The truth hurts, and is controversial. A blog posting getting attention right now in church circles claims to offer truth you can’t get from the pulpit.
You can read it here.The author, Pastor Gary Brinn, offers some heart-felt commentary following an unhappy post-sermon encounter on Christmas Eve. What he says probably comes as no surprise, which is basically that it is neither helpful nor possible for a pastor to say the first thing that comes to mind. His complaints, which are generating even more criticisms, could resonate with anyone who has had to bite his or her tongue for the greater good; I don’t think clergy are the only ones who have to think before speaking. But it occurred to me that it’s not just the snarky truth that can’t be said out loud in church, and it seems to me that it might be good to acknowledge the unspoken truth that surrounds us each time the church gathers.
So here’s what I cannot say in a sermon: I cannot tell your stories.
What do I mean? Common church planning wisdom explains that people are looking for a church where lives are transformed. Hearing that my question always is –how would they know? Can a church shopper look at the happy couple next to her and recognize that just three years ago their marriage was crumbling? Does it show that the man two pews ahead was contemplating suicide awhile back or that the older wom
an sitting in the back is slowly learning her own strength in living alone for the first time? In any church there are stories of transformation and grace, of faith and courage and healing, but you will never know. They just look like regular people.
I also can’t tell the stories that bring people here. Often we come to church looking for something, with crises or issues that leave us feeling all alone in our quest. I could tell you that you’re not alone in that search, but I cannot tell the stories that would prove my point. The recovering addict, the teen being bullied, the unemployed businessman, the woman whose long term marriage just ended—everyone has a story of pain and need that’s not written on their church nametags.
I can’t tell you the secrets that surround us all—the grace-filled successes, the struggles and dark nights, the transformations years in the making—even when I know them, these truths aren’t mine to tell.
But here’s what I can tell you: be gentle with each other. Remembering that you have no idea of the struggles and triumphs hidden behind those faces, so let’s ease up on the judgments. That apparently aloof woman sitting next to you—is she being rude to you or lost in her own thoughts? The socially awkward fellow trying to make conversation, the harried family arriving late—what do you know of what brings them here? I’m not the first to suggest that we remember that everyone is fighting a great battle, and that such remembrance calls for compassion (Plato came up with that, actually). Maybe we should also remember that everyone is also walking a great path, the Christ journey that calls us all in different places and to different strengths. How far we each have traveled and how far we have to go is a secret for God alone.
I can tell you this—you are a beloved child of God, as is the seemingly out of control preschooler and the oddly dressed teen. I can tell you that there is grace enough in your life and in all our lives to make a difference. No secret here—we probably should be proclaiming that from the rooftops
Finally, I can tell you what you should do—pray. Pray for us all, the awkward and the graceful, the successful and the struggling, the wise and foolish. Pray for compassion, pray to give thanks for these awkward companions all so much like each other, for we are all the ones that Christ has called to this place at this time. That there is enough grace to see all of us through—that’s really all we need to know.