Preaching
Like most things in this life, I guess,
It's a funny thing to preach the Gospel.
It's a strange and wondrous thing,
A dangerous and challenging thing,
To chew on your own life and the world
And God's Word and ways if you can get
A bite of them all into our mouth at once
While a whole gang watches and waits
And listens.
And you try not to leave them there
Just on the sideline mistaking the view for
The experience.
No, you want them to get the nourishment,
to taste the goodness and all the rest of it too
In their own mouths.
Sometimes it seems the only way to do this
Is to hit them square
So they get the black eye that shows God's rainbow promise
Or swallow the blood from their own tongues
To taste the Savior's wine.
Still, a preacher's best shot most of the time
Is a glancing blow
That leaves some things to the imagination of the heart
And creates enough friction to warm them up to the possibilities.
If you miss your angle,
You can leave folks with false idols
Full of sweet words and comfort
Empty of all that really chews
And gives life
So that they all go home
Shaking your hand for the nice sermon
To grab their remote control
As they ease into just passing the time.
Do that a few Sundays straight
And you can loose your way,
Forget the Spirit of strange holiness,
And wander into myths
Of keeping the church doors open
And the people happy
And God in the prayers
But out of the way.
Don't let it happen.
Don't slip when you stumble.
Don't go down without a fight.
It's all beyond holding still
Or keeping straight.
It's much more than that.
You have to float
And turn
And sting.
You have to punch at the reality
And swing at the surprise
And always,
Always,
Let it bruise you too
Bruise you well.
Get in there and give it your face.
It's not the stigmata,
But it's real blood.
It's living.
It's honest struggle.
There is where the bush burns
And the voice and vision whisper
So that you are carried through the sea
To words you didn't know
Were even there
And muscle
For the fight
That speaks and calls and yearns beyond you
To the people you are called to preach with
So that God preaches in you all and the
Word chews the flesh
To create.

Out in the west where I grew up there is an experience that is like no other I know of. You drive for hours through painted desert rocks and sands, past Navaho women weaving blankets and boys herding sheep through the dried brush and emptiness. Then you get out of the car and walk up to a place where it appears the world ends . . . or perhaps begins. The ground stops abruptly and you look out over the great empty expanse of the Grand Canyon. Nothing can prepare you for the awesomeness of what is to be found in the middle of what looks like desolation. Nothing can prepare you for the new emptiness that is so miraculous and beautiful. At the rim of the canyon, you meet the overwhelming beauty of life in all its emptiness and power and fullness too. You meet something so much bigger than you; where you saw a mile at most through the desert near those sheep, you now see miles and miles in every direction including beneath you. And perhaps you see a new depth inside yourself as well. The sense of who you are and how you exist changes before the Grand Canyon. There is something at the rim of the canyon that brings us to our edge as well, to that place where we must reach beyond what we thought we knew for sure, beyond what we expected to be always there, beyond what we thought we could do and be, .
The Grand Canyon has long been a metaphor for me of my relationship with God. It is so immense and beyond me, yet I have been there and seen the Colorado River snake it’s way miles below, I have touched the sun-warmed rocks on a chilly morning, and I have breathed the sigh of disbelief before the sheer unbelievable nature that is the Grand Canyon. There is the danger of slipping at its edge or on one of the canyon paths that reach down to the river. And there is the yearning to explore and remain and love not the rock of the valley so much as the empty entirety of the space. God is like that for me. God surprises me by showing up when I least expect it – just when I was getting used to the monotony of the rolling, rocky plain that is my life much of the time. Or even just when I thought things could not get worse.
Every once in a while we are given the blessing of seeing beyond what we usually see; we are given the blessing of having the wind knocked out of us by the sheer grandeur of life. It comes when we least expect it: at a funeral, or a doctor’s office, or driving down the road, or doing the same dishes we do every evening. It does not come because it was invited, but because it is always there and we only seldom risk to wander to the edge to see it.
As we explore the joys of summer, I hope and pray for each of you that you will find the edge, catch your breath, and worship in the beauty of holiness the grand God we each are blessed to know and experience.