The Greatest Sermon I Ever Heard

In April 2005, my friend John and I spent around a week in London for some musical theater. We saw several different musicals that week, and toured museums and churches. I got to stand in Wesley’s pulpit in the basement of Wesley’s Chapel.  Well I knelt in it, to avoid hitting my head on the ceiling. It was a great trip and I carry the memories with me.

Kneeling in Wesley's pulpit

Sunday was a day without theater, so John and I decided to attend church services that morning and evening. In the morning we attended St. Mary-le-Strand church within walking distance of our hotel. It was a high Anglican service, with incense and robes and a quartet of paid soloists to lead the music. It was sparsely attended, and mostly what I remember was the incense was really strong, and for some reason they censed the statute of the Virgin Mary at the entrance of the church. That left this Protestant a touch bewildered.

In the evening John and I took a cab to All Souls, Langham Place to hear John Stott. Stott was in his early 80s by this point, but I had great respect for all the work Stott had done, and had read many of his books. The atmosphere was so much different than the morning service. The church was full, of energetic young people and visible minorities. The music was led by an orchestra, the ministers were dressed in suits and the church pulsed with a life and spirit that I had never felt before. We were ushered to some of the few remaining chairs on the left side of the church, and waited for the service to begin.

Then Stott preached. On 1 Corinthians 15, one in a series of Eastertide sermons.  And I sat enraptured by this man. Part of it could have been the English accent, which gives a sense of gravitas to almost anything.  But mostly it was that God was using this saint, this pillar of 20^th century evangelicalism to speak his message to me and the hundreds who had gathered that night. 

But beyond the experience of hearing one of my heroes, that sermon taught me one very valuable lesson that I have struggled to incorporate into my own preaching. The gospel message speaks for itself. It does not need to be dressed up with personal anecdotes, memorable illustrations and trendy pop-culture references. The gospel message that Stott gave that night spoke of the glory of the resurrection, both in Jesus and in us, shone through loud and clear. 

That lesson still convicts me. I sometimes try too hard to be funny. I tell stories that are peripheral to the message. I leave the congregation remembering me, and not the message. And I try to be better. More of a preacher, less of a speaker.  Stott’s words that night told me that Christ’s message of redemption is greater than any man. It is a message worth telling, and a message worth repeating. So, I will try again, this week. And next week, and every week after that, to proclaim the message that saved me.

Thank you, John Stott!

Baseball begins again

This week has seen the opening of baseball season. And that always brings back fond memories. I never played baseball, but I loved to watch it, read about it, learn about it. Starting in 1982, I remember watching Montreal Expos games on CBC, blurry and snowy because of the antenna that brought the signal into the house. I remember Dad often having to move the antenna to get a better picture. There was only one game a week usually, so we treasured that time. I still have dozens of mid 1980s baseball cards, and I remember fondly the stars, and even the also-rans of those days.  My brother loved the Expos. My favourite team was the New York Yankees, which in the late 1980s was in its darkest period, firing managers every year. (Sports dysfunction seems to follow me, as I cheer for the NFL’s Washington Redskins!) We bought baseball books and guides to the upcoming year, read books on scouting reports and statistics. We learnt baseball history. It is still something my brother and I can share fond memories about.  Just bring up the name Doug Flynn or Tom Foley, and see that moment of recognition.

Later, in high school and university, I spent my summers umpiring different baseball leagues and levels. It was great to be out on the field, even in that challenging position. Umpiring was fun one moment, stressful the next, dreadful the one after that. I don’t think I was particularly great at it, but I wasn’t terrible either. And then there was the bizarre thrill of throwing someone out of a game. So many times I have wanted that skill to translate to life off the baseball field. For one summer I helped my brother-in-law coach a group of beginner kids in a mosquito house league, basically teaching some to hit and catch. It was rewarding to see the improvement in those kids. 

But my love for baseball waned in the mid-1990s. I don’t fully blame the work stoppage that cancelled the 1994 World Series. I remember watching excitedly as the Toronto Blue Jays won back to back Series victories in 1992-1993. (My Yankee fandom was over by then.) But as life grew busier, and I ventured off to seminary, my interests changed and baseball watching drifted to the bottom.

The last couple of years, however, have seen a steady growth in my interest in baseball. I don’t have a favourite team anymore, although my satellite provider means that I watch a lot of Toronto Blue Jay games. But baseball has changed in the 15-plus years since I watched it regularly. The broadcasts are too flashy, but then I find that true in other sports as well. Pitching changes happen a lot more frequently. The new advanced statistics are a lot of numbers and letters with no real meaning to me. And I am still learning who all the best players are. 

I am also remembering, though, what I loved about baseball growing up. The strategy. The slow pace that gives you time to think. The fact that success in hitting means failure 7 out of 10 times. And the rules are easy to explain, for the most part. Rookies still have trouble laying off good breaking balls, so if you want to hang around this league you better learn how. The deep sacrifice fly is still the most boring run-scoring play in sports. And best of all, you can never tell which game is going to be the slugfest or the pitchers’ duel.

I am glad I have re-discovered baseball. Now my summer nights may include a good book, a good scotch and any old ball game.

Lent is done, now what?

My Lenten blogging project is done. I have delivered a piece on 37 of the forty days of Lent. It has been a challenging and rewarding experience. I trust those who have read my posts have enjoyed what I have had to say. I have enjoyed writing each day, getting my mind to open up

Now that Lent is done, I am not going to post every day. But I will produce longer blog pieces one or two days a week about issues that are important to me. Some days I will review the theology and church history books I am reading. Some days I will revel in baroque music. Some days I will complain about the state of my favorite NFL team, the Washington Redskins. Some days will be about living a pious Christian life in a fast-paced 2015 world. And I might write about single-malt scotch. And if there is anything you want to hear, let me know.

Good Friday

On today's blog, two pieces of my morning Good Friday service.
Sarah and I sang a duet for Good Friday.

My sermon on Gethsemane and the Cross.

May the blessings of Good FRiday be yours.

Holy Week Devotion: Scourged

Then Pilate took Jesus and flogged him. (John 19:1 ESV)

The description of the cruelties which Jesus endured before going to his cross are quite brief. Jesus had predicted his flogging in in his predictions of his Passion and Resurrection (Mt 20:19; Mk 10:34; Lk 18:33). But in each gospel we are simply told the fact: Jesus is whipped, scourged, flogged. It has none of the details we read in Josephus, of flesh torn away, of organs exposed to sight. The gospel writers count on their audience's knowledge of Roman practice, punishment done in the public square for all to see.

This moment is another blow in the humiliation of Jesus as he goes to the cross. He has suffered greatly as this one long day has progressed. In Gethsemane, he was scourged in his spirit, agonizing before his Father about the cup that was to be his. God's cup of wrath against the sin of the world was Jesus' to drink, and he prayed, his face on the ground, for the cup to pass. His soul saw the moment on the cross when God would forsake him. And the anguish became real.

He was scourged by his disciples as they fled from his sight as he was arrested. They had promised to stand by...but failed. They lifted their swords...then dropped them and ran. The days of walking beside Jesus, the dream of ruling with him in his kingdom, the talk of joining him in his death, all drifted away as they scattered like rats from a sinking ship.

And now his body is racked with pain as the whips hit their mark The Romans are efficient. The Romans know what they are doing. Each strike has its purpose..."this troublemaker will not bother us any more and let this be a lesson to you out there."

Jesus has told each one of us, "Take up your cross and follow me." To follow him is to go where he goes, to go through these moments of anguish, of abandonment, of pain and suffering. This is not a glamorous happy-clappy faith. Faithful words will not always be heard with happiness. Faithful actions will not always be accepted. But we stand on the other side of the cross. We know the scourging did not work. We know the cross failed in its task. We know our Lord is not silenced, and he no longer cries out in pain, but in victory.

Holy Week Devotion: The Disciples

Reading: Mark 14:43-50
Reflection: “They deserted and fled”

The promises of earlier that night drifted far from them. As Jesus stood and watched one whom he had trusted, one whom he had chosen, come with a gang of seeming vigilantes, with clubs and with swords, coming to arrest this troublemaker. And they did it under cover of darkness, as Jesus said, “I was with you in the temple each day. You come here under cover of darkness. You come here to hide behind the veil of the night." As all of those who desire to remove Jesus from our lives, they do it under cover of something else.

And all of the disciples who were with him, they all deserted and fled and took off into the darkness, into the night that surrounded them, so that they would not be found. So that they could not be seen, so that they would not be recognized, so that they would remain hidden. Because they did not want to associate themselves with this man, with this one who had been arrested and taken away. They knew what they had said, they knew what Jesus had promised to them, but still when the crisis came, their words were simply words. Those who had said they would not desert him, those who said they would not deny him, took off and ventured into the darkness. Wondering if they would see one another, wondering what would become of Jesus, and wondering what would become of themselves. Asking so many questions, of themselves, of their souls, and of their hearts.