered to terminally ill patients and drug addicts. Their home has become a sort of halfway house.

As I watched him, I realized his theology fed his pastoral practice. Decisions about life support systems for comatose patients, for example, emerged from his theological study of the image of God.

I cringe when I hear voices suggesting the need for relevance cancels out the scholarly side of ministry. My friend showed me sermons can be both relevant and rich in substance.

OVERCOMING THE OBSTACLES

Preachers legitimately doubt the effectiveness of preparing sermons by studying lexicons, grammars, and Bible dictionaries. I’ve isolated at least three reasons why communicators of God’s Word can shy away from such pursuits.

* Irrelevance. The common line of thinking is this: pastors who try to be scholars fall out of touch with reality. They can’t be practical. They can’t speak to the issues faced by Joe and Jane Christian. Their penchant for knowledge breeds irrelevance.

How can I relate to people if my reading consists of theological tomes while they read “Newsweek” and John Grisham novels?

Irrelevancy, though, creeps into my preaching and teaching because I fail to study my culture–not because I overdose on theology and Hebrew verbs.

Recently, I did a Mother’s Day sermon on the Book of Ruth. I preached the entire book as a dramatic monologue from the viewpoint of one of the elders of Bethlehem. I buttressed the sermon with exegesis, studying the characters’ names, the customs of levirate marriage and the kinsman redeemer, the plot structure, and the literary devices employed by the writer.

But I also devoted an entire afternoon to thinking about the kind of language that would connect with my congregation. In the sermon, I talked about Boaz commending Ruth for not chasing after the young guys running around in Dockers. I talked about Ruth and Naomi returning from Moab to Israel without any social security checks. (I even pictured Ruth taking a swig out of the Coleman water cooler with the other workers.)

In retrospect, my in-depth study turned out to be a great partner for my imagination. The careful exegesis moved my imagination the same direction as the text.

* Low-level skills. The Greek and Hebrew skills of many pastors wind up on the disabled list. Others might feel as inept in a deep theological conversation as they would going one-on-one with Shaquille O’Neal.

Still, like playing basketball, studying the Bible can take place at many levels. I can’t dunk a basketball, and I rarely hit a three-point shot. Yet I still play the sport with a small measure of success.

The same is true with my reading and study skills: I can find my level and work at it!

Along the way, I’ve discovered that resources can offset our limitations. Pastors whose Hebrew or Greek is rusty can use parsing guides, analytical lexicons, and commentaries. I regularly consult theological or historical dictionaries for concise articles on terms, personalities, or movements. Pastors digging into theological tomes can use dictionaries of Latin or German phrases. Language helps are even appearing on computer software.

* The crunch of time. “I don’t have time for in-depth study,” remarked one pastor. “That’s what I went to seminary for.”

Time is a pressure we all face in ministry. But if I find time to change the oil in my car to keep it in good running order, I can also keep my study tools in good working condition.

Like most pastors, my weeks are flooded with hospital calls, meetings, counseling sessions, and interruptions. I am also trying to stay current by reading in areas of immediate concern. As I sit at my word processor, a book on sexual abuse, a book on baby boomers, and a master-planning document for the county in which I live all stare me in the face.

The real issue, I’ve found, is priorities, not time. I make time for what I think is important. So I’ve decided not to pit the “practical” books against the “scholarly” books. I commit myself to reading both.

As in most disciplines, getting started is roughest. Here are some ways I’ve been able to pursue deeper study.

DEVELOP SEVERAL INTERESTS

Trying to decide which areas of interest to pursue can be intimidating. Your journey will be unique. But I’ll share mine in hopes of triggering some ideas.

The biblical languages grabbed my attention on the day I first cracked a Hebrew grammar. Because I’m interested in them, I go with them.

But I’ve also learned that certain interests may blossom unexpectedly where I have not had much interest before. For some reason, I never got into church history. In seminary, whenever I emerged from my books, I seemed to have Greek and Hebrew all over my hands! Church history received the short end of my efforts.

But last year, I kept bumping into Jonathan Edwards. A helpful book on preaching used Jonathan Edwards as a model. A sermon I listened to on revival mentioned Edwards as the catalyst behind the First Great Awakening. A pastor friend kept raving about Edwards.

Last Christmas, I asked for and received a biography on Jonathan Edwards. I’m hooked! I’ve purchased a two-volume set of Edwards’ entire works, and I plan to read and study him over the course of a lifetime. I’m sensible enough to know I won’t finish him in a couple of years. Maybe I’ll never read through his entire works! But I’ve made it a life-long pursuit.

Already, reading “The Religious Affections” has helped me think through how I will respond to new professing Christians whose lives contain little fruit. To my surprise, Edwards preaching has challenged me to use more vivid pictures or images. God has also used him to convict me to plead with my congregation to respond to God.

FIND A KINDRED SPIRIT

My pursuit of scholarship has been fueled by a kindred spirit. I first met Dave Hansen, a pastor in my area, in a surgical waiting room of our local hospital. I had been at my present pastorate only three months when a young lady in our congregation was accidentally shot. I waited with her husband and their little boy. Dave waited with the young lady’s parents, members of his congregation. We both shared in the funeral. Serving together in that tragedy gave birth to a friendship.

Dave and I meet weekly over lunch for an hour or so. We alternate between discussing theology or hermeneutics books and studying the Bible in the original languages.

If it sounds intimidating, it’s not. Recently, we worked our way through Proverbs 8 in Hebrew, tackling three verses a week. Our hike through the Hebrew text slowed us down enough to see the strong emphasis on wisdom being for everyone, not just the elite. Studying together has created accountability, a larger pool of insights and ideas, and a mutual friendship.

VARY YOUR CONFERENCE DIET

My annual trek to pastors’ conferences has taken me to some aimed at renewing the weary pastor. Others focused on a particular ministry skill such as counseling, training lay leaders for ministry, or honing communication skills. Still others centered upon church-growth themes. All have helped to meet my personal and ministry needs.

But one spring, I traveled to Portland, Oregon, to attend a weekend regional meeting of a society of Bible scholars and theologians. Some pastors might consider that as unlikely as attending the Harley-Davidson rally in Sturgis, South Dakota. Their aversion to biblical scholarship matches a vegetarian’s disdain for red meat. I too wondered how “practical” such a gathering would be.

To my surprise, the seminars proved useful. Some of the technical data shot right over my head. But without exception, the papers and discussions, though on a scholarly level, dealt with practical issues. A New Testament professor presented a paper clarifying the Bible’s teaching on homosexuality. One session grappled with the use of the Old Testament law in the life of a New Testament believer. Another probed the nature of saving faith.

At the time I attended this conference, I was trying to help our people become more active in sharing their faith. Several struggled with sharing the gospel to grade-school children. They wanted to know how to present the gospel simply yet without diluting the message. What I learned about the nature of saving faith helped me formulate a workable answer.

Taking a one- or two-week concentrated class on the parables of Jesus or on the Book of Amos also has contributed to more relevancy in my sermons on those texts. Because I’ve already done the bulk of the exegetical work, I can devote more of my preparation to developing images, finding illustrations, and nailing down specific applications.

MAKE RESEARCH A KEY ROLE

When I settle into my office at 8:30 A.M. each morning, my theology books and Greek lexicons don’t scream, “Pick me up and read me!” The notes on my desk holler at me to call a parishioner who is working through a sticky marital problem and to finish a report for tomorrow night’s board meeting.

I’ve found two ways to carve out time for serious study. First, I follow the advice given by Stephen Covey in “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People” and identify the key roles in my life.

This reflects the difference between time-management and self-management. The first is impossible, the second is quite attainable. What Covey helped me realize is that a person’s vocation usually consists of more than one role. For example, instead of listing ‘”pastor” as one of my roles, I break it down into pastoral preaching/teaching, pastoral care, and pastoral leadership. This makes my ministry of communicating the Word of God a key role.

Covey then suggests writing down a couple of weekly goals for each role. This, in turn, puts some large blocks of study time into my weekly schedule for my preaching/teaching role.

The other way I carve out time for serious study is by working ahead. I do any serious study that ties in directly to my sermons one week in advance, and early in the week. That way, I don’t feel pressured to jump to outlines, illustrations, and images since the material I’m working through relates to next week’s sermon.

Another advantage of working a week in advance is that it percolates during the week I set it aside. When I return a week later to work on the communication side of the sermon, I am usually surprised at the creative and practical ideas that have been brewing.

Being a student of my culture helps me speak to my congregation in a way that will interest them and make sense to them. Being a careful student of the historical” theological” and exegetical disciplines ensures my sermons are worth sharing.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

Shepherding in the Shadow of Death

Greg Asimakoupoulos

In many ways our local hospital resembles my church. In both, people are in various stages of recovery. And in both, people are in various stages of dying.

I thought about this as I watched a PBS documentary about Mother Theresa’s ministry. Her call to Calcutta and my call to Concord have a common focus. We both work with those who won’t get well. Clergy of all colors and collars have the privilege of shepherding people through the valley of death’s shadow.

Such ministry is awesome–in both senses of the word. It is serious and intimidating business. How do we wield the shepherd’s staff in full view of the grim reaper’s blade? What are the most meaningful things we can do for the dying? How can we sincerely say, “I care”? How can we make our visits more personal? What do we say if we are unsure of a person’s relationship with God?

LITTLE THINGS THAT SAY I CARE

In my first year out of seminary, six people died in the Seattle church I served. A veteran pastor invited me to coffee to share how he ministered to families in grief. As we watched the boats in the harbor and sipped forty-weight French Roast, he encouraged me. Within three months he himself was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Two months later Jon was dead.

Before he died, I heard him say, “When life is threatened, little things mean more than before.” That stuck with me. Ever since then I have looked for small ways to say to those approaching death, “I care.”

Just this week I stopped to see a man who lives near our church. Doctors told Willie he has less than a year to live. On one of my visits Willie said used to play saxophone with a jazz quintet. I located an album in my tape library of saxophone jazz renditions of contemporary Christian music. I gave it to Willie. I wanted to say I cared.

When one man in our church was dying, I learned he had been raised in Wisconsin. I called a friend involved with the Green Bay Packers and asked if he could send an autographed photo. When I delivered the photo, Arvid was thrilled.

Often I’ll photocopy a graphic torn from a magazine or the yellow pages to create a piece of unique stationary that calls to mind an individual’s hobby or interest. On that customized letterhead I’ll scratch a personal note.

I’ve found that personal notes are one of the most meaningful small ways I can show the dying that I care. Such notes allow me the regular and essential contact with the terminally ill, while also preventing me from causing them undue stress. A felt-tip greeting is less jarring than a ringing telephone. Many lack the strength to hold the receiver.

A handwritten note need not be long, but its shelf life certainly is. People can tuck it in a book or drawer and read it over and over again.

One man I recently buried used to chide me for dropping him thank-you notes when, prior to his illness, he helped around the church. But after cancer unpacked for a two-year stay at his house, however, his response was quite the opposite.

Over the years I have compiled devotional thoughts, lyrics, and prayers from Leslie Brandt’s “Psalms Now,” Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and others. I enclose these in my correspondence, choosing material that will give words to the emotions and voice to the prayers of one who is dying.

MAKING PERSONAL VISITS PERSONAL

Written reminders of our prayer and concern, though important, are not sufficient. A person near death longs for companionship and looks forward to visits from the pastor.

Madeleine L’Engle in her book “The Summer of the Great Grandmother” reflects on her mother’s death. She insists that dying, by definition, must be experienced in community. “Death is not a do-it-yourself activity.”

I attempt to pay a personal call once a week during a terminally ill patient’s plateau period. Others from within the congregation also drop by. As death creeps closer, my visits increase.

For home visits I stay less than a half hour. In the hospital I stay ten minutes or less. More important to the dying than the time we stay is what we do while we’re there.

Physical touch is powerful and sacramental. It is an outward sign that you, as caregiver, are entering into their pain.

Diane had just lost her cancerous leg to amputation, but the malignant cells had spread to her lungs. I held her hand as we prayed together. That point of contact underscored for her that even in pain, together we were touching God with our prayer.

Holding a person’s hand, patting their cheek, or gently placing your hand on their fevered brow conveys much.

When I read Scripture, I have found it means a great deal to read a favorite passage of the sick person. Discovering those treasured portions is as simple as asking. For a Christian aware of approaching death, nothing penetrates the heart like Scripture. I note these favorite Scriptures for use in the person’s funeral service.

Sometimes my visits are musical. Although I am not a great singer, I can carry a tune and like to sing. Having grown up in the church by default I have committed scores of hymn texts to memory. Singing them, I’ve found, can be a means of distilling faith. The ailing appreciate hymns of assurance. At times they sing along. Often they close their eyes in private worship. A familiar tune and cherished words can enlarge the faith housed within a shriveled frame.

Don, a strong Christian who had served his church for more years than I was old, lay motionless near death. I leaned over his bed and softly sang Horatio Spafford’s “It Is Well with My Soul.” A tear drop scurried down Don’s cheek, and he smiled a thank you.

When I pray, along with asking God to minimize physical discomfort and envelop the patient with a tangible sense of his presence, I try to help the person turn their eyes and hopes on the glory that awaits them. Using Revelation 7 as a backdrop, I sometimes invite a person to visualize the throne room of heaven and hear the voices of worship.

In prayer with Ralph, I talked about his future with Christ. I painted verbal pictures of heaven and thanked the Lord that in a brief time Ralph would realize the purpose for which he had been born. Prayer can celebrate the patient’s acceptance of death.

Some shy away from the Lord’s Prayer as a mechanical ritual, but I often incorporate it into my prayers with the dying. Familiar words are especially meaningful near death. I have watched parched, lifeless lips begin to move to the cadence of my voice as I recite, “Our Father who art in heaven … “

A prayer repeated since childhood can engage the mind of someone decreasingly aware of the present.

THE SOUL OF THE VISIT

An essential part of my pastoral care to those who hear death knocking is to prepare them not only for death but for eternity. Many who face death, however, are afraid to acknowledge the topic. When they seem uneasy about discussing such things, we also may feel awkward talking about eternity.

I have found it helpful simply to ask:

“Are you afraid of what’s ahead?”

“How are you feeling about leaving your family?”

Or “Do you feel ready to meet the Lord?”

These opening questions give a dying person opportunity to express their desire for assurance.

I can’t assume a person who attends my church has a strong sense of peace and assurance about life after death. I’ve made it my policy to quote familiar Scriptures of assurance such as Psalm 23, John 14, Romans 8, and 1 Corinthians 15. Such passages indicate God’s companionship is available on the other side of the border. Reading these Scriptures can water their parched faith.

I stood over Leslie’s bed. Cancer had robbed him of his muscular physique. Yet as I stood beside his shriveled body, using familiar promises from the Bible as well as poems to remind him that “Christians don’t just die; they enter into the presence of the Lord,” I saw a smile cross his face.

I will read the same verses when I am not sure where a person stands with God. This enables them to see the benefits to which a believer is entitled. I don’t want to give them false assurance if they have not received Christ as Savior. But asking about their fears and hopes allows me to probe their spiritual status. Such probing requires creativity, sensitivity to the circumstances, a sense of timing, and courage to “just do it.” Every person is different.

I met a man on the golf course whom I later learned was dying. I sent a number of get-well cards. At times I included a devotional article. The last time I saw Jerry before he died I asked if I could pray with him. In my prayer I talked about God’s plan of salvation, admitting my own tendency to not take God seriously enough.

“I think Jerry is just like me,” I added as I thanked God for his love in sending a Savior to the cross and bringing out of the grave to prepare us a place in heaven. I concluded in such a way that Jerry could receive Jesus into his life by agreeing with my prayer. He did.

HOME AND FAMILY

“There’s no place like home,” it is said. That may mean the place we reminisce about where we grew up or the place to which we retreat after a harried day at the office. Many are now finding, when it’s time to die, there is no place like home.

Certain illnesses and circumstances require a patient to be hospitalized until their death. But when they can, more and more are opting to die in familiar, loving surroundings of home.

In many communities, hospice programs offer in-home nursing care for the terminally ill and their families. Besides medications and medical equipment, hospice provides professional workers who can talk about what is happening and what to expect. Many I’ve met are Christians. I view hospice nurses and social workers as members of my pastoral care team.

Many terminally ill people are helped by having not only a place to die but also permission to die. Sometimes the family, especially a spouse, has difficulty adjusting to what lies ahead. That’s when I need to help the family give the dying member permission to die.

Mary knew her husband had only weeks to live. She had accepted it cognitively but had not been able emotionally to embrace her husband’s departure. Whenever I’d stop by the house, she’d greet me cordially and then excuse herself while I visited with Hap. Before leaving I’d stick my head in Mary’s office (where she buried herself in her work) and inquire of her feelings. I always encouraged her to call. She never did.

When hospice nurses increased their visitations, however, I watched as Mary gradually accepted what was happening. When I visited, she stayed in the room with Hap and me. She lingered at the door as I began to leave. We’d chat. She’d express her fear.

At one of our doorside chats I encouraged Mary to give her husband permission to let go. Initially she balked at the suggestion. After fifty-two years together, she couldn’t imagine life without him and couldn’t bring herself to hasten his death. She wanted him to hang on at all costs. But such permission is essential to the healthy passing of the terminally ill. Mary finally recognized the value of this gift and gave her husband permission to wait for her in heaven.

One of the last ways we help someone die is to assure them we will comfort and care for their loved ones after they are gone. We can express some of the love they no longer can.

Dr. David Gardner shocked his colleagues several years ago when he resigned his position as president of the University of California. Citing the inexpressible and crippling sorrow that accompanied his wife’s death nine months earlier, Gardner confessed to being unable to perform the tasks his job required. Gardner was praised for his candor. Psychologists validated his reasons. He is not alone.

I have a friend who is a funeral director. Scott routinely concludes his remarks at the committal service with a challenge to friends and extended family of the grieving. He invites them to remember the spouse and family members with a call, a card, or a visit a month down the road, at six month intervals, and especially on the anniversary of the loved one’s death. Pastors can coach their congregations in the same manner.

MAKING THEIR LAST WORDS COUNT

The phone rang in my study. “I think we should do it soon,” Bill said. I knew what my middle-aged friend was signaling. His inner clock said it was time to plan his funeral. We did it the next day. Within two weeks Bill was dead. At his funeral the words and music he chose to celebrate the resurrection was a powerful witness of his faith to his family and colleagues.

Most people don’t plan ahead as Bill did. When their doctor tells them to put things in order, they don’t think that includes outlining their final visit to church. It is up to me to encourage the dying to think of such things. Once the person accepts his or her condition, most are receptive to the idea. Planning their own funeral gives the dying a sense of purpose in an otherwise purposeless period of life.

I ask them to choose whom they would like to participate. I encourage them to think of musical selections, Scriptures or readings, hymns or praise songs for the choir or congregation–even sermon themes. When Hap planned his service with me, he gave me a message he wanted his fellow employees to hear. Because he was willing to anticipate the inevitable, his coworkers heard their friend’s values and final good-byes with unmistakable clarity. Though dead, he still spoke.

The Sunday after Bill asked me to help plan his funeral, I mentioned it in church. I wanted to model for the congregation what it means to trust God.

“Bill and I talked about heaven this week,” I said from the pulpit. “And it appears he will be moving there soon.” I was verbalizing as much faith as if I had asked God to heal his worn-out heart.

When Hap was dying, I referred to him in the pastoral prayer on Sunday and said, “Please come quickly for our friend, Happy. He’s ready to meet you, Father.”

Our people need to know that in God’s health care plan, healing doesn’t always mean getting better. Sometimes it means resurrection.

I reached my friend Eugene less than half an hour after he died. I gripped his fragile, still-warm hand beneath the sheet. Tears crawled down my face as I realized that his hand, with that familiar half-severed thumb, would not grip back this time.

I kissed him on the forehead and thanked the Lord for his life. Eugene had not only taught me how to serve God and his church, he had taught me how to serve a tennis ball. He showed me how to live. He taught me how to die. He taught me how to escort others to the edge of eternity.

I left his bedroom and headed for the den to comfort the members of his family. As I walked down the hallway, I felt a warmth of contentment surge through me. Despite the sorrow, I had no regrets. For the past six months I had invested my gifts and concern in Eugene’s life.

Helping a person die with grace is one of ministry’s most significant privileges.

********************

Greg Asimakoupoulos is pastor of Crossroads Covenant Church in Concord, California.

Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal

Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

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