Preaching without Enthusiasm: And the Dirt-God Showed Up

It was time to preach my Christmas sermon, to give voice to the solar center of the Christian planetary system. It was only the second Sabbath in December, but the third week was our annual Christmas play. The fourth week fell after Christmas, and a young seminarian home for the holidays was scheduled to preach. So December 13 was my time to give voice to central story of our faith, the story of Immanuel, “God here.”

I’m a gospels-centric preacher. Given the choice to preach from the Synoptics or Romans or Revelation or Genesis, I’ll choose the gospels every time. For the last four weeks, I had been preaching through the Book of Revelation (see divinefairytale.blogspot.com) to counteract some of the crazy stuff my members were getting from various Adventist doomsayers. I should have been glad for the chance to again focus our attention on the story that gives meaning to all the other stories we tell, the ultimate mother lode of Christian theology and philosophy. Instead, I dreaded trying to come up with a fresh approach to the familiar story.

Thursday rolled around. I sequestered myself and wrote out another version of the old, old story (thinking of Luke’s introduction: many have undertaken to tell the story). When I was done writing, I had a story with a beginning and end and a bit of plot, but it was nothing to be excited about. I had no sense of a “message from God.” I was going to preach this sermon because that’s my job. I’m paid to stand up on Sabbath morning and tell the story, to voice what “we”–the church--believe. Preaching is not primarily about my story or my faith. So I had a sermon ready–a prosaic recitation featuring angels, Mary, Joseph, some hypothesized helper women, and the shepherds.

Sabbath morning I stood to preach. I began with the Annunciation and suggested it is one thing to believe what an angel has told you. It’s something else altogether to persuade your fiancé it’s the truth. Fortunately another visitation by an angel saves the day. Then there was the trip to Bethlehem. God used taxes to accomplish an essential part of the story. (This was a gentle poke at my members who think the best taxes are none at all.) Then I made up something. If I were Joseph, when Mary went into labor in that stable, I would have dashed out to the inn and begged the inn-keeper’s wife or daughters to come help. Even though the official story says nothing about them, I was sure there had to be some helper women in that stable. Sometimes the most important people are so reliable we fail to notice or mention them. For example, if the mayor of New York City was suddenly incapacitated, it would be weeks before it actually made any difference. But let the garbage men skip two days of trash pickup. It is a catastrophe!

The Christmas story tells us God became dirt. If that wasn’t beneath God, then what makes us think we are above unglamorous, boring service.

We, too, are called to be saviors. Some by changing diapers. Some by research in chemistry or biology that leads to improved well-being for millions.

Whether you are summoned to service by an angel visitor or merely by the “accident” of being born, you are called to join the mission of the Dirt-God, Immanuel.

I was done. The sermon was over. I had told the story with no particular enthusiasm about “the great message” God had given me. No angel choirs had invaded the sanctuary. No shepherds pounded on the door confirming our story. No wise men showed up to pay off the church mortgage.

I walked off the stage into the congregation. People told me what they had gotten from the sermon. Some of what they said I recognized. Some, I didn’t. Some of what they had heard I had intended to say, some had no obvious connection with my intentions.

When everyone was finally gone and the place was quiet, I was aware once more that God had shown up. Not because I had conjured him with my creativity, erudition or piety. I had simply done my job. I told the story. Again.

And the Dirt-God spoke.