Whispered Preaching
Sermon
Between Gloom and Glory
First Lesson Sermons For Advent/Christmas/Epiphany
I delivered my very first sermon at the age of sixteen. It was presented to a congregation of my peers, a group of high school students. The service, specifically designed for teens, was held on a Wednesday night. There were about 125 people in attendance. I was scared to death at first, but once the sermon got started I felt okay and sort of got on a roll. My text was 1 Corinthians 13, the love chapter, as some refer to it. The audience that night was very responsive to the sermon. I do not know why they liked it. Maybe it was due to the fact that one of their own was daring to stand where the preacher normally stood and present some word of God for the day. Maybe it was the energy that I threw into the sermon. Like I said, I got on a roll. Well, most likely, it was just dumb luck.
Whatever it was, I was hooked. I enjoyed the attention. I didn't admit to a call to ministry until I was well into my twenties, but that night I knew, deep down, that this was something I could do. This was something that I might want to nurture. I was already taking speech that semester at school, so I had an outlet to begin exploring this idea of preaching and speaking within the context of church.
I must confess something, though. My ego was overwhelmed that night by the accolades that I received after the sermon. I remember that I liked greeting people at the door afterwards. I really enjoyed hearing people say, "Thank you, that was very good." I suppose I shouldn't feel too bad. After all, I was only sixteen. Anyone, at any age, would enjoy positive attention and feedback on something that was done well. But I started to dream a little bit on that night too. I did not dream of ministry and service. I did not wonder what it would be like to sit in a hospital room with someone dying of AIDS. I had no images in my mind of speaking up for justice or of giving myself away in aid to the poor. No. My mind was filled with television cameras and flashy clothes. I could see myself standing before thousands, raising them to the loftiest height, lowering them into the depths of Hades, finally returning them to the safety of heavenly places. I was full of myself. As I said, I am certain that there was a call to ministry in that moment. That call, though, was almost, not quite, but almost, drowned out by the shouts of praise that were already ringing in my imagination.
If I am honest, I must admit that that dream has not left. That fantasy of praise and success is still hiding (although not very well) in the corner of my mind. Ambition is not a bad thing by itself. It is the things we attach to the ambition that color it one way or another.
The dream has faded considerably because of the fact that preaching, ministering, serving, is hard work. There are accolades to be sure, but it seems to me that the real work of the minister is more often heard in the whispered sermons than at any other time in his or her calling.
The text from Isaiah for today is refered to by many scholars as one of the Servant Songs. There is a great deal of scholarly discussion about who this text is written about. Is it the prophet himself? Or, is it a local community of faith called forth to be a witness? Perhaps, as some say, it might refer to the entire nation of Israel and its central purpose as a light to the world for all people to see the God of steadfast love. Probably the best answer is "all of the above." This is a text that seems to rise above any particular person or community. Its message is universal. Its words speak to the individual and the community.
Today these words speak to me, and I am inviting you to listen to their call also. They speak to each of us really. For each of us, in some way, is a prophet, a witness to faith in God. Each of us carries our own calling. Some are called into ordained ministry, to preach and teach, to equip and train. Others are called to use their gifts in the marketplace, the home, the school. Each of us is called to use our gifts wherever we might be found.
These words speak to me because they remind me in this moment, with the dreams of glory and fame still appearing in the theater of my imagination, that when God calls God's servant he calls one to be quiet. God calls the servant to bring forth justice in the nations, but the servant "will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street." Bruised reeds will be safe around the servant of God. Dimly-lit wicks will not be extinguished. This servant must whisper his sermons.
That is not as easy for a preacher to accept as you might think. After all, it is fairly audacious to dare to speak for God each week. It really doesn't matter whether there are twenty people in the pews or two thousand. It is brazen. It is foolish, too. But preachers don't want to whisper. They want to be heard.
Yet, the best sermon is the one that is whispered, the one that is spoken quietly with little or no fanfare. The best sermons often have no words. Someone once said. "I would rather see a sermon than hear one any day."
There was a preacher whose life was in turmoil. His marriage was falling apart. His ministry, which appeared strong and capable on the outside, was beginning to unravel at the seams. Looking back at the situation, he knows he was addicted to success. He was pushed not so much by a desire to serve as by the desire to achieve fame. His temptations were similar to those experienced by many preachers and pastors.
He went into therapy. For six hard months he wrestled with his demons. He began a new life of prayer. He worried less about the eloquence of his sermons and instead found time for quiet reflection. His energy increased. His concern for his people grew. For the first time in his ministry he felt pastorally connected to the members of his congregation. A year later a member of his church said to him, "I envy you. I wish I had the opportunity to spend the same amount of time in prayer and reflection that you do." The minister asked the parishioner how he knew he spent a lot of time this way. After all, the minister wondered, it would be easy to read the paper for three hours and call it "prayer." The church member's response floored the pastor: "Oh, I can tell something has changed in your approach to ministry. I don't know this for sure but I would suspect that you have only begun to spend time in prayer in the last year or so. Your ministry shows the change!" He was exactly correct.
That is not a recipe for success. It is not the beginning of a seminar on how to achieve spiritual greatness. It is a recognition of the fact that the work of ministry, the work of shining a light in the darkness does not begin so much with a shout as it does with the simple act of striking a match. There is not enough darkness in the universe to cover the light of a single flame flickering in the night.
We must admit, however, that this is a strange technique. Why be quiet? Why hold back your voice? Why not shout it out on television, in Congress, on highway billboards? There was a television preacher who proclaimed a few years ago, after their network had been connected to satellites with the potential to broadcast all across the globe, "The day is coming, it may arrive in two or three years, when every person will be given the opportunity to hear the gospel." The next words out of his mouth were on the need for funds. With enough money to fund their programming they could begin this important work. Do you hear the arrogant ignorance in that statement? One half of the world cannot even afford to pay for the electricity to run a television let alone purchase and own one. How can they hear the gospel?
In John's Gospel Jesus' ministry begins in the little village of Cana. Jesus is there for a wedding feast. You may remember the story. The wedding host runs out of wine. Mary comes to Jesus and says, "Do something about this!" (This is a loose translation of the original Greek!) Jesus responds by saying, "Why is that my problem?" Smart (and dare we say, conniving?) mother that Mary is, she ignores Jesus' comment and says to the servants, "Do whatever he tells you." Stone jars are filled with water. The steward is served. The water becomes a gold medal winning cabernet and the party continues without any fanfare about Jesus or any embarrassment to the families. This, according to John, was the first sign revealing Jesus' glory.
I don't think church growth experts would have chosen little Cana as the place to kick off their campaign with Jesus. I'm sure they would have bought a lot of advertising during half-time of the Galilean equivalent of the Super Bowl. There would be posters put up all over the place. Jerusalem would be set up as the opening city, with miraculous appearances scheduled for Rome, Athens, and Cairo. Cana? Why bother?
When the wedding feast is over, the disciples, quiet witnesses to the miracle, believe in Jesus. I am willing to guess that the reason Jesus' disciples believed him, wasn't so much due to the miracle itself as much as it was the quiet way everything was done. Here is the one who they believe is the hope of the world. This is the one Peter will proclaim to be the "Christ, the Son of the living God." And yet quietly, with no fanfare, with no trumpets blowing, with no more then a handful of people noticing, Jesus helps a group of people have a party.
Oh, there were loud moments in Jesus' ministry. I can't imagine that sending a legion of demons into a herd of swine would have been done quietly. Jesus' anger in the temple on the day that the money changers tables were turned over was probably not a sweet, special, meditative moment shared with but a few. On the whole though, Jesus ministry is done in quiet. His work is done without fanfare. It is no wonder that Isaiah's words came to symbolize, for the early church, the life of Christ.
The words of the prophet are an invitation to us to quietly accept our call and bring light into darkness. The promise of the gospel is that we are not alone in this work. We have one to follow, to emulate. He invites us to join with him, not in a cry in the streets, but in the work to bring light to the nations, sight to the blind, and release to those who are in the prison of darkness.
Whatever it was, I was hooked. I enjoyed the attention. I didn't admit to a call to ministry until I was well into my twenties, but that night I knew, deep down, that this was something I could do. This was something that I might want to nurture. I was already taking speech that semester at school, so I had an outlet to begin exploring this idea of preaching and speaking within the context of church.
I must confess something, though. My ego was overwhelmed that night by the accolades that I received after the sermon. I remember that I liked greeting people at the door afterwards. I really enjoyed hearing people say, "Thank you, that was very good." I suppose I shouldn't feel too bad. After all, I was only sixteen. Anyone, at any age, would enjoy positive attention and feedback on something that was done well. But I started to dream a little bit on that night too. I did not dream of ministry and service. I did not wonder what it would be like to sit in a hospital room with someone dying of AIDS. I had no images in my mind of speaking up for justice or of giving myself away in aid to the poor. No. My mind was filled with television cameras and flashy clothes. I could see myself standing before thousands, raising them to the loftiest height, lowering them into the depths of Hades, finally returning them to the safety of heavenly places. I was full of myself. As I said, I am certain that there was a call to ministry in that moment. That call, though, was almost, not quite, but almost, drowned out by the shouts of praise that were already ringing in my imagination.
If I am honest, I must admit that that dream has not left. That fantasy of praise and success is still hiding (although not very well) in the corner of my mind. Ambition is not a bad thing by itself. It is the things we attach to the ambition that color it one way or another.
The dream has faded considerably because of the fact that preaching, ministering, serving, is hard work. There are accolades to be sure, but it seems to me that the real work of the minister is more often heard in the whispered sermons than at any other time in his or her calling.
The text from Isaiah for today is refered to by many scholars as one of the Servant Songs. There is a great deal of scholarly discussion about who this text is written about. Is it the prophet himself? Or, is it a local community of faith called forth to be a witness? Perhaps, as some say, it might refer to the entire nation of Israel and its central purpose as a light to the world for all people to see the God of steadfast love. Probably the best answer is "all of the above." This is a text that seems to rise above any particular person or community. Its message is universal. Its words speak to the individual and the community.
Today these words speak to me, and I am inviting you to listen to their call also. They speak to each of us really. For each of us, in some way, is a prophet, a witness to faith in God. Each of us carries our own calling. Some are called into ordained ministry, to preach and teach, to equip and train. Others are called to use their gifts in the marketplace, the home, the school. Each of us is called to use our gifts wherever we might be found.
These words speak to me because they remind me in this moment, with the dreams of glory and fame still appearing in the theater of my imagination, that when God calls God's servant he calls one to be quiet. God calls the servant to bring forth justice in the nations, but the servant "will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street." Bruised reeds will be safe around the servant of God. Dimly-lit wicks will not be extinguished. This servant must whisper his sermons.
That is not as easy for a preacher to accept as you might think. After all, it is fairly audacious to dare to speak for God each week. It really doesn't matter whether there are twenty people in the pews or two thousand. It is brazen. It is foolish, too. But preachers don't want to whisper. They want to be heard.
Yet, the best sermon is the one that is whispered, the one that is spoken quietly with little or no fanfare. The best sermons often have no words. Someone once said. "I would rather see a sermon than hear one any day."
There was a preacher whose life was in turmoil. His marriage was falling apart. His ministry, which appeared strong and capable on the outside, was beginning to unravel at the seams. Looking back at the situation, he knows he was addicted to success. He was pushed not so much by a desire to serve as by the desire to achieve fame. His temptations were similar to those experienced by many preachers and pastors.
He went into therapy. For six hard months he wrestled with his demons. He began a new life of prayer. He worried less about the eloquence of his sermons and instead found time for quiet reflection. His energy increased. His concern for his people grew. For the first time in his ministry he felt pastorally connected to the members of his congregation. A year later a member of his church said to him, "I envy you. I wish I had the opportunity to spend the same amount of time in prayer and reflection that you do." The minister asked the parishioner how he knew he spent a lot of time this way. After all, the minister wondered, it would be easy to read the paper for three hours and call it "prayer." The church member's response floored the pastor: "Oh, I can tell something has changed in your approach to ministry. I don't know this for sure but I would suspect that you have only begun to spend time in prayer in the last year or so. Your ministry shows the change!" He was exactly correct.
That is not a recipe for success. It is not the beginning of a seminar on how to achieve spiritual greatness. It is a recognition of the fact that the work of ministry, the work of shining a light in the darkness does not begin so much with a shout as it does with the simple act of striking a match. There is not enough darkness in the universe to cover the light of a single flame flickering in the night.
We must admit, however, that this is a strange technique. Why be quiet? Why hold back your voice? Why not shout it out on television, in Congress, on highway billboards? There was a television preacher who proclaimed a few years ago, after their network had been connected to satellites with the potential to broadcast all across the globe, "The day is coming, it may arrive in two or three years, when every person will be given the opportunity to hear the gospel." The next words out of his mouth were on the need for funds. With enough money to fund their programming they could begin this important work. Do you hear the arrogant ignorance in that statement? One half of the world cannot even afford to pay for the electricity to run a television let alone purchase and own one. How can they hear the gospel?
In John's Gospel Jesus' ministry begins in the little village of Cana. Jesus is there for a wedding feast. You may remember the story. The wedding host runs out of wine. Mary comes to Jesus and says, "Do something about this!" (This is a loose translation of the original Greek!) Jesus responds by saying, "Why is that my problem?" Smart (and dare we say, conniving?) mother that Mary is, she ignores Jesus' comment and says to the servants, "Do whatever he tells you." Stone jars are filled with water. The steward is served. The water becomes a gold medal winning cabernet and the party continues without any fanfare about Jesus or any embarrassment to the families. This, according to John, was the first sign revealing Jesus' glory.
I don't think church growth experts would have chosen little Cana as the place to kick off their campaign with Jesus. I'm sure they would have bought a lot of advertising during half-time of the Galilean equivalent of the Super Bowl. There would be posters put up all over the place. Jerusalem would be set up as the opening city, with miraculous appearances scheduled for Rome, Athens, and Cairo. Cana? Why bother?
When the wedding feast is over, the disciples, quiet witnesses to the miracle, believe in Jesus. I am willing to guess that the reason Jesus' disciples believed him, wasn't so much due to the miracle itself as much as it was the quiet way everything was done. Here is the one who they believe is the hope of the world. This is the one Peter will proclaim to be the "Christ, the Son of the living God." And yet quietly, with no fanfare, with no trumpets blowing, with no more then a handful of people noticing, Jesus helps a group of people have a party.
Oh, there were loud moments in Jesus' ministry. I can't imagine that sending a legion of demons into a herd of swine would have been done quietly. Jesus' anger in the temple on the day that the money changers tables were turned over was probably not a sweet, special, meditative moment shared with but a few. On the whole though, Jesus ministry is done in quiet. His work is done without fanfare. It is no wonder that Isaiah's words came to symbolize, for the early church, the life of Christ.
The words of the prophet are an invitation to us to quietly accept our call and bring light into darkness. The promise of the gospel is that we are not alone in this work. We have one to follow, to emulate. He invites us to join with him, not in a cry in the streets, but in the work to bring light to the nations, sight to the blind, and release to those who are in the prison of darkness.
