Guest commentary by Sherard Edington
My cousin Matthew no longer goes to church. This is surprising given that by every measure Matthew and his family are church people. His mother’s side is peppered with Presbyterian pastors (including me) and on his father’s side you will find a host of Episcopal priests. When Matthew was growing up, whenever his dad was transferred, his parents always made it a priority to identify a local congregation where their family would be active. As a young professional out on his own, Matthew faithfully affiliated with congregations whenever he relocated.
Knowing all this about my cousin, I was stunned when he informed me that he “no longer darkens the doors of the church.” His wife and teenage boys remain active, but on Sundays, you will find my cousin on the golf course or with his bicycle club rolling through the countryside.
When I approached Matthew about this shift in his Sabbath schedule he volunteered two reasons for why he no longer attends church. The first is that he has a hard time buying into the supernatural side of the Christian faith. His is a scientific mind and he struggles reconciling the metaphysical claims of religion with the hard facts of science. I too prefer logic over emotion and science over superstition, but as a person of faith, I uphold the notion that science and religion can play together in the same sandbox. It is entirely possible to be both a Christian and a scientist. I find Matthew’s dismissal of the inexplicable to be a flimsy excuse and clearly not the root of his ecclesiastic exodus.
The second reason Matthew offered me for ditching church is probably a greater determining factor than he would like to admit. According to my cousin, he no longer goes to church because the priest’s sermons are boring.
I have heard about this priest for some years. Matthew’s wife sits on the vestry of this sizable, well-heeled congregation and speaks favorably of him. It is my impression that he is an outgoing, personable individual and a competent leader. However, as Matthew bemoans, the formulaic sermons are consistently thin with the priest too frequently sharing superficial stories about his children. Matthew inquired if my own life is chock-full of such theological moments. I told him I experience numerous revelations every day. Few, however, are worth weaving into a sermon. To make my point, I jokingly shifted to my preaching voice and intoned, “I am reminded of a recent Saturday with my daughters at the soccer field. As I watched, the kids all bunched up around the ball and I realized that being in the church is like kids playing soccer.” My cousin’s eyes went wide with surprise as he said, “Yes, he does that all the time.”
Preachers hold a sacred obligation to our congregations to bring substance to our sermons. Worship should never be trite. Stories about cute kids, or dogs, or vacations are homiletical jello — a far cry from the spiritual nourishment our people crave. Each week our parishioners entrust us with their time and attention. Standing at the pulpit we owe them nothing less than a sacramental feast.
It is entirely possible that my cousin is an outlier – one of those congregants who is impossible to please. But I don’t think so. I trust Matthew and I view him as an informed and experienced parishioner with legitimate needs and reasonable expectations. Matthew told me of one priest from a previous church who was a seminary professor and whose sermons were thick and full, coming at you fast and furious like a hundred dodgeballs hurled at once. Matthew appreciated the richness of those sermons and said that when he listened to them it was impossible to absorb everything. He eagerly grabbed what he could as it flew by. Those sermons were challenging and exhilarating and my cousin treasured them. They fed him.
This conversation has prodded me to scrutinize my own preaching and ask if the meals I serve my congregation are adequately substantive and filling. Am I dishing up double-portions of divine feasts or handing out airplane snacks? Am I throwing dodgeballs or whiffleballs?
In the eyes of the world my cousin is a successful and happy individual. The world can’t see that he harbors the common ache of a ceaseless craving carved out by his sin – the total depravity that afflicts us all. Through worship, he once sought the manna to curb that hunger; but the servings became meager and my cousin drifted away hollow and yearning. Our sermons have consequences. They have the power to change lives. We may be tempted to entertain, but our call is to serve and nourish.
Each congregation is a flock of lost, broken, hungry people. While most appear happy and content, from the pulpit I can pinpoint those who are doubled over in anxiety and despair. I see the father whose son is locked away for a decade on a DUI, the couple secretly contemplating a divorce, the woman who can’t find work in her field, the gay man with Parkinson’s whose family hasn’t spoken to him in years, the couple who spent their savings on unsuccessful fertility treatments. I cannot solve their problems but I have the ability to introduce them to a loving, merciful God who can bear their pain and emptiness.
As preachers, we cannot afford to deliver a message that is boring or trite or small. The story we possess is too grand, too full of hope and promise. It is the divine story of creation and fall, of restoration and redemption, of forgiveness and rebirth. The story appropriates the miraculous because the story exists beyond the framework of our understanding. It is a story with the power to accommodate our pain and emptiness.
As preachers, we must embrace our anointed, priestly role – our holy task of shepherding lost sheep to green pastures. I grieve for my cousin’s separation from his worshipping community and I will continue praying for his restoration. Although I am angry with his priest for failing to do his job, this episode has prompted me to revisit my own priorities. It has served as a reminder that my sacred, joyful obligation – through preaching and sacrament – is serving my people “the bread of life.”
SHERARD EDINGTON is the parson at First Presbyterian Church in Lebanon, Tennessee, and has served three congregations in Middle Tennessee for 25 years.
