Sunday After Sunday
I got a note from a friend of mine on the West Coast who’s been asked to preach next weekend. He — a guy who regularly does stuff that would make me shudder! — said it’s one of the most difficult things he’s ever asked to do. He asked how I’ve done it week after week, year after year, decade after decade.
The question made me tired. That IS a lot of sermons.
I started fulltime in 1982 with a wonderful church in Wilmington, NC, that gave me the freedom to grow into the job. And since then, it’s been Sunday after Sunday (with plenty of breaks), year after year, decade after decade.
Sometimes I think I’m about out of gas. Are there older preachers out there? Have you had the same feeling? Sometimes I think I’ve given what I have to give.
Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s a privilege. I get to lead the church in the Lord’s Prayer. I get to lay my hands on babies to represent the church, saying, “May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be on you forever.” I get to see the faces of people as the word of God is spoken in their midst. I see the tears of hope-within-grief; I see the yawns from exhaustion. I get to sit on row one, right in front of Bob and Roye Sue. I’m permitted to listen to people remember at times of death. I’m still in the sanctuary as the last words are spoken over coffins by children and spouses.
I can’t ever imagine regretting all these Sundays. And years. And decades.