Care for the Stranger

It was Sunday, we were on vacation, and we hunted down a church to attend. I think it was a semi-rural area in Pennsylvania, but all I’m sure is that the church was fairly new and struggling to get started. It’s been at least 20 years, and I remember nothing about the service or the message. But two sad facts are chiseled on my heart.

One is that I didn’t matter.

The pastor enthusiastically greeted us in the parking lot, making small talk until asking the important question: “Where do you folks live?” I told the truth but gave the wrong answer- I didn’t live “just down the road,” or “over the hill,” but our home was “someplace not here.” We continued to talk, ostensibly as before, but my wife and I both knew we weren’t important to him any more.

New members are life and death to a small church, and a pastor’s heart dies a little when the numbers don’t grow. I’m ok with his disappointment. But it’s wrong that we (or any other “we’s” that might come) didn’t matter.

Which brings up the second sad fact: if we didn’t matter, he probably didn’t quite care unconditionally about the people who could stay.

That’s not to say he should treat all people the same. He’s going to invest in the locals far more than in me as a transient, and I totally applaud that. But I fear for the loss of the Good Samaritan heart, which did all that it could (and more) in a “chance” encounter on the highway. The Good Samaritan would probably never meet this man again, yet he engaged in full responsibility ministry for that brief point in time.

Virtually every church thinks it’s a friendly church, every pastor a friendly pastor (I’ve heard of studies to show this!). But friendly to who? The people we know? People like us? People attending with someone we know? What about the unconnected visitors? What about those we will never see again?

In some ways, “friendly” churches can be the worst. I visited five+ times at one church of 300 before having a meaningful conversation, and all the friendly chatter just heightened my isolation (yes, I stuck around after the service). At another church, I had two lonely attendance experiences AND an unanswered letter. When I sought out the pastor at a conference, he was genuinely bewildered as to how I could have such an experience in his friendly church.

As you can tell, this bugs me, even though by nature I hate greeting strangers. So I work at it.

Let me tell you about June, who had been to our services occasionally, although she more often participated in an activity. June’s attendance is sporadic, she's seemingly clueless, just seems different. We tried to reach out some, but there was no visible response, and our gut said this was going nowhere. So a couple of years later, June greets me in Wal-Mart. And I make small talk but it’s hard because June doesn’t do small talk and I’m running out of topics and this ministry opportunity feels kind of hopeless and I want to bail.

"Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."
Matthew 7:1-5.

I Preached Last Sunday

It’s something I know how to do, and am comfortable doing, but I only do perhaps 2-4 times a year. For what it’s worth, here are some “now that I’m a pastor” musings on preaching:

• be sure you can read your Bible. The last time I preached, I discovered that recent vision changes precluded reading it at pulpit height. I interrupted the introduction to switch to one of our “pew” Bibles (we have chairs, but I’ve never heard of “chair Bibles”).
  
  
• Don’t forget your notes. I have a good memory for them, but listeners are better off if I have them.
  
  
• Hope the wireless microphone doesn’t wander. Unlike lapel mics which can be clipped to clothing, there’s no place to clip a “head mounted” microphone. (My nose is ideally located- the mic could hang down directly in front of the mouth. However, that would be visually distracting as well as probably uncomfortable) A marvel of optimistic design, it’s precariously perched over the ear, extending beside the mouth; hopefully someday a famous preacher experienced with these devices will enlighten me with their techniques for keeping it in place.
  
  
• What do you do if nature calls? I recently heard some well known preachers describe what they did. I don’t know if that will be of future help to me or not.
  
  
• Nothing in seminary taught me how to arrive a half hour late to teach a Sunday School class after oversleeping. I recommend setting 2 alarms (or 3) to avoid repeating before a sermon.
  
  
• Visit the rest room BEFORE putting on the microphone. Even if it’s always turned off. This paranoia is good. (I’ve heard of this, and that’s as close as I want to get).
  
  
• Somebody loves me whether I’m doing well or poorly. I’m grateful for the visually responsive listeners who encourage by their smiles and nods (and reminded I’m a poor listener and need to improve)

If you think I make too much fun, I suggest that God himself views preaching as one of His cosmic jokes at the expense of evil. Just as we enjoy the humor when a childish remark totally dumbfounds adults, so God “laughs” when his “weak things”, “the foolishness of preaching” “confounds the wise.” This isn’t justifying poor preparation or wrong heart; it rather recognizes that only He can make something of our deeply imperfect best efforts.

So how did I do? Not as well as I wish- I’ve got a list to work on for the next sermon and God expects me to grow. But I also did better than I know, because of His grace and the power of His Spirit. And I am humbled and encouraged.

Psalms 2:4; 1 Corinthians 1:21, 27.