Maybe Church Matters After All

 

photo by David Brock / flickr

Sometimes for preachers a nightmare becomes a reality. Every minister I know has the same dream or close to it. It’s Sunday. The church is singing. But you can’t find your pants or any of your clothes. Sometimes you can’t find your notes or your Bible. They are waiting out there for the preacher and you are not ready. And the dream ends. 

Last Sunday I had my pants on and everything else. Even my tie. My Bible was nearby and I was getting ready to preach in this new church. And at 9:40 they called. “Where are you?” “I’m at home.” “Didn’t you know that our church starts at 9:30?” “What! Nobody told me that. I thought it was eleven.” Silence from the other end of the phone. And then I said: “Hmm. I’ll leave right now. I’ll be there soon. Tell everybody to wait. Oh, I am so embarrassed.” I didn’t know exactly where the church was. I had never been there. I had directions but I wasn’t even sure they were right. So I drove—frantically—you can imagine. What if I don’t get there? What if I can’t find the church? What if a cop stops me? 

This was no nightmare. This was real time—as they say on the telly. I bypassed the church sign which pointed the way. I turned around and about two blocks later—there it was.  This little white church with a tiny steeple sitting on a hill. It was beautiful. Later I learned it went it all the way back to 1836. It was the Mother church of all the Presbyterians churches scattered in the area. 

I stopped my car, grabbed my Bible and walked through the doors. “We’ve done everything preacher but the sermon.” There were eleven sitting  there—all on the back pews of course. So—I opened my Bible and began to read that old story of the man who gave his servants five talents, two talents and one talent. I stood in the back with them and quoted Mary Oliver’s question: “What are you going to do with your one wild precious life?" 

I talked to them and myself. I reminded them that we all have some talents. All of us. None are left out. And we have to decide if we’ll bury that gift in the ground or use it as best we can. 

Most of them had grey hair. Maybe one young man was there. A couple of middle-agers. But I wondered: Is this appropriate for all these grey-hairs sitting out there? The story says: Yeah. We all have a gift even those of us who have far less to travel. Most of our years were behind us. 

We forget sometimes that dotted all over this country there are tiny congregations that meet Sunday after Sunday.  Why—I am not sure. But this I know. They wouldn’t keep coming that handful or that church-full. They come to hear a word they don’t hear any other place. They come with joy and angers and fears and wondering and often a little hope. We’re all the same. And those who never come or don't think about those little white churches on the hill don’t know that something real happens in those tiny places. People hug and compare notes and gossip and tell a multitude of things. They pray for one another. And they find, wonder of wonders, just enough manna to keep them going for another week.

I’m glad I tore out of my drive way and drove to a place I had never been—late though I was. They gave me something last Sunday morning. A reminder that somewhere between the Invocation and the the Benediction God really does walk down those little aisles and stop at every pew—and the pulpit too I think. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com