Sunday, April 1, 2007

My dearest God,

A sermon is so many words on a page without the fiery spirit power of God. I always pray for it. Labor for it like a birthing mother.

Dear God, do we live on two plains at the same time, the spirit plain and the psychic plain? Is it possible to be conscious of both simultaneously? Can we move in and out like a train moving in and out of a tunnel?

At times I am very aware of being distant from the spirit plain. I feel far from God. On Sunday mornings I pray for God's power to preach. Some times it happens, sometimes only mildly. Sometimes not at all. I don't know the secret to constant spirit power. But since Lent began in the desert at church and in my heart, I have felt incredible power welling up within me. It doesn't begin that way; it swells up into it.

Today I felt I had a mediocre sermon. This weekend I had painted for hours, spent time with a grandchild who was struggling and needed her grandma's assistance, helped Harold with his new computer, and talked long with my daughter on the phone. I was out of energy when it came to putting the message together. I did read six commentaries to get the historical scoop. I wrote several pages of notes, made an outline and went to bed. At 5:00 a.m. I worked until 7:30 a.m., took my shower and got ready for church. I "rehearsed" on the way. Wasn't impressed.

As I walked down the church halls, I greeted my flock and they greeted me. I was aware of God in my people, but not in myself. I felt ashamed I had not worked longer, harder on one of the most historic days in the life of Jesus and the world. When I stood to pray during the song, I asked God to forgive my lack of full attention. "This message is not about me, it is your message. Help me, guide me, guide me, guide me." I labored. When I opened my eyes and looked into the eyes of my people, I felt something stirring. And then it came, like the birth of a baby. I knew that the words of the message had come to life.

I never before realized this birthing process. At least I never called it a birthing process. But it is. A laboring of relationship, getting my hands dirty in the soil, digging deep for the kernel, the seed of truth for a waiting church, for me. I feel the "false starts", the water breaking, then new life emerges.

Perhaps the spiritual life is like this, not just preparing a sermon and preaching it. We labor to find God sometimes, to get in touch. And when it happens, there is a euphoria of joy that spills over. God is so fully present and we are present to God. This coming together shocks us because it is a magnificent moment of connecting to the deepest part of the soul. A shockwave rolls over us and we know that we know that we know God is alive within us, that we have a divine purpose and God is with us. Everything makes sense for a split second.

This discipline of writing sermons will soon be over. Today as I walked down the center aisle I became aware that I only have two years plus of sermons to write, to deliver, to share. I will no longer stand center stage to offer the message of God. When I looked at the congregation this thought struck me. I didn't like it.

My life is yours,
Great Master of the Creation.
My inner workings
were made
by your great hands.
I do not do what I do
without you.
I am always aware
that I am a simple vessel,
an instrument of grace
carrying a sacred, holy message.
I pray, I work, I listen.
But what comes
is always yours,
even if I do it poorly.
Your word
is the only important Word.
And I know that.
Keep me living on your side.

Love, Andrea