As a pastor, I get paid to say things that are both profound and interesting every week. Of course, I have the living, active Word of God to draw from, but there is an expectation that I add some of my own words to that--some of my own interpretation, some of my experience, some of my appreciation for those God-breathed words.
Every week when I think about that expectation, I panic. Every week I think that there is no more to say. Every week I fear that this good news has ceased to be either good or news.
At first that terrified me. I had images of standing at a pulpit in front of a congregation watching them watching me.
This actually did happen briefly one Sunday. Someone forgot to put the collection plates at the front of the church, and I stood with the microphone in my hand and waited while they were retrieved. There was no music, no one said anything. I just looked at them and they looked at me, and we all waited together.
But that silence was short-lived.
The silence I fear is bigger than that.
Every week I read the text for Sunday, and I begin to think about it. I think about the characters in the story. I think about God's actions. And I start to wonder how an ancient God dealing with ancient people could possibly be relevant to my life. To anyone's life.
And then I begin to descend into darkness. I get hopeless and discouraged. Does anything I do matter? Is anything I say heard?
Now, I know this isn't rational. I know that my emotions are driving me downward.
But it's where I live.
Then, a few months ago, I started reading Anne Lamott's journal of her son's first year of life, Operating Instructions.
In Anne Lamott, I found a companion in the darkness. She loved her son, of course, but there were days when she fell apart. There were days when she couldn't bear to hear him cry for one more second. There were days when she felt hopeless.
As I read her words, I began to realize the power of looking into the darkness. It's tempting to close my eyes. It's tempting to preach joy, peace, and victory from a safe distance. It's tempting to preach words that sound good and nice and make everyone wish they could be that kind of Christian. But we all have places of darkness in our lives, and what good is a pastor whose words only make sense in the light? What good is a church that refuses to acknowledge the presence of the darkness?
I don't fear the darkness anymore because I know it comes and goes, and when it comes it is a gift. Then I can experience it and describe it so that those who hear my voice know they are not alone in their darkness. When it goes, I give thanks for the light. I give thanks for peace and joy. But I know the darkness will come back again, and I will be waiting to meet it.
I believe that one of the most powerful messages Christianity can speak to the world is that there truly is darkness. It is okay to grieve loss and pain. It is okay to ache with loneliness and heartbreak. It is okay to look at this world and feel hopeless, to feel the impossible weight of sin and death. It is okay be crucified by the powers and principalities. It is okay to feel like death buried in a tomb.
Because "The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it."
We need not fear the darkness because we have seen the light.
Every week, my task is to keep my eyes open, to look straight into the darkness and to discern the light always emanating upward and outward.
That is what I must speak every week. I must give voice to the darkness. I must speak words that let those walking in the valley of the shadow of death know that they do not walk alone.
And then I must allow the light to shine in that darkness. The light of the Gospel, the light of the good news, the best news.
I especially want to share this with anyone growing weary of preaching. Do not be afraid of the darkness. Look into it and share what you see. And then go looking for the light that still shines even on the darkest of nights. As pastors, this is the task before us: to keep our eyes open.
 |
| Keep your eyes open! |
Needtobreathe - Keep Your Eyes Open
1 comment:
That book saved my life during my first year with Maeve. So good. So true. Glad to hear your perspective.
Post a Comment