The first sermon I ever really preached was at Antelope Valley Christian Church in Lancaster. I went there as a DOC student from Chapman University, on a particular Sunday when many DOC students were representing Chapman at various churches throughout southern California, and even a few congregations outside of California.
Back then, the pastor of Antelope Valley Christian Church was George Reeves. His father was once the president of Chapman University. Back on campus, some of my classes even took place in Reeves Hall.
It wasn’t normally the custom to ask Chapman students to preach when they visited a congregation. However, I was a senior that year, and had announced my intention to go to seminary, and the invitation to preach was extended to me. To be honest, I didn’t really feel up to the task; however, I knew better than to refuse.
Well, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I also don’t know that it was as good as I thought it was, but for a first sermon, I suppose it was alright. Everyone there was supportive and encouraging, and made nice comments afterward. And George Reeves, when he got up to invite the congregation to communion, he tied his words in with the message that I had preached.
I was amazed. He had actually listened.
I was encouraged, and this experience helped give me the confidence I needed to keep on with this discipline of preaching.
Then it was off to seminary, and Pittsboro Christian Church in Indiana. I was given many opportunities to preach in Pittsboro, but before I ever once stood in the pulpit, I got to experience Vacation Bible School, Pittsboro-style. Vacation Bible School was a joint project between the two main churches in town, the Disciples and the Methodists, and nearly all the kids in town attended. On Friday night, there was a large closing program, and I think half the town was there.
I didn’t have much of a role at the closing program, but at one point, Becky Linquist, the senior pastor of Pittsboro Christian Church, introduced me to the community as their new youth pastor. I stood up and smiled in greeting. Then, to my surprise, she said, “Danny, come up here and say a word of greeting.”
Now, there are times when I wonder why in the world God called such a quiet, shy kid like me into the ministry … and this was one of those times. Sometimes I wonder if God called me in order to fulfill some kind of quota, as if I’m benefiting from some kind of holy affirmative action plan that seeks to blend in and include some shy quiet types into the pool of pastors leading God’s people. It’s as if God looked at all the people that had been called into ministry, and said, “Hey, we’ve got too many big-mouthed extroverts today; we gotta call a couple of socially awkward quiet types and bring them in, to balance things out,” and that’s how I ended up in ministry.
If the words I’m to say are written down ahead of time, no problem. But she didn’t warn me in advance of this. You may wonder what it was that I said to the people. I have no idea.
But sermons, even then, weren’t as bad. I loved to write, and I’d do my research, read the scripture, read what other theologians and scholars had written; I’d apply my own exegesis to the scripture and the comments of these other interpreters, and I’d put together sermons that weren’t half bad, and then I would get up on Sundays and read them to the people. No sweat, really.
But then things started to change. I thought that things would get easier, but in one very important way, they got harder; and being an introvert didn’t have anything to do with it. The problem, as I see it, began when I realized that people didn’t just want to hear me tell them what the Bible says about Jesus, or what the scholars and theologians say about Jesus; the problem began when I realized that people also wanted me to tell them how I experienced Jesus, what I believed about Jesus, and what Jesus says to me.
Tex Sample wrote a book about this very thing, but when I read his book in seminary, I didn’t get it. In his book there’s a story about Sam Mann, a white Alabaman who was the pastor of Saint Mark’s church, an African-American congregation in Kansas City, Missouri. The story Tex Sample tells, about one of Sam’s first sermons in that place, goes like this:
“Sam preached, as he says, on his Christology, and believes that he did it well in terms of representing the theological thought of the church. His professors from seminary, he felt, would have been pleased.
“Following the service, however, he was confronted by Mrs. Nichols, a seventy-eight-year-old matriarch of the church, who grabbed him by the sleeve of his robe with one hand and pointed in his face with the other. Sam offers that whenever a seventy-eight-year-old woman who weighs a hundred pounds gets you by the robe sleeve, you have been had.
“As she reprovingly waved her finger under his nose, she said to him in measured terms: ‘Reverend Mann, Reverend Mann, I did not come to this church to hear what somebody else said about Jesus. I came to hear what Jesus said to you!’”[i]
No one has ever actually taken me by my sleeve, but nevertheless, I have begun to learn what that lady was talking about.
That learning continued while I was a pastor in northern California. One day I stopped by an information table that a friend of mine had set up on a street corner in downtown Yuba City. At the table my friend was giving out information, pamphlets, and brochures, about issues concerning gays and lesbians. He and several others were trying to start a support group at the time, and I wanted to show my support for them.
Also there was a reporter from the local newspaper. When he found out that I was a pastor in the area, he wanted to know what I thought. I started by telling him that, well, some Christians believe this, and other Christians believe that, figuring that was a safe way to answer his question; but that’s not what he wanted to hear. He wanted to know what I believed. That’s much harder to answer.
And so that’s why, when Jesus asked his own disciples what other people were saying about him, their answers came easily. “Oh, some say that you are John the Baptist; others say that you are Elijah; and still others, that you are one of the prophets, Jeremiah perhaps.” This conversation took place while they were walking from one town to another town. At this point, thought, I imagine that Jesus stopped walking. And he looked right at his disciples—possibly even taking them by the sleeve—and he said, “But who do you say that I am?”
That is the Christological question. Christology is the study of Jesus’ nature. For two millennia, Christians have debated over who Jesus is, how his divine nature and human nature coexist, and so on and so forth. And for many of us, it would indeed be a very interesting sermon that explores the various responses to this question that have appeared throughout history.
But as one scholar, Robert Krieg, has written, “We do not take up this question as spectators.”[ii] What Jesus really wanted to know was not what others were saying about him. He wanted to know, “Who do you say that I am?” Now the question is harder. Now it’s more personal. Now any answer you put forth is risky, because it’s your own.
Peter answered, “You are the Messiah.” The Greek word for Messiah is Christ. “You are the Christ.” That’s all that Mark records Peter as saying, but in Matthew, there’s more. There, Peter not only says, “You are the Messiah,” but also, “You are the Son of the living God.”
It’s a hard thing to say what you believe, especially when your teacher is asking you what you believe about him. But Peter gets it right. “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” That was a risky, and I think, scary answer to make.
You don’t think so? Well, back in Peter’s day, terms such as “Christ” and “Son of God” were loaded terms. There was absolutely no way to say such things without getting someone mad at you. Caesar and all the Roman authorities, in particular, would be very upset to hear anyone use the words “Christ” and “Son of God” for Jesus. I will be talking more about that in the coming weeks, but for now, I’ll just remind you that it wasn’t a good idea to upset Rome.
All we who are members of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) have made the same affirmation as Peter. “We believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Indeed, that affirmation is the only thing that is required to become a member of the church. We require no one to abide by any creed or statement of faith beyond that simple confession. When you joined this congregation, you weren’t asked a whole lot of questions about doctrine; you weren’t asked a lot of questions about what others believed about Jesus. No, you were asked just one question: “Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God?”
There are some who say that the practice of asking people to come forward in worship and make that affirmation, that confession of faith, is old-fashioned and out of date. Some people, after all, don’t like to stand up in front of crowds. Some people are shy, quiet, and socially awkward. Perhaps we’d get a few more members if we could allow folks to make that confession in private, to the minister and perhaps an elder or two.
But I think it is a good practice. As the psalmist says, it is good to declare God’s name in the midst of the congregation.
I know that for some, it’s not easy. I think that, if we take some time to really ponder the significance of what those words mean, it would be even more of a challenge. As I say, I’ll be doing just that with you over the next several weeks, pondering the significance of what those words mean.
And who knows? Someday, someone may ask you that question, someone who isn’t as sympathetic to your beliefs as we are, someone who is antagonistic to your faith. Maybe Caesar will demand that you answer, “Who is the Christ?”, and even though you understand that Jesus advocates a world and a kingdom that is completely at odds with the world and kingdom of Caesar, you will be required to give an answer, an answer of what you believe.
It’s easy to let someone else do all the talking. It’s easy to explain what someone else believes. Believe me, I still try to get out of difficult questions and issues that way! But sometimes, we are called to say what we believe. Sometimes, that’s what matters.
[i] Tex Sample, Ministry in an Oral Culture: Living with Will Rogers, Uncle Remus & Minnie Pearl. Westminster/John Knox Press. 1994. p. 73.
[ii] Robert Krieg, “Who Do You Say I Am?” Commonweal March 22, 2002.
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