The Power Inbetween

I woke up and rewrote a few pages of that morning's sermon.
My wife asked me, "How's the sermon."
I replied, "Eh. I don't know. It is what it is. Bumbaugh would mark it up."
She gave me an encouraging smile and said, "I'm sure it'll be all right."
I gave her a small smile in return, collected a good-bye kiss, and headed to church.
I rewrote a few paragraphs when I got there.
Then, the service time drawing to a close, I said to myself, "Perhaps, it being the hottest Sunday of the Summer (so far), and our lack of air conditioning in the sanctuary, will limit the number of people in the pews."
I also paused to look at the "prayer" hanging on my office bulletin board,
written by David Bumbaugh, my ministry and preaching professor at Meadville Lombard,

PRAYER BEFORE DELIVERING A SERMON

What in the name of all that's holy
am I doing here?
What in the name of all that's holy
are they doing here?
Whatever possessed me
to think this sermon worth delivering
to this congregation,
to any congregation?

Ideas that seemed so fresh
now sound trite, hackneyed,
scarcely thought through.
The words have been chosen
because I like the way they sound,
the way they flow together,
the way they fill the space,
or because there another word
I can't think of,
another word that says it better,
but I can't think of it at the moment,
so this word,
which doesn't quite work,
will have to do.

Oh,God,
if you are there,
please help them hear in this sermon
something I didn't know I said.
Help them hear in the silences
the message they need to hear.
Let there be some richness
I did not plan.

Dear God,
help me remember
what I say is less important
than what I they hear,
else I'll never dare
occupy a pulpit again.

-deb


The service went well. It was very hot in the sanctuary.
Lots of people showed up anyway.
111, to be exact.
And I' received more requests for that sermon to be printed than any other so far.
The Sermon Prologue will be coming soon.


There is something that happens in the sanctuary.
We ministers say the words.
The musicians play the music and the choirs sing.
And the people in the pews listen and hear and sometimes sing along.
But--
there is something that happens between the saying and the hearing,
between the music and the words,
between--
something happens transformative
between what goes out into the vaulted space of the sanctuary
and what comes in to the ears, hearts, and minds of those present.

And none of us are responsible for that transformative Inbetween
or maybe
we are all responsible for it
either way
it leaves me amazed, grateful, energized, exhausted, and absolutely blessed
every Sunday
I feel it.