Tag Archives: Preaching

The Church in the Middle of the Cornfield

It’s Sunday. l’m in the car early on this October morning. I leave the city and all the traffic behind and pretty soon I’m by myself on country roads, heading to this little church where I’ve been invited to share in a special Children’s Sunday. I’m happy to do it… children’s ministry is my passion.

I don’t really know what to expect when I get there, but I’m thinking that that this place won’t be packed. There probably won’t be many kids. But that’s okay, I remind myself. After all, some of Jesus’ most powerful conversations that would result in transformed lives were shared one on one, rather than in the crowd.

I keep driving, and driving, past peach farms and fruit trees, and nothing else, until I arrive at the railway tracks that have no lights. I obediently stop and as I do, I see a faithful little sign beyond, trying its best to stick up importantly out of the grass. It bears a cross and flame. I know that logo.

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Chapel Hill United Methodist Church 1/4 Mile that faithful sign announces, with a little arrow to guide me just in case I get lost. After all, the road I’m on does seem to stretch into nowhere.

But I’m on the right path. And exactly one-quarter of a mile down that road, I get my first glimpse of the church. It’s little. And cute. It looks welcoming. It’s in the middle of a cornfield.

As I pull into the parking lot, I note that there’s even parking spaces ‘reserved for visitors.’ I try not to think about just how many visitors might come here. But the point is, this church is prepared.

It’s just that I’m not… I’m not quite prepared for what I experience that morning…

because inside those doors, something is happening, fueled by the undeniable and inextinguishable presence of the Holy Spirit.

Every pew is full. And there are children… lots of them. The worship is high energy as we gather to celebrate the launch of the re-envisioned Kidz Konnection. And I have to admit this is just not what I was expecting.

So much work, and thought, and planning, and prayer, and preparation has gone into this that I am overwhelmed… and so proud of this little church and all it is achieving.

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And when we make our way up to the altar rail for communion, I get the biggest piece of bread I have ever seen, because, as the pastor says: who wants a little bit of Jesus? Don’t we all want a big hunk of Jesus?

Yes, yes, yes! This little church in the middle of the cornfield is offering a big hunk of Jesus to all who step though its doors. And that is a wonderful thing.

And I guess it doesn’t matter what size our church, whether we’re in the city or the country, as long as we’re preaching the Gospel and welcoming children as Jesus did.

As long as little children return from the communion rail grinning from ear to ear clutching a piece of bread so sodden in juice that it has turned pink, while others kneel at the communion rail, their eyes closed and their hands held high in prayer.

And when I leave that morning, I look out, beyond the cross, over to the cornfield and I watch the giant stalks blowing in the wind.

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I think about that huge field of corn, and all the work and preparation that went into it. Of how a farmer must have planted those seeds, and nurtured them, and fed them, and proudly watched them grow, all the while anticipating a harvest.

And that’s just what this little village church is doing… planting seeds, and nurturing them, and faithfully fulfilling its mission to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.

There will be a harvest.

To the Newly Ordained Pastors….Why I’m Afraid For You.

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It truly was an amazing Ordination Service.

Hundreds of United Methodists, a great cloud of witnesses, gathered together to honor and celebrate those who had bravely stepped forward to answer God’s call on their lives and enter ordained ministry.

It was such a powerful and moving service that I wouldn’t have been surprised if a white dove had descended from the ceiling. Because the Holy Spirit was surely present… hovering, and filling, and moving, and working. Everyone there could feel it.

In the Bishop’s hands as she knelt to wash the feet of those newly ordained, the Holy Spirit was there.

In the songs we sang. and the music we heard, the Holy Spirit was there.

In the babies and children who clapped their hands, the Holy Spirit was there.

In those who watched from the balcony, who heard God calling them into ministry too, and who made their way up to the altar in tears, the Holy Spirit was there.

It was the same Holy Spirit who hovered over the chaos of creation; the same Holy Spirit who came down upon Jesus 2000 years ago in the River Jordan; the same Holy Spirit who showed up powerfully thirty years ago, when my husband was ordained.

Do you believe that God has called you to the life and work of ordained ministry? the Bishop asked.

I do so believe came the unanimous response.

I do so believe that too.

I believe that God called each of you.

I believe that each of you who knelt before the Bishop have already knelt before God’s throne.

I believe that each of you who had hands laid upon you in prayer already have God’s own hand powerfully laid upon your life.

I believe that for every person who hugged and clapped and cried for you, there are already a thousand angels singing for joy for you.

Because I know that you, like my husband, have been called, and set apart and sent for God’s Holy work, and you entered the ministry because you have a yearning to mend broken hearts, and bind up the wounded, and try to make a difference in this hurting world. I know this.

But I’m afraid for you.

I’m afraid lest you become one of the wounded. I’m afraid that as you rise to your feet and leave that spirit-filled sanctuary behind, the world and (dare I say it) your churches might steal your joy, and cause you to question your call.

And if that day should come, I pray that you can find your sanctuary again, that you will remember that it is Almighty God who has called you, that you will still be able to feel God’s Holy Spirit strengthening and sustaining and upholding you, and that when you hear words that discourage and deter, the truth of God’s words to you will be louder in your ear and stronger in your heart….

you are my child whom I dearly love; I find happiness in you.

It was a privilege to see you ordained. May God bless you every day and fill you with the Holy Spirit as you seek to make disciples, preach the Word, and answer that wonderful call on your life.

You are brave.

And you will make a difference in the world.

My Dad’s Battered Bible

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This is my dad’s Bible.

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The cover is not patterned, as my son first thought, and it’s definitely not pretty. The leather is terribly cracked, and wrinkled, and dry – so much so that the words ‘Holy Bible’ are almost obscured.

I don’t know how long my dad owned this 1957 King James edition, or where he got it from, but I do know that he read it every day, that his hands turned the well-worn pages, that this was the most important book he ever owned.

As a Methodist local preacher, my dad preached every single Sunday, and like a faithful companion, this battered Bible accompanied him. It must have traveled for miles.

Whether lying on the front seat of his car, being carried under his arm as he walked, or riding in the panniers of his bicycle as he rode to his appointments, this book was at his side. It was, for my dad, the only text from which to preach.

As a young girl, I can remember coming downstairs early in the morning to find him sitting at the kitchen table, his head pored over this book.

This is a great text, Glenys. I just need three good points to preach on, he would say.

I don’t know how many pulpits my dad climbed, how many sermons he preached, or how many lives were changed because of his words, but I know mine was.

I found his bookmark, tucked, appropriately, in Romans 8:28, towards the end of the New Testament. My four-year old grandson, when he saw it, said, in his wonderful, innocent way,

Oh Grandma, your dad nearly got to the end of his book. You’ll have to finish it for him.

There’s nothing I can do to finish what my dad began. But I can carry it on.

I can continue what he started, what he pursued so passionately in life. I can spread the Gospel – from the pulpit, or the page. I can try to put others before myself, be in love with the splendid world God made, always look for the good in everything, and live like Jesus lives in me. Because that’s what Dad did.

I hope I’ve inherited more from my dad than his Bible.

My dad died as he had lived – quietly, and humbly. He left this world like a whisper, without any fuss, or ceremony, or great reproach.

And it’s really no wonder that the heavens literally opened as we lowered him into the grave.

They were opening to let a great man step in.

Stealing From My Brother….

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When I was a little girl I was a thief.

I used to steal from my big brother. I couldn’t resist. I knew that hiding in his brown wooden wardrobe was a stash of sweets. I would creep into his room while he was at work. It didn’t take me long to find them. If they weren’t at the back of the shelf, then I would simply feel around his jackets as they hung quietly in his closet.

I can still remember the joy of feeling a tell-tale bulge inside one of the pockets, and the thrill of discovering a bag of Raspberry Ruffles hidden inside. Sometimes I would find liquorice…. the only sweets I ever put back.

My brother must have known that I stole from him. But he never challenged me. He was much too quiet, and forgiving, and unassuming.

And if you’d have told me that one day, this quiet, humble brother of mine would become a preacher, I never would have believed it, and neither would he.

John was never one to speak in public. Even though he went to church every Sunday, knew his Bible inside out, and read the scripture lesson when asked, he was always much more comfortable greeting people at the door, or handing out hymn books, or passing the offering plate.

John was utterly terrified of preaching. The very thought of having to stand in the pulpit and deliver a twenty minute sermon made his knees knock and his heart pound.

How could he go back to school and compose long, detailed essays, after forty years?

How could he battle through all that studying and reading when he had cataracts?

How could he become a preacher when he was over 60 years old?

But he did.

Because when the call comes, it doesn’t go away. We can ignore it, or walk away from it, or pretend we never heard it. But God is a pursuer. God is one who will chase you down and keep tapping on your shoulder, until you turn around and listen.

And John did.

I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have sat in that little church in England as my family gathered to celebrate. Like our dad before him, and our great Uncle Harry before that, my brother joins a long line of Methodist Local Preachers in our family who have answered the call…

and as I see John standing at that open door, I know that God opened that door for him; that God will walk ahead of him, opening doors in the hearts and minds of all who will listen to his message.

One day, the person listening will be me. I’ll sit in that pew as my brother preaches, and I will be proud of him. I’ll learn from his words and I’ll remember his bravery, his determination, and the sheer hard work it took for him to be standing there.

And I might just steal some of that courage, and perseverance, and obedience, like I stole his sweets all those years ago.

Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you. Revelation 3:20 The Message