I just finished Tom Long’s provocative Preaching from Memory to Hope, which I’d recommend to every minister. (I know, I know, why am I still reading books on preaching? I can’t help myself!) Much of the book is Long’s material from his 2006 Lyman Beecher lectures at Yale Divinity School.

In the first section of the book (chapters 1 and 2), Long recounts the reemergence of narrative preaching — especially through the provocative messages of people like Fred Craddock, Barbara Brown Taylor, and Frederick Buechner.

But recently, there have been attacks launched against narrative preaching: from the right, from the center, and from the left. Curiously, Long’s example of an attack from the right is from James Thompson of ACU. Though James does raise some potential problems in Preaching like Paul, it hardly represents “an evangelical perspective.”

Nevertheless, Long admits that the critics have a point: not all narrative preaching is gospeled:

“What has been for the last thirty years called narrative preaching has too often devolved into a hodgepodge of sentimental pseudoart, confused rhetorical strategies, and competing theological epistemologies. Preaches have larded sermons with silly stories of their pets and their children, told anecdotes from the playground to illustrate Golgotha, told hundreds of stories about certain kinds of people and shut out others, and crafted shifty trapdoor plots to keep the listeners amused. If the effect of the recent critiques is to burn away this kind of story stubble, then burn, baby, burn.”

The answer, however, is not gimmicks or the wholesale rejection of narration:

“Some megachurch preachers have seemingly noticed, or perhaps intuited, an increased presence of episodic listeners and have, in response, begun fashioning ‘antinarrative’ sermons . . . sermons that are built as a series of stand-alone ‘bullet points.’ (We have perhaps returned in a digital age to the old ‘three-points-and-a-poem’ style, except it’s now ‘eight bullet points and a video clip.’ As one critic quipped, ‘When all you have are bullet-points, your ammunition is pretty quickly spent.’) Hearers are invited to browse these sermons as they would a Web page, skipping here and there as interest would allow. Such preaching is immediately engaging to many people, but it tends to reinforce the fragmented, nonnarrated character of contemporary life, and it works, at a deep level, against the gospel.”

What is needed, he insists, is narrative preaching that is “theologically smarter and more ethically discerning in its practice.” Messages where God is the main character, where we’re not just dispensing little bits of advice about parenting, balancing the budget, or being nice. “The presence of God is not a commodity to be packaged in a sermon. It is an even to which we give testimony.” Long goes on to help imagine what such preaching might look like.

The second section of the book (chapters 3 and 4) is a frontal attack on the neognosticism that Long says is plaguing the church. What is the response of ministers to the growing number of people who have left the center of the Christian message for other versions that are both new and old? He insists, as he responds especially to Marcus Borg, that he’s not on a witch hunt. But he’s convinced that “gnosticism today leads people, as it always has, into a theological, spiritual, and ethical cul-de-sac.” I thought Long was very effective in rebutting the revisionist history of Christianity that has been popularized by Bart Ehrman and Dan Brown that pictures powerful church leaders sneaking away at church councils to pull a big one on the poor commoners of the church.

The last section — and these are “sections” as I discerned them not as they’re laid out in the book — is about preaching and eschatology. To me, this was the strongest piece. I loved the opening paragraph:

“The comedian George Carlin, in one of his marvelous standup routines, expressed astonishment over those opinion polls on television networks like CNN and Fox, where some debatable question is posed and people are invited to phone in and vote their views. ‘Did you ever notice,’ Carlin said, ‘there’s always, like, 18 percent who vote “I don’t know”? It costs a dollar to make those calls,’ Carlin said, ‘ and they’re voting “I don’t know.”‘ Carlin imagined some guy seeing the question of the day on the TV screen and saying to his wife, ‘Honey, give me that phone!’ He shouts ‘I don’t know!’ into the phone and then says proudly to his wife, ‘Sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe you’re not sure about.’ Carlin went on to speculate that these same people probably call 1-900 numbers for $3.00 a minute to say, ‘I’m not in the mood.’”

So what does it mean to preaching eschatologically?

1) It means “to participate in the promise that the fullness of God’s shalom flows into the present, drawing it toward consummation.”

2) It means affirming “that life under the providence of God has a shape, and that this shape is end-stressed; what happens in the middle is finally defined by the end.”

3) It means “helping our people know that the eschatological and apocalyptic language of the Bible is not about predicting the future; it is primarily a way of seeing the present in the light of hope.”

With the publisher’s permission, I’m including below my sermon on Psalm 137. I hope it doesn’t discourage you from checking out the many other messages that were collected.

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“Entrusting God With Our Hatreds”
Psalm 137
(Mike Cope)

By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept
When we remembered Zion.
There on the poplars
We hung our harps,
For there our captors asked us for songs,
Our tormentors demanded songs of joy;
They said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

Remember, Lord, what the Edomites did
On the day Jerusalem fell.
“Tear it down,” they cried,
“tear it down to its foundations!”
Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,
Happy are those who repay you
According to what you have done to us.
Happy are those who seize your infants
And dash them against the rocks.
(Psalm 137, TNIV)

Lord, may this ancient word of scripture – anger-filled though it is! – speak to us again this morning. Though its words of rage sound offensive to us, we admit that we’re grateful for scriptures that reflect the fullness of human life rather than scriptures that foster denial. For we do battle anger . . . and even hatred . . . and even feelings of bitterness and revenge. Please pour through me this morning the gift of preaching that we might be confronted by your word, and through it move toward Jesus Christ, the one who prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And in him we hope and pray, amen.

It’s Sunday morning, and again three wounded people have walked into the church’s assembly – with their wounds carefully hidden, of course.

The first is a 32-year-old wife and mom. After her first marriage ended, she found the man who could make her happy. At least that’s what she thought. But those angry outbursts before they married became brutal, savage beatings after she married. Now she’s trying to figure out how to get out to protect her children and herself without getting killed. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” the scripture reading says as everyone nods in agreement.

The second is a man who’s been set up and financially destroyed by his business partner. Through no fault of his own (other than perhaps naïve trust), he’s suddenly left in a precarious legal position. On top of that, everything is about to break publicly so that his wife and kids will be embarrassed. He’s even thought, briefly, about suicide. “And again I say it, rejoice!”

The third is the parent of a child who was killed by a drunk driver. The driver had already had a conviction for driving under the influence, and the night of the wreck was completely smashed. But he walked away from the accident – and the courts, almost untouched.

My guess is that we’re all a bit embarrassed to have Psalm 137 read in our assembly. It’s shocking. And we can probably agree on this: it’s not the ethical peak of scripture. If we’re going to read a psalm, we prefer Psalm 23, thank you very much!

In a world where there is more than enough revenge, it doesn’t seem like the church needs to be hearing the words, “Happy are those who seize your infants and dash them against the rocks.” Do we really want to encourage this? Haven’t we been praying the Lord’s Prayer together for the past fifteen years so that words like “forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors” become a kind of default response – not “dash their infants”?

Of course, let’s admit that Psalm 137 isn’t a lone voice in the Psalms. Despite our attempts to turn Psalms into a sweet, precious-moments devotional book, there are many words of deep anger:

“Break the arm of the wicked and evil man.” (10:15)
“On the wicked he will rain fiery coals and burning sulfur.” (11:6)
“Break the teeth in their mouths, O God; Lord, tear out the fangs of those lions! Let them vanish like water that flows away; when they draw the bow, let their arrows fall short. May they be like a slug that melts away as it moves along, like a stillborn child that never sees the sun.” (58:6-8)

Psalm 137 is not a lone voice. But it certainly does seem like the most un-Christian voice. Dash their babies? Can you say that in scripture? As a result, many Christians want to perform what Eugene Peterson calls a Psalmectomy. We want to be at our very best before God. We want to speak words of devotion, courage, and faithfulness. What we don’t want is something that sounds like it came from the Taliban.

The problem with a Psalmectomy, however, is that it exorcises the voice of people like the ones I described: the abused woman, the betrayed business partner, the grieving parent – and many, many others.

If we take away passages like Psalm 137, we only leave them with a couple options.

Some will force themselves to pretend. They’ll make spirited efforts to forgive, but they’ll never quite be able to get there. Outwardly they may say the right words, but the resentment and rage remain. Buried. Without getting to express their anger, they have to pretend that there is none.

Others will become professional victims. They’ll basically give up on life, on courageous decisions, and on people. They know they were hurt, and they’re going to live out of that pain.

As Peterson says, Psalm 137 resists both of those moves. It doesn’t recommend hatred; rather, it expresses the feelings that are there. Only then can one move beyond.

The people of God had been exiled from Jerusalem to Babylon in 587 B.C. Now from exile, they’re remembering Jerusalem. “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion.” And as if that isn’t enough, the captors are mocking them by insisting that they sing “songs of joy” from Zion. (Sadly, that very thing happened again to Jews during World War 2 at one of the concentration camps. Jewish prisoners were forced to sing and dance songs of their heritage – one final way to take away any remaining dignity.)

So the psalmist evokes God’s severest judgment on both the Babylonians who had destroyed Jerusalem and on the Edomites who stood to the side and cheered the Babylonians on.

It’s after asking the Lord to remember the enemies that he exclaims, “Happy [or Blessed] are those who seize your infants and dash them against the rocks.” Not exactly a beatitude we teach our children.

All right, so admittedly this isn’t the most noble moment of scripture. But it strikes me as honest. And before we write it off as being sub-Christian, perhaps we should ask what it accomplishes.

The writer takes his hatred to God, and in doing so – in bringing that raw sewage of enemy-hatred before the throne – he refuses to forgive too quickly. My own experience as a so-so forgiver tells me that Walter Brueggemann is right when he asks: “Could it be that genuine forgiveness is possible only when there has been a genuine articulation of hatred?” The hurt is real, and he refuses to pretend otherwise.

He also refuses to accept all the responsibility. He knows that there really are victims in this world. There are people who didn’t ask for what they got, who didn’t deserve what they got.

Our own versions of moralism (where you get what you deserve) seeps out in comments like this: “It takes two to destroy a marriage.” No it doesn’t! There usually are two sides to the story . . . but not always. Sometimes there is just someone doing evil and someone who is a victim.

The psalmist honors the freedom of the enemies by recognizing that they have a will and they have used the will for great harm.

But he won’t remain a victim. That’s not a role he’s auditioning for. He isn’t whining. He is praying – out loud! – his bold resistence to evil. He exposes it for what it is. He does battle with the evil by exposing it before God and by expressing his hurt, his anger, his red-hot bitterness.

But let me emphasize again: he takes this all to God. He prays it. Again, I think Brueggemann is right on target: “It is an act of profound faith to entrust one’s most precious hatreds to God, knowing they will be taken seriously.”

That word of scripture comes to the 32-year-old mother . . . and to the financially-destroyed business partner . . . and to the weary, teary parent . . . and to us. What will we do with all our anger – anger at real enemies in this real world?

Will we retaliate? Will we pay them back? Will it be eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth? Or will we, instead, bring this anger before God? Do we believe he’s able to handle the honesty of it all?

I know what we’re all wondering: but what about forgiveness? What about, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing”? or “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors”? or “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times”? or “But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven”?

True, Psalm 137 doesn’t get us there. “Kill their babies” is light-years from “love your enemies.” This isn’t the Sermon on the Mount.

It is, however, scripture. And its word to us is important. For before we can get to forgiveness, we have to be honest: honest to ourselves and honest before God.

I remember what Lewis Smedes said about forgiveness: that it has four stages: (1) we hurt; (2) we hate; (3) we heal; and (4) we come together. Listen again to those first two: we hurt, and we hate.

Psalm 137 isn’t vigilante justice. He isn’t heading out with a posse to round up all the infants. This isn’t King Herod! Rather, he’s trusting God to take the honest truth and deal with the venom. He takes his hatred to God and asks God to do what only he can do. For hatred will be fatal if it is allowed to remain and fester inside us.

Now here’s an important question: can we who follow Jesus Christ, the embodiment of forgiveness (and one who had enemies who killed him!), be trusted to hear Psalm 137? Can we hear it calling us to be honest before God about our bitterness without acting in retaliation? Can we be people of faith who’ll entrust our most precious hatreds to him, knowing that he’ll take them seriously and deal with them on his own terms? Can we begin here with this honest pain and continue on the journey toward love of enemy and forgiveness? Can we remind each other that God is in control and any vengeance that’s called for is his and not ours?

Let us pray:

Dear Lord of Justice and Compassion,

We bring our hatreds to you this morning. Here in the presence of your saints, we offer them to you. Some have been abandoned or abused by spouses. Some have been burned by business partners. Some have been gossiped about. Some were emotionally abused by parents. Some have been violated by monsters. Some have been lied to; others have been traumatically rejected. Some have lost loved ones to drunk drives. And some have seen on TV the faces of evil people who bring terror into our world.

We bring these to you because we don’t want to be dominated by our hatred. We want to be free of it.

So today, Lord, please take over for us. If revenge needs to happen, you do it. We can’t. As sinners, we are too blind in our anger. And besides, in one way or another, we have contributed to the darkness of the world. We’re in no position to judge.

Having given this hatred to you, please fashion us into the image of Jesus Christ, who, when his enemies hurled insults at him, did not retaliate; who, when he suffered, made no threats; who, in the presence of those crucifying him, prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” And by his wounds we have been healed.

As we face our pain honestly this morning, hear our cries. Hear our pleas for justice in this world. Hear our thanks that your justice is mixed with mercy. And fashion us into a people who know true, rugged, courageous forgiveness.

Through Christ we pray, amen.

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Fast forward to the spring of 1982 — after four years at Harding, a year of internship, and three years at Harding Graduate School — and my first full-time ministry began in Wilmington, North Carolina.

Since that spring, I’ve been a preacher. Minister. Dare I say it: “pastor”? I’ve preached, taught, studied, visited hospitals, done weddings and funerals, and walked toward Jesus with people. It’s been a great honor.

Beginning this summer, that will change. Oh, I’ll still be a minister — joining Landon Saunders in this exciting project (and as every Christ-follower is anyway!). But not a — what? — “local minister.” And I wonder if I’ve underestimated what that will do to my sense of identity. The rhythm will be different.

I know so many people, even among my circle of friends, who have made career changes. (Wince. I still don’t like to think of ministry as a career. But in one sense it certainly is. A calling. A service. A privilege. A career.) Most of them affirm that it was the right thing to do — but not always without a bit of identity crisis.

I’m going to try not to be a version of Charleton Heston, forcing people to pry the lectern from my cold, dead hands. I’m eager to find my place in the local body of Christ that is, well, less visible but equally important. Think: 1 Corinthians 12!

Anyone else out there made a mid-course change? What have you learned that’s been helpful?

(Back to “Lost History” series tomorrow or Monday.)

“There is more going on here than anyone can say. Preaching is finally more than art or science. It is alchemy, in which tin becomes gold and yard rocks become diamonds under the influence of the Holy Spirit. It is a process of transformation for both preacher and congregation alike, as the ordinary details of their everyday lives are translated into the extraordinary elements of God’s ongoing creation. When the drum roll begins and the preacher steps into place, we can count on that. Wherever God’s word is, God is — loosening our tongues, tuning our ears, thawing our hearts — making us a people who may speak and hear the Word of Life.”

- Barbara Brown Taylor, Preaching Life

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Between doubleheader games yesterday — a visit with Van and Tatum, cousins who now live in Coppell.

Driving home after the second game from Weatherford.

Who would ever think a preacher would say that? But as I head toward my transition, I realize what all those Wednesday evenings with Highland elders have meant to me.

Last night I was exhausted after teaching at ACU, preparing for a funeral, conducting the funeral, and lots of conversations in between. But like so many other Wednesday nights (the elders and ministers meet every first and third Wednesday nights, beginning at 8:15), I was refreshed to be there.

First, a time of dwelling in the word. Once again, we are focused on one passage for the whole year. We read the passage, meditate on it, share our insights with someone near us, read it again, and pray.

Second, we affirmed and prayed for four women in our church who are going to Jordan as ambassadors for Christ.

Third, we affirmed and prayed for our worship minister who has been in this role (part-time) for five years.

Fourth, we were challenged by one of our leaders (not an elder or staff member) who showed us Highland’s journey toward missional living — and called us to be bold in our leadership in that direction. He’s part of a team the elders appointed almost three years ago to assist us in this gospeled movement. He told us that “missional” isn’t just some catchy term; rather, it’s a way to describe three instincts in our church: evangelism, justice, and spiritual formation. It is a way of viewing discipleship as joining God in his work in this world.

Finally, one of our elders led us in a time of prayer. Like so many other nights, people will express their prayer concerns; then we’ll all say together, “Lord Jesus, this is our prayer.”

I’m not a night person. But that kind of spiritual feeding is worth staying awake for! And as I said, I’ll miss it.

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Clearly, President Obama is reading this blog. I awoke yesterday morning to hear on the early news that he had picked the same four teams I did for the final four (Louisville, Memphis, Pittsburgh, UNC). Fair enough, Mr. President. I’ll work on March Madness. You fix the economy!

He immediately imagined what it must be have been like for her to lose her adult daughter. He wondered if this daughter had her own children and perhaps grandchildren.

“I’m so sorry. How long ago did she pass away?”

“Sixty-two years ago,” the woman replied.

Yes, grief is like that. She’d never forgotten that precious three year old who’d been struck by a disease that today could have been treated routinely.

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“Every Sunday I preach to at least three people who are dying of something. My general rule of thumb is this: any sermon I preach has to be worth the time they are giving to it.” Barbara Brown Taylor

Children of Highland have been telling the stories each week that I’m preaching on in this series called “Storybook Lives.” Some are brief; some verbose. Some serious; some more playful. All have been wonderful.

The six year old who told the story yesterday was energetic, creative, and breathless. And, without meaning to be, she was just really funny.

I’d watched the video a couple times, but for some reason it just sent me over the edge when I watched it in worship. And I couldn’t recover. I desperately looked for someone down front to come up and pray for me since I was afraid that if I prayed I’d be giggling and guffawing all the way through. It was hard to find someone capable of doing so. The laughter bug was infectuous. I glanced down at Bob A., one of my elders. No way. His shoulders were bouncing and tears were rolling down his face. I kept scanning and found Bob S., who came up shaking his head and said to me under his breath, “I’m not sure this is going to go any better.” But it did, as he asked God to pour through me the gift of preaching.

Someone told me this was the second time she’d see me incapable of even speaking. The first time was a few years ago when I took the jogging stroller that I’d pushed Megan in thousands of miles as an illustration. But the moment I touched it, I fell apart. It caught me by surprise. It was years after my daughter’s death and I had known what I was going to say. But when I touched the stroller in the context of worship, I had a meltdown.

There were tears again yesterday. But this time they were tears of laughter.

Ironically, our call to worship yesterday was Psalm 30: “Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. . . . You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.”

At least for that one day, it was certainly true!

A wedding (my third this spring) — for “the girl next door.” Literally, the young woman who was six when I became her minister and seven when we became her next door neighbors.

Senior Sunday — 59 seniors were listed on the back of the bulletin. That’s a lot of people. And it’s the first time I can remember a “whoop” every time it was mentioned that someone was going to Texas A&M. (We’ll be checking hidden security cameras later to find out where that was coming from!)

Baccalaureate for Wylie High School. We actually had six Wylie graduates from our youth group this year, which was as many as I can remember. (We’re largely an AHS youth group.)

There were so many strengths in my ministry training — especially in languages and exegesis. But there were some holes, too. I don’t remember anyone ever saying, “By the way, here’s what you do when you’re asked to be involved in a funeral.” Or a wedding. To say nothing of church leadership, conflict resolution, etc. So many good changes have been made in the last three decades in ministry training.

The biggest change is helping ministers understand how to lead a church (or plant a church!) that knows how to live as missionaries in a broken world. It’s long past time for the church to quit throwing its weight around, whining because America has changed. It’s time for us to join God in what he’s doing around the world in bringing good news to the poor, to the broken-hearted, and to the outcasts.

We’re also not having much luck guessing the date of our granddaughter’s arrival. She was due the 19th, but we’re still waiting for THE CALL . . . .

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Here’s perhaps the biggest change in my understanding of preaching through the years.

I used to think that I was supposed to make scripture relevant. It’s an old book speaking to a modern world. Now, however, I see that this is too low a view of scripture and too high a view of our “modern” world.

Now I see my job as inviting people to enter into the world of scripture — a world that is hauntingly familiar and yet mysteriously dissimilar.

The key is imagination. I think I’m to help people (including, of course, myself) imagine what a truly human life might look like in light of Easter. What might a gospeled life look like?

I used to flatten scripture, I think. It became a sermon source of rules and regs. It was full of insightful points waiting to be made.

Now as I get to live inside the story world of the Bible, I realize even more why one could say that the word of God is living and active and sharper than any double-edged sword.

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When I agreed to spend an hour in the dunking booth for our youth group’s Mexico missions fund-raiser, there are three things I didn’t know:

1. How cool Saturday would be with overcast skies;

2. How frigid the water would be; and

3. How many kids would have “unlimited” bracelets, allowing them to throw as many times as they want.

I have a great picture of one of our third graders holding up all ten fingers — to represent the ten times he dunked Preacher Mike.

I need to thank Randy Harris, who offered to pay for the first 50 throws by any of our ACU students who wanted to dunk me. I heard a couple of our students mumbling something about the first exam as they fired away.

Please don’t worry about me. Hypothermia lifted after a water-heater-emptying shower.

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.

For a couple decades now, Thursdays have been the day I’ve tried to devote to preparing and writing a sermon. Life’s not that smooth, of course. You can’t always protect one day. And really the sermon begins much earlier as ideas are worked over. But still, Thursdays have typically been the day when all that comes together.

When I was young, I had a kind of formula for working through a text and coming to a sermon. That’s a good thing, I think. It’s why sports always begin with fundamentals.

But as I’ve aged, I feel less like I’m doing something to the text and more like scripture is doing something to me. So much of my sermon preparation is mulling: reading the words slowly again and again . . . praying through the words, soaking up the words of gospel that they proclaim . . . letting my imagination run free as the sermon begins to appear as a journey. (In my earliest days, the sermon was like classic oratory — complete with intro, points, and conclusion. Now it’s a journey — a journey with that has a specific beginning and a specific ending but with many bends along the way. [Sometimes, of course, that journey comes with intro, points, and conclusion!])

There’s still the hard work. But even that is part of the mulling. As I translate the text (NT) from Greek and as I read through my Spanish testament, I usually don’t think I’m gaining any special insider’s knowledge. But it forces me to slow down and to dwell on words and phrases and images. It allows me to ask questions: What difference does this make? How do these words speak words of good news? Do they sharpen our understanding of discipleship, of community, and of mission? Do they call for change? How do they point to Jesus?

The older I get, the more I realize what people don’t need and what people really DO need: the good news that the reign of God has broken in through the life, death, resurrection, and presence of Jesus in our midst. A new day has come. Hope abounds.

Tony Campolo wrote a book called It’s Friday But Sunday’s Comin’.

Someday maybe I’ll write a preaching book called It’s Thursday But Sunday’s Coming.

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I’m feeling in the minority right now. No governor or senator from my state has yet announced a presidential bid for 2008.

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The “Letters to the Editor” section of the Abilene Reporter-News has been quite active since the city council voted to ban smoking in all restaurants and bars. Most of the rhetoric has been libertarian concerns (the government shouldn’t tell anyone, including business owners, what they have to do) vs. communitarian concerns. It’s been very interesting.

Here’s what I remember about that year of preaching:

1. I’m glad no one was taping sermons then. I’m especially thankful there are no surviving MP3s for a podcast. (Note to anyone in Alread and Sheridan: if there are any surviving reel-to-reel copies, I’d be willing to buy them in order to destroy them.)

2. I loved the drive time. A beautiful blonde was sitting by my side every mile of the way.

3. Even if I didn’t feed the congregation well, they certainly fed us well! It was a nice break from the regular fare of Pattie Cobb cafeteria on the Harding campus. (Does anyone else remember eating there?) We’re talking home-grown vegies and large quantities of beef.

4. There was great joy in standing before the church speaking about things that matter. My life hadn’t caught up to the things I spoke about — it hasn’t yet! — and yet there was electricity in speaking words of faith and hope.

5. This tiny church (Alread) and small church (Sheridan) launched me with encouragement and compassion. How many churches are there out there — within driving distance of Abilene, Searcy, Oklahoma City, Lubbock, Henderson, Nashville, Malibu, etc.– that have graciously listened to people who knew way more about Greek and Hebrew than they yet knew about life? Blessed are the encouragers of the world.

But I also had time to listen to a message that was recommended to me by a blog reader who had heard me preach on some of the themes in the sermon.

Find 50 minutes and listen to this incredible message by Rob Bell. Go to this site, and find message #411 (December 10, 2006).

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I haven’t yet gotten to listen to Rick Atchley’s three lessons on “The Both/And Church” (explaining their decision to add an instrumental service), but they are found here.

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Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn made it easily into the Baseball Hall of Fame. But here’s my question: what 13 people voted AGAINST Gwynn? The man played two decades with the same team, and retired with a lifetime .338 batting average. He’s among the very best the game has ever seen.

No — not THAT act. Not adultery, but plagiarism.

Just recently I heard the sad story of a beloved minister who, perhaps in his exhaustion, began lifting sermons in whole from a great Christian Church preacher. Word-for-word. He even told the man’s personal stories as if they were his own personal stories. Even more sadly, once he was confronted about it, he continued to do it.

There is no excuse for that. It’s wrong.

We all borrow from others. I’ve been impacted by the books of Wright, Brueggemann, Crabb, Willard, and Peterson — books that have seeped into my bones. I’m sure there are times that their words come out — not verbatim, but in essence — without my even knowing it. We’ve heard good stories and illustrations that we’ve retold. We’ve retold humorous quips. We’ve gotten sermon thoughts that proved fruitful later in our own planning.

There’s nothing wrong with that. Who, after all, has a truly original thought?

But that must not be an excuse for the stealing involved in lifting sermons. When you cut-and-paste someone else’s message while pretending it’s yours, that’s wrong. When you tell another’s story as if it happened to you, that’s wrong.

I remember as a young man hearing about an older minister in the South who was confronted because he was just buying Swindoll books and preaching his sermons — without even bothering to disguise it. His sermon series carried the title of the book and the individual sermons had the titles of the chapters. When challenged about it, he simply replied: “I bought the book. It’s my material.”

That is grounds for dismissal.

Here’s the thing: a story doesn’t lose any power by giving the source. It doesn’t have to be YOUR story. It never diminishes the impact to say that you were deeply impacted by a book you read or a sermon you heard.

When we were first married, I went through my Jim McGuiggan stage. (I’m still sort of in that stage — I just don’t get to hear him often enough.) I listened to his tapes . . . until Diane cut me off. She said I was developing an Irish accent.

Some need to be cut off from sermons. They need to quit listening to the tapes, quit downloading the MP3s, and unsubscribe to the podcasts. They’re not wrong in themselves; but if they become your shortcut that takes the place of arduous, prayerful preparation, then drop them!

Perhaps part of the blame lies with the pressure that some churches put on their ministers. They expect them to be pastoral, to be witty, to be insightful, to be humorous, and to be deep. Part David Letterman, part N. T. Wright.

If you’re a church leader, affirm the leadership and teaching of your ministers that is solid, biblical, and congregationally pastoral. Make sure the ones preaching and teaching are given time to prepare. Consider giving them an allowance so they have resources to buy good books and journals. Think about offering them sabbatical time each year just for study and prayer–time that is added to their regular vacation time. These resources and this time are not only for the benefit of the minister; they’re also for the good of the church! (By the way, these are things I’m generously offered at Highland. I’d just like to see others follow that practice.)

But, having said that, the blame can’t be placed primarily at the feet of the church. What I’m talking about is unethical. It is a red flag — just as an affair is — that something is deeply wrong.

If I hear you preach, I don’t want to hear a Bob Russell sermon. I’m sure it would be solid and biblical. But if I want to hear a BR sermon, I’ll listen to BR. If I hear you preach, I want to hear YOU. Maybe it’ll include a point or an illustration you first heard from Bob Russell. But the sermon — the heart of what you’re saying — is what you’ve agonized over. It’s what the good news of Christ has said to you on behalf of the church that week. It is passionate, prayerful, and gospel-formed. That’s what I want — and need! — to hear. For me it doesn’t have to be funny; it doesn’t have to be a home run.

In reality, it may include a LOT of things you’ve heard and read from others. But it is YOUR message. It bears your sweat; it is birthed from your confrontation with text and gospel; it is geared toward your community of faith. It is God pouring through you the gift of preaching.

Sometimes I can’t find a creative thought. I study, pray, work, study, and pray. My text has been translated; I’ve read it again and again in its context; I’ve prayed through it. But not one creative thought comes. At this point a sermon would be like a running commentary. I try to GET CREATIVE, but it’s like trying to hit a 98 mph fastball with a baseball that’s been shrunk down to the size of a golf ball.

But there are moments.

Sometimes it’s a creative day or a creative couple days. Times when the baseball has slowed down and has gotten back to normal size. Instead of the raw data of exegesis, I’m able to move from science to art. Connections are made. A journey for the message begins to form. I love days like this.

And then there are times — rare, really — when it’s more like hitting a beach ball coming at 20 mph. I occasionally have moments when all the fog lifts and everything falls into place. I can’t write quickly enough. I’ve had a spurt as short as fifteen minutes when a month’s worth of sermons came spilling out.

Here’s the problem: I don’t know how to control the muse. I can’t beg her to appear and I can’t cajol her through sleep, study, or exercise. She just shows up.

In the meantime, I told these guys, it’s important to be disciplined about your work: your study of the word, your praying of the word, and your living of the word.

Sometimes the creative burst comes early with plenty of lead time. Sometimes it shows up rather late. But when it comes, and thank God it usually does, you smile, soak it in, and write down every thought that comes.