One thousand sermons…and much more
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There were guest speakers. Tearful stories. Special songs and music. Even flowers. No, we were not remembering a dear departed. It was a celebration of my twenty years as pastor at my church.
When I was in seminary back in the 80s (!), the average tenure for a Baptist preacher was eighteen months. Today? I hear anywhere from three to six years.
Twenty years is a long time. It represents over half of my professional career. My three boys were wearing diapers on that first Easter morning in 2005. To put it in perspective, twenty years is 1000 sermons (4 million words!), 200 meetings for grieving parents, and 100 newspaper columns. Who knows how many classes, weddings, funerals and committee meetings.
Every one has a story about church. Many of the stories being told, especially by younger people who are not church-goers, describe gatherings of nostalgic, hyper-political hypocrites. Sure, those places exist. But most churches are places that demonstrate the same love and laughter shared at my anniversary party.
Last Sunday I had the opportunity to express my gratitude to everyone for a lovely day of recognition. It occurred to me that this wonderful group of people was my family. Another family. They are gracious life companions. For two decades we have walked together through grief, pandemics and an ever-changing religious landscape. None of us are perfect, but we are brothers, sisters, parents, grandchildren, aunts and uncles – all connected by a common experience with a loving God.
What have I learned over twenty years? That answer would fill a book.
Mostly I’ve learned that a church must demonstrate their beliefs. If their theology is based on a story of deep love and radical forgiveness, they must practice deep love and radical forgiveness. The days of not walking the talk have run their course. I’ve always seen my church as an embassy of a kingdom– and we must represent our king.
Meanwhile, the world is digitizing loneliness while the hunger for connection remains. Soon a society immersed in online anonymity, screen addition and AI relationships will collapse upon itself. And loving groups of real-life people who embody grace and kindness will be there– ready to meet an essential human need.
No, maybe a room full of people laughing at twenty years of goofiness while you sit quietly like a happy piñata isn’t your idea of meaningful human connection. But I am known. And loved. And cared for. As was everyone in that room. And we all need that.