realm beneath the presenting issues.”2 We may have daily conversations about the weather, but the Bible and theological tradition speak to our hearts if we can only hear their messages as addressed to us.
As a pastor, serving as such a translator is much easier to understand within the walls of a study than it is to put into practice in the life of the congregation. Rob Bell offers a metaphor for this difficulty as “playing the piano while wearing oven mitts.” Bell explains: “We can make a noise, sometimes even hit the notes well enough to bang out a melody, but it doesn’t sound like it could, or should. The elements are all there—fingers, keys, strings, ears—but there’s something in the way, something inhibiting our ability to fully experience all the possibilities.”3 Bell’s image resonates with me. In reviewing sermons for this book, certain messages that I was trying to proclaim were not nearly as clear or as sharp as I would have liked for them to sound. I have cringed in embarrassment at some of the “notes” of my sermons. I take comfort in the fact that, just as there is grace to be found in mistakes, so grace can be heard in any sermon.
Here, then, is yet another importance of pastoral visits: messages can be learned through relationships. By reaching out to people in their physical space, we can discern where others are in their spiritual journey. It is fine and good to make declarative statements about theology and faith, but I’ve already suggested that it is the right question that unlocks a deep meaning in a personal way. By listening attentively and seeking to learn from others, perhaps we will then discover opportunities to translate some of that wonderful scholarship into words that ring true. Moreover, preachers can be taught a great deal by the classroom of daily experience.
On another visit during my first week as a pastor, I had asked a grandmother to tell me a little about her grandson. She responded by telling this story: Her ten-year-old grandson was visiting their farmhouse one evening last winter when his grandfather went out to feed the cattle. Despite his grandmother’s urging, the young man declined the invitation to accompany him. He was still watching television, comfortable by the fire, when the grandfather came back inside with a young calf cradled in his arms. This poor animal had fallen in the creek and was nearly frozen to death. Grandpa set the calf down in the living room and began vigorously rubbing its body with warm towels. Forget the television; the grandson was now transfixed by this battle against death. Wordlessly his grandfather held out another towel with his free hand. The boy grabbed it and joined in massaging the calf back to life. Thankfully, this towel therapy worked and that baby calf eventually stumbled to its feet in that awkward way of theirs. Then the grandson willingly accompanied his grandfather to the barn for the chores. In fact, he insisted on tagging along! The child came back and proudly announced, “Cows are cool!”
Imbedded in a grandmother’s love for her grandson is a valuable lesson for pastors. In order to preach, we must be in relationship. We must accept the offered towel or outstretched hand, and be willing to work beside the people in our congregation. Just as the boy’s insight into cows was gained through the laborious, even potentially tragic work alongside his grandfather, so a sermon must be forged in a loving relationship with parishioners. Even if the message does not hit all the right notes, something of God’s truth will be communicated.
To appreciate the deep wisdom of a child’s lesson that “cows are cool,” I have learned from Wendell Berry that I need to “let the farm judge.” A novelist, essayist, and poet, Berry is also a man who shows tremendous appreciation for the art of farming. For instance, he writes of the importance of animal husbandry in light of the needs of the land. Knowledge and skill, including modern breeding practices, play a vital role. But a conscientious farmer should “let the farm judge” which breed is most compatible with environmental factors, such as topography, climate, and soil quality. For instance, Berry’s farm is along the lower Kentucky River valley, so he grazes a breed of hill sheep that can maneuver across the landscape and eat the natural vegetation.4
Let me be clear that I am not making a pejorative comparison between the congregation of New Dublin and a farm! My point is I am coming into an existing ecosystem that has functioned before me and will continue to do so after I leave. My role is proactive; I am here to “work the land.” My tools are exegetical methods to till the fertile soil of the Bible. With prayer and patience, these seeds I plant may blossom and help people think theologically.
But I also feel a deep sense of respect for the parishioners and their ways of learning. The Spirit’s gift on Pentecost, after all, was the ability to speak in multiple languages. As the Holy Spirit empowered the people, the good news was translated so that others could hear of the mighty acts of God in their own languages (Acts 2:7–8). Just as our daily commutes and routine conversations might take us into unexpected territories and profound moments, so might God speak to us in new ways through our everyday experience. And it seems to me that this is pretty cool.
“NEW BIRDS IN THE TREES”
May 22nd, 2010
Acts 2:1–21
So, here I am—the new pastor on the block and a part of the new family in the manse. Everything that I see and do is new to me. For instance, I wake up early to go running around my new neighborhood. Everywhere I look, I see signs of the new day dawning: the rising sun, the dew on the grass, the morning mist. I thank God for each new day because I am excited to be here with you, excited about our new ministry together. Sometimes I swear that the birds roosting in the beautiful old oak trees by the cemetery are actually chirping, “New! New! New!”
The more I’ve thought about all of these new things, however, the more I’ve realized that even a new day is also part of an old pattern. The sun rises and sets. The next day it rises again, only to go back down the next evening. It is true that each morning is the start of a new day; but it is also true that even new things are still part of a larger history.
Over the years there have been many new people here at New Dublin Presbyterian Church, including many pastors. All of these generations of people remain a part of our new ministry because they are a part of us today. This is like the fact that my maternal grandfather passed away over fifteen years ago, but I still wear my watch upside down just like he did. I can look at a complete stranger smoking a pipe and vividly remember him. When I sling my arm over the back of a chair, my mother says that I remind her of him. Today she is watching me do new things in front of my new church, but Granddad is somehow here as well. Who we are today is shaped in part by those who came before us. The past is also present.
After only one week, I’ve already witnessed the past becoming present when you share your stories with me. Different parts of your history can be funny or serious, hopeful or sad. But no matter what, these stories are a part of you, and I am eager to listen. As your new pastor, I want to understand how the church has shaped your life. Getting to know you includes learning where you’ve been and who you’ve been with.
How fitting, then, that today we celebrate the start of our new ministry while we mark the beginning of the church at Pentecost. In our scripture from Acts, we remember that the gift of the Holy Spirit came from heaven like a rushing wind and appeared like tongues of fire. Suddenly Galileans could speak languages from all corners of the world. Things were new, new, new!
But notice that Peter explains these new things to the crowd in Jerusalem by citing the Old Testament. He quotes the prophet Joel, who wrote centuries before him about the outpouring of the Spirit (Acts 2:14–21). Peter spoke of new events, yet he emphasized that these events were also part of a history. At Pentecost, the past was also present.
By this point in my first sermon, I expect that some of you are thinking, “Amen!” Have you been worried that this new pastor was going to come into your church with a head too full of new ideas to listen to your cherished past?
I know a story about a young Methodist preacher who arrived at his new church fresh out of seminary.
