In my Associate capacity at First (Park) Congregational Church (Park), Grand Rapids, Michigan, where I spoke from the pulpit only occasionally, I continued to speak out what was on my mind. This means finding a topic or theme, then going to scripture to proof text one’s point. The Congregational tradition, loose in its observance of the Christian year, offered me no encouragement to change.
When I arrived at my first singular pastorate at Community Congregational Church, United Church of Christ (CCUCC), in Pullman, Washington, in 1971, nothing changed. In fact, the pattern intensified. I determined to preach on Sunday what rose to my attention in the course of a week of pastoral duties. In retrospect, my effort reflected the “what God laid on my heart” pattern in a more secular vein. Sometimes this worked when my mind and heart were flooded with ideas. At other times I came to Friday, and sometimes even on Saturday, with a certain panic. “Opening my mouth to let the Spirit fill it,” appealed to me not at all.
Speaking of spontaneous pulpit patterns, I followed in a parish a man who bragged that on Sunday mornings he walked over to the church, from the next–door parsonage, in those moments pursuing his only preparation of the day. As often as not he would refer to the week’s sports events, speak personally of someone in the congregation (usually in a jocular vein), and draw out some spiritual or moral insight. Some folk liked it. Others were skeptical. Count me among the latter.
Only when I came to my second singular parish ministry in Tacoma, Washington, United Church in University Place (UCUP), did the light begin to dawn. While attending continuing education events at the Vancouver School of Theology, the virtues of lectionary preaching, concurrent with the church year, hovered into view. With determination, I began weekly study of the lectionary texts in order to find grist for the Sunday message. I experienced this new orientation as a sort of personal grace. Indeed, as the years incorporating this pattern moved along, I found my personal life revolving around the Christian year much more than around the secular calendar. That remains true to this day.
As with any virtue there exist deficits. The passing scene at times calls for attention from the pulpit. If a tornado roars through town, one may not stand behind the sacred desk and expound on the beatitudes, if that gospel lesson is assigned for the week.
I recall that once, following the impeachment of President Clinton, I spoke on the non–assigned gospel text, “So have no fear of them; for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known” (Matt 10:26). Also, speaking to certain social issues prove somewhat difficult if the scriptures scarcely raise the subject, e.g., the societal scourge of gambling.
Another detriment to lectionary preaching occurs. Sometimes on a Monday one comes to the readings for the week and discovers no movement of mind or heart. That presents a challenge to be met and overcome. If hard work and prayerful diligence take place, perhaps someone will say after the service, “That word meant a lot to me. One of your best messages.”
One must not leave the subject of pulpit patterns without dealing with the issue of relevance. It is true that occasions have risen when concerns, spiritual or social, occupy mind and heart while the assigned readings seem far afield. At that point one remembers the nature of Protestant preaching, namely, that the word comes from the sacred text, not one’s own private preoccupations. One hopes that the faith, hope, and love presented in the text, and “poured through human personality” from the pulpit, will bear all the relevancy any faithful listener might need. Leave it to some other occasion for the man or woman of the cloth to share fondest ideas or personal hobby horses.
Publish Glad Tidings
A central feature of communication in the parish continues to be the newsletter. Announcements of parish events, presentation of the parish calendar, listing of parish staff, reports of births, baptisms, weddings, and deaths consume much of the content. Often these days the newsletter arrives on–line.
The parish newsletters adopt a tradition of titles—“The Chimes,” “Good News,” “Voice of Faith,” “The Messenger,” etc. In large churches these appear weekly. In smaller churches once a month publication appears to be the rule.
One other feature, not mentioned above, is the article written by the minister, or in larger parishes, by rotating ministers. The content of these articles, read over time, reveal much about the author. For the most part these pieces render Dullsville exciting. Often one detects the minister sensed the publication deadline rushing down. Something must be said. Occasionally one finds someone who writes well about significant matters. I remember with pleasure a regular monthly piece from Rev. Richard Coombs, Dean of the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, in Spokane, Washington.
Too often one encounters those clergy who use the newsletter space to talk about themselves ad nauseum. They speak of their trials, their joy in the ministry, their renewed spiritual insights, and on and on. It’s as if the parish world spins around them, and for them it does.
On a somewhat higher scale one might discover the cheerleader. I recall a piece by a colleague, Rev. Larry Alland, speaking about the season of Lent. He referenced a Creative Churchmanship Conference, a Women’s Lenten series on the parables of Jesus, Sunday afternoon experimental worship, the solid Sunday morning attendance—all in the six weeks of Lent. He closed by saying, “This vitality is a reflection of the commitment to ministry you, as a member of the church, have made. Let’s keep up the good work!”
Sometimes the “Minister’s Minute,” which unfortunately for a few years I called “Bowman’s Aim,” seeks to persuade folk in the parish to a certain point of view. I recall once I called attention to an upcoming Youth Sunday in which the youth had helped to shape the liturgy. Seeking to appeal to adults, I wrote:
You need to know some of what you have come to understand, but you need them to remind you of what you once knew, but have forgotten or cast aside. Both need God in order to learn what is not yet known.
Sometimes I tried to do serious theology in several paragraphs. One of these efforts appeared at the onset of Eastertide, April 1, 1970:
Often at Easter we hear three commonly accepted myths which have infiltrated the teaching of the church: the myth of progress, the myth of the “immortality of the soul,” and the myth of the hope of spring. All deserve a severe analysis. I can only suggest here.
The notion of human progress is a fairly recent idea. It is doubtful if this is a biblical notion. “The Kingdom of God” is God’s to bring in, as the Social Gospel preachers of the early 1900s learned to their chagrin. It is debatable as to whether scientific and technical progress humanizes us or ever brings us closer to God.
In sermon and funeral orations, we have heard about ‘the divine spark in man’ or of the ‘eternal essence’ which cannot die. That is a purely religiocultural notion, not discoverable in the Bible. The New Testament teaches about death and resurrection to new life—a vastly different concept. Paul Tillich describes the Western myth of immortality as an escape from the “courage to be.”
To identify spring and Easter is to get all mixed up. T.S. Eliot said, “April is the saddest time of the year.” He was right. It gives off a hope that is futile. We know winter is coming. There is no hope found in the “eternal return” of the seasons. On the contrary, Easter speaks of something brand new—a dramatic break–up of the certain slavery of death. Once—only once—death was not as certain as winter—and that makes all the difference.
Worship as Experimental Experience
“There’s no such thing as non–liturgical worship. There’s either good or poor liturgy.”
Raised in the evangelical tradition, I know casual forms of service. Those who prayed looked askance at formalized petitions. Rather they “opened their mouths to let the Spirit fill them.” Yet, when analyzed, these casual prayers followed a formula that could find its way into print.