Six Hundred Sermons on the Wall, Six Hundred Sermons . . .

            This week, I’m going to preach a sermon about heaven. I’m not that keen on heaven as a sermon topic anymore. It isn’t that I don’t hope for some sort of wonderful surprise when I close my eyes the last time. It is just that I’m not counting on it. And I’m certainly not living for it or in fear of some other place. It strikes me that I need to live for this life and my current neighbours. If there is more, after, it’s all gravy. I think that's about what I'm going to preach, too.

            Still, I thought I should go back into my collection of old sermons and review my journey with respect to heaven and hell. I did a key-word search, and came up with a dozen good hits. I read what I had preached before, in another life. And I didn’t find anything that grabbed me or convinced me, though I did find a lot that made me shake my head and think, “I said that?”

            But this exercise got me to thinking about all my old sermons—about six hundred of them. I used to have two filing cabinets full of them. They were four-drawer behemoths. I carefully catalogued my sermons by text. Each sermon folder contained all of my false starts, all of the material that I had edited out of the final revision, and all my exegetical notes. Each file contained both the final manuscript, and a copy of the notes I took to the pulpit. On each folder cover I kept track of where I had preached the sermon, the computer file-name of each revision, and thoughts about how the sermon had gone over, as well as how it might be revised in the future.

           

            Early in my career as a preacher, the effort I put into cataloging, preserving, and reflecting on my sermons made a lot of sense. In my first congregation, in Sarnia, Ontario, I had to preach six times a month. I came to that congregation with twenty-five or so sermons “in the barrel” that I had written during seminary. I decided to use one of those sermons each month, so that I only had to write five new sermons each month. This meant there was only one week each month I had to write two.

            With vacations and study leaves, this plan got me through almost three years of ministry. In my fourth year I went back to the new sermons I had preached my first year, tried to improve them, switched out a few memorable stories, and preached them a second time. But I noticed that rewriting those four-year-old sermons was actually a lot of work. Those old sermons didn’t really please me anymore. They were all too long, and too sure, and too full of finger-waving, “thou shalts,” and “thou shalt nots.”

            With all the changes I had to make in those old sermons, it was a lot of work to stay ahead of my writing load that fourth year. It exhausted me. Happily for me and my family, my next congregation, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, was a dual-pastor situation, and thus the pressure was off. I made sure to write at least three new sermons each month, and used only the occasional old sermon. By then I had a dozen or so that I was happy to preach again. But it was only a dozen out of 250 or so sermons. I couldn’t help but notice that there were many, many sermons that I wasn’t happy with at all. I found many of them to be too exact, too pointed, and too sure.

            After four years in Ann Arbor I move to Grand Rapids to edit the denominational magazine. My new routine was to preach as a guest pastor twice a month. However, I still only had a dozen sermons that I was really proud of—and not the same dozen I went to Ann Arbor with. Later, when the magazine switched from a weekly to biweekly and later monthly schedule, I had more time to write new sermons. I was probably averaging one a month for the last five years I was editor.

            I stayed out of parish ministry for a further six years, teaching at a seminary in the Philippines and working at a graduate school of philosophy back in Canada. When I returned to parish ministry, I found that hardly any of my old sermons spoke to me any more. My thinking had changed a lot. I experienced a lot of inner conflict about what I could, in good conscience, say. My new sermons reflected that ambivalence. I certainly never preached on heaven or hell, because I knew that there was nothing I could say that would be theologically acceptable and true to my own convictions.

            So now I’m in what I hope will be my last parish, in Toronto. It belongs to a different, much more liberal denomination, the United Church of Canada. I don’t think I’ve used an old sermon here, as is, ever. In fact, I’ve dumped the hard copies of all my old sermons, along with their exegetical notes and my reflections on them. These days, my old sermons survive only, ghost-like, in the cloud. They’re pretty much dead letters.

            So why am I thinking about all this? For a few reasons, I guess. One is that as I reflect on all those old sermons, I’m struck by the fact that I’ve changed my mind. And it has been good—an adventure, really.  I’ve changed my mind for a lot of reasons. I’ve read the Bible with more care, and a more open mind (I think). The world has changed. I’ve studied hard, because I enjoy doing so. I’ve read far more widely in theology and philosophy than the rather narrow canon I was introduced to in seminary. I’ve especially read a lot of secular hermeneutics, and it makes a lot of sense—though I know I’m only one and many others might disagree. I’ve also changed my mind because of my experiences in places like Rwanda and Hiroshima. These experiences have given me something akin to post-traumatic-theological stress. The old certainties I used to have don’t measure up to the new questions that sometimes still keep me awake. I guess I’m also a restless soul by nature.

            When I reflect on how I’ve changed my mind, I’m surprised that more ministers don’t change denominations. Does it mean they never change their minds about important matters? Have they stopped reading “tough” foundational stuff and stuck with nothing but pragmatic “how to grow your church” stuff? But I also know that when I published my last book, Not Sure, I was overwhelmed by the number of ministers—including many in my old denomination—who wrote me to say things like, “I’ve changed my mind too . . . but I just don’t know how to get out of the situation I’m in.” Many ministers are afraid to preach what they really think—or doubt.

            When I reflect on how I’ve changed my mind I’m not suggesting that every minister will become more liberal, like I did. Some might become more conservative, I suppose. But the fact that there is so little theological movement in most minister’s lives, over thirty or forty years, surprises me. I wonder, sometimes, if all of the dire statistics about ministerial burnout, depression, and unhappiness are related to the inability of most pastors to imagine changing course by moving to different denominations. Certainly, parishioners do it all the time. Why not us?

            I’ve changed my mind. But looking at all those old sermons also gets me to thinking about the many people who sat through sermons that I could now never preach again. Where does my change of mind leave them? I sometimes wish I could go back in time and offer a “ya, but!” in place of the sermons I actually preached.

            If nothing else, this suggests to me that parishioners should do more than sit in the pews and nod their heads. They need to wrestle with what they hear, listen with a very critical ear, and work to inform themselves of differing perspectives.

            I am not suggesting that they then go after the pastor who has preached something they disagree with. But if we could come to the preaching moment as if the sanctuary was a never-ending conversation between friends, rather than a “Thus says the Lord” [via the minister] moment, we’d be further ahead. Or, as I’ve said before, if we could think of the sanctuary as a playground rather than a lecture hall, we’d all be working for the day when we grow up a bit, mature to something else and move on, theologically at least. Perhaps then, as ministers, we wouldn’t take ourselves so seriously. In the end, after all, people come to know God more through our love for each other than through a particular (out of many to choose from) orthodoxy.

            I do have twenty hand-written sermons left in my last filing cabinet. They are catechism sermons written by my father over thirty years ago, just before he died. I read them over this week. My dad was always a bit insecure about his English, since it wasn't his native language. On the whole, though, he did pretty well on that score. He had a lot of practice, and worked hard at it.

            What struck me was that I didn’t find anything in his sermons that interested me. It was a different time, a different audience, and he was a different person. I suppose I read them as much for the bits of his self-disclosure as I did for his perspective. But on the whole, they didn’t speak to me.

            Just as my old sermons don’t speak to me, and won’t be heard by anyone, anymore. I’m thinking of erasing my disks, jettisoning all of them. I know my kids won’t read them either—no one will. It’s just hubris to keep them. What matters now is this coming week, this audience, this time. That’s what I have to focus on—as well as the text, whether it's a Biblical one or not—as I write my new sermons. Sure, each new sermon is ultimately going to be a brick in the wall that merely proves the truth of, “vanity, vanity, all is vanity.” On the other hand, for me at least, there is no life like writing a new sermon this week, and trying to get it right, for now.

Ten Commandments For Preachers (not related to the sermon!)

            When parishioners gather, after church, for some roast preacher, it isn’t always the sermon that gets jabs. And there’s more to being the preacher on Sundays than bringing an exegetically smart, creative sermon to the pulpit. So I’ve put together, here, a list of ten commandments for preachers. None have to do with the sermon. The list is meant to compliment my column from a few weeks ago, “Ten Commandments for Worship Leaders.”

One: On Sundays the wise preacher’s work starts long before worship, and ends long after. Get to church early to greet volunteers, musicians, early comers, kids on their way to nursery, and so on. Stay late to say “thanks for coming,” and “good-bye,” to as many as you can. It’s amazing how many pastoral hints you’ll pick up on. And if church is about community, the pastor’s job is to be a leader in trying to create and model it.

Two: Tell children’s sermons. If church is a family affair, and if the little children are supposed to come to Jesus, and if we are supposed to learn how to receive the kingdom from the child in our

midst—well, they should be in our midst. You’re their pastor too. You get to learn names. Telling children’s sermons humanizes you not only in their eyes, but in the entire congregation’s eyes. You live the reality of church as the family of God. People will laugh at the wise things they unexpectedly say. So get down to their level, eyeball to eyeball. Keep it really short. Don’t talk down to them but talk with them. Laugh.

Three: Remember that announcements made before or during the service, while they may be a challenge to integrate, are another critical part of building community. Depending on how you handle announcements it can sound like there are never enough volunteers, or like you’re glad for the many you have. You can make it seem like nothing of importance is going on, or like the church is bubbling with activity. Whether it is in marriage or a corporation, communication and how it is handled can have a huge impact on morale. So use announcements to show the humane, the exciting, and the empathetic side of your church community.

Four: Smile. I once directed a high school production of Oedipus. Afterwards, Oedipus came to me in tears, wondering why I thought she had failed (yes, this Oedipus was a woman). The thing is, she had not failed. But I was so serious in my demeanour, so critically observant in my role as a director, that even as I sat in the front row for the whole play, I forgot to smile. I nearly ruined the show. Pastors—smile! Don’t be goofy. Don’t avoid other emotions. Don’t try to be a nothing but a cheerleader. But when you have the chance, when the occasion is right, smile. People catch on that whatever else church is, it can often be a happy place, as it should be most of the time.

Five: A bit of self-deprecating humour goes a long way to making people feel at home. Whether in the announcement time, or a sermon, or as I shake hands with people on the way out, making fun of yourself just a bit makes you accessible and real. Nothing signals underlying problems in a church more quickly than a pastor who isn’t laughing at himself once in a while.

Six: Don’t strive for perfection. Or, another way of putting it might be, don’t take yourself and your every move so seriously that you can’t be as human as anyone else in your audience. God knows, I try to dress the part, I try to remember to polish my shoes, and I try to lay my tie straight on my shirt. But like Jennifer Lawrence, I’ve tripped on the steps up to the pulpit. I’ve forgotten lines and misplaced sermon notes. And while I don’t want to play the part of a dufus, I’ve often fallen into the role for a few minutes here and there. When I do, I try to relax, apologize if necessary, and do a bit better next time.

Seven: Every Sunday, try to find someone to thank, publically. It isn’t that there is ever a shortage of people worthy of thanks. But it is human nature to create shortages of appreciation.

Eight: Apologize. Not more than is necessary. But if you miss a hymn, or if the janitor forgets to put water in the baptismal font and you have to send someone out for it, or if you forget the name of your council chair during announcement time—stop for a moment. Note the mistake. Apologize. Smile (see number 3, above), and move on.

Nine: Listen to your own sermons once in a while. You’ll be surprised by what you learn. I drop the end of my sentences sometimes. I use too many “ums.” I can correct these things, with a little effort and if I’m willing to engage in a bit of self-criticism.

Ten: Listening to your own services is also a helpful way for preachers to get some idea of how badly they’ve fallen into the bane of church, the preacher’s drawl. In a way, such drawls are unavoidable—we all have our own style of speaking, our own accent. But if having a style is unavoidable, the best thing you can do is work on making it unpredictable, lively, and engaging. Speak as if to equals (they are, after all). Don’t drone on in a monotone—listen to how the best radio announcers vary tone, loudness, timbre, and speed. Let some emotion in. Important for preaching, but doubly so for prayers.

            I’m sure readers can add their own ten or twenty commands to the list. Perhaps it would be better to call them all suggestions--less presumptuous.  But I’d love to hear more suggestions, especially from those in the best place to offer them--pew sitters. And maybe, one day, I'll write a list of ten commandments for sermon time.

The Problem Is in the Pulpit

I’ve been thinking a lot about denominations lately. I’m a switcher, a pastor who has moved from leadership in an Evangelical church to a Mainline church. One of the first things I noticed in making the switch was that while the local theology in the last two congregations I served is very different, the denominational woes are exactly the same. Both denominations are struggling with significant decreases in giving and widespread boredom with and distrust of large institutions. Both denominations are losing members—albeit they are at different points in the process. Both denominations are promising more help for local congregations, but are basically not delivering, as their agencies just can’t get out of the PR and fundraising modes. Both denominations are spending lots of internal time and resources on major institutional restructuring. Both denominations are seeing an exodus of young members.

In the Christian Reformed Church I used to belong to, they are wondering whether or not “denominational culture,” is a key factor behind the malaise. Maybe. In the United Church, the new structural plan, which would save the National Office, but do away with Presbyteries (local groups of churches) and conferences (larger groups of local churches), seems to suggest that the problem is that local members don’t care about neighbouring churches. That might be right, but it is hard to understand, then, why those same members would care about the national church.

In the end, however, I doubt very much that membership malaise and decline have much to do with denominational culture or structure. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to have top-notch culture and structure. The thing is, as helpful as these realities are in a healthy church, they are not the root causes of membership loss and malaise.

What is?

Well, the bottom line, I think, is that the problem is with local churches and leadership. The heart of the worship service (or, at least, one of its key foci), the sermon, is not giving people a reason to stay. And naturally, if that is the case, giving and attendance drops and interest in far away national offices or agencies isn’t going to light any fires either.

I don’t want to be too hard on preachers. But honestly, if there is one complaint I hear over and over again from my friends who are thinking of not going to church, or who have stopped—and I have many of them—it is that they are mad about the preaching. It is too judgmental. It is too pragmatic, as if the sermons were lifted out of the self-help section of the bookstore. It is, especially, boring and irrelevant. It doesn’t get people to strap on their seat belts or put on crash helmets.

Now, we might respond to such a charge defensively. I have responded that way myself, when people have stopped going to my church. Or, we might say that the problem is not with the preacher—but with the gospel. People just don’t buy it anymore, and the siren songs of the weekend away, or the materialistic lifestyle, or Twitter and Facebook are just too compelling to invest in sermons anymore. We can come up with a hundred and one reasons to deflect the blame away from preachers. And the hard truth here is that the problem is complex, and there are some very good preachers who still struggle with the malaise out there, and we can all think of people who left church for different reasons—lack of community, perhaps; or the widespread perception that churches are anti-gay, or anti-women, or anti-science. And many are.

However, I believe that our preaching is a big part of the problem. As pastors, we don’t work at it hard enough. We don’t pay enough attention to how we speak, to the rhetoric of persuasion, or the poetry of words. We don’t pay enough attention to what our parishioners are really wondering about in the dark of the night or when the bills come due. We are too comfortable with the status quo. We offer one meal after another of beans and rice and no one can remember what we said two weeks on. We preach out of dry barrels of sixteenth century doctrinal concerns like infant baptism or how the atonement works rather than to the crises of our era. I do it too. And this is what I lie awake thinking about at night. This is what forces me to spend more and more time preparing messages rather than less and less.

It may be that we are entering into an era where things are so good, for so many, that the gospel seems quaint and old fashioned. We may well enter an era where one of the crises of our day—global warming, poverty, religious fanaticism, racism, terrorism—so overwhelms us that people come back to church in droves, looking for the faith, hope and love to get them through. But for now, people are hanging up their church hats and leaving in droves. And not missing church at all. Especially not the sermons. And if nothing else, that should suggest that our preaching the same old stuff isn’t doing the trick.

We need to talk about this. What’s the problem? Denial? Are our preacher egos too sensitive to get honest about how we’re doing? Does the preaching ministry fail to attract the brightest and the best, like it did 100 years ago? Too much Greek (or too little?) Too much seminary (or too little?) Too much distraction from social media and the internet to concentrate on real writing?

Maybe all the above. But until our local churches are firing on all cylinders, especially from the pulpit, the whole debate about what to do with denominational structures is very much beside the point.