I’ve preached six times this summer, filling in for vacationing pastors at two different churches. It’s the most I’ve stepped into the pulpit since retiring from full-time ministry four years ago. In some ways, it’s like riding a bike. Preaching has muscle-memory that kicks in when it’s time for the sermon. In other ways, though, it’s very different.
The first time at a church I had never been to before, all but one person in the congregation were strangers. In my last parish, I knew every face in the room. I knew their story. I knew who wasn’t there, absent from their usual spot. I knew who was visiting for the first time. I knew all the volunteers, musicians, and the sound board folks.
In a new place, though, there’s none of that. I knew no names, stories, joys or sorrows. All I knew is that they were there. Did I say something meaningful? Reassuring? Troublesome? Difficult to understand? I searched their faces for a sign, a clue, a reaction.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just different. Unfamiliar.
The second Sunday in that church was different. I recognized faces. I knew names. I had gotten to know some of them in Bible class. I was still a guest, not a stranger.
Third Sunday? Felt like home. I recognized over half the people. Remembered a lot of names. Got smiles, chuckles, and verbal responses from many. I was comfortable speaking to them, engaged with them, and was blessed to be with a room full of worshipers.
Waite for it... 