Good afternoon church family,

Why is small talk so much easier to make than big talk? I don’t know exactly but it’s probably for much the same reasons that we find sharing an elevator with someone to be easier than sharing an apartment or why giving money to the needy to be easier than giving them your cell phone number. One requires little to no sacrifice, has zero strings attached, and won’t burden your heart and mind. The other, however, may require large draws on your time, comfort, and treasure; expose you to any number of binding commitments and can cause much heartache and disquiet. I’m afraid we often make small talk for fear that big talk will make too much work for ourselves.

A hail storm passed through Rochester on Monday. A bunch of low-lying, malevolent clouds, likely coming off a rager the night before, moved into the area and dumped out their ice chests over us. This, of course, gave us all something to talk about with each other in those awkward moments when silence is impolite or just too uncomfortable to endure. Like when the TV is turned off in the tiny waiting room at the oil change place and it’s just you and one other person sitting on sad pleather chairs, staring aimlessly at the filthy Keurig sitting on the end table beside the bathroom. Or during those times when your neighbor happens to be working in the yard or watering the garden at the same time you happen to be; or when you’re sitting up in the cab of the wrecker with the guy who’s driving you and your dead car to the garage; or when the hair stylist throws the cape over you at the salon and starts teasing out your do with a comb. I mean, we can only stare aimlessly at our shoelaces, the wall, or our little screens for so long. Eventually, we have to say something and what safer topic could we possibly find for conversation than a little hailstorm?

“Nothing like seeing a little white stuff in the summer, huh?”

“Yeah. Wild.”

“My sister lives up on Chesley Hill – says she lost half her tomatoes.”

“You don’t say. That’s a shame. I was lucky – my wife happened to take the new Silverado to work with her that day – can you imagine getting that thing all pitted?”

“No kidding. Where’s she work?”

“Over in Wells. She said it didn’t do anything over there.”

“Weird weather for sure this summer but it’s awful nice today.”

“Sure is. Sure is.”

Voila! Just like that, you’ve successfully navigated a New England interaction while fulfilling your base obligation to the societal contract we’ve all agreed to live by. You were winsome, neighborly, and confident – even building a little rapport to boot. Good for you! After the exchange, everyone feels more comfortable and a little better about himself. There was some more awkward silence before it was all over but the parting was friendly enough with an “Alright now – we’ll see you later” or a “You have a good one” accompanied by a nod and a wave. Cue Louis Armstrong and the strings – what a wonderful world, indeed!

But it’s not a wonderful world and every one of us who believes in Jesus Christ and His gospel knows it. Norman Rockwell isn’t getting anyone to Heaven. We are charged by our Savior Himself to step boldly into these awkward moments and make lots of uncomfortable big talk with the lost and dying of this world.

I don’t like it when people try and get somebody to commit to something by convincing him that it won’t cost him anything. “What do you think about running for Vice President of the Association?” someone might say. “It’s super easy – you hardly even have to show up most of the time.” Or how about, “We really need someone to work the polls down at the middle school this fall – what do you think? It’s a piece of cake.” Or, “We need one more chaperone for the senior class trip to Montreal this spring. You should tag along – it takes nothing. It’s like a free vacation!” Of course, any of us not born yesterday know that these sorts of appeals come booby-trapped with all sorts of sacrifices, frustrations, and hard work and that we accept any such invitation at our own risk. But the real reason I don’t like it when this type of offer is made to me is that it assumes that all I’m interested in are opportunities that honor or enrich me at little to no personal cost. But that’s not true. In fact, I think most of us are longing to give of ourselves in support of some significant project or important undertaking. Blood, sweat, and tears shed for a good cause is no sacrifice at all. As Isaiah said, “The noble man devises noble plans; and on noble plans he stands.” (32:8)

Now, what greater or more noble cause could we pledge our lives to than rescuing people from eternal damnation in the fires of Hell? None. And this rescue effort won’t require us to run into any burning buildings or parachute into enemy territory or dive into swollen rivers made raging by flood rains. No – this rescue will require us stepping courageously into conversation.

Starting conversations about sin and death with family, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances is not an easy, low-hurdle affair. If you’re not immediately shut down and shown the quills, you’ll likely enter into a weighty and sometimes difficult discussion. In the context of a talk about God, people often bring up their life’s tragedies and unhealed hurts. The inexplicable agonies, inconsistencies, and complexities of life are dumped in our laps and left for us to piece together and make sense of. We’ll be asked impossible questions, told of awful abuses, and invited to wade into very muddy waters. Biblical consistency, compassion, and patience will be required of us and we will need to be willing to build relationships of sincerity and depth. For those of us who are saved; who have already been rescued and are now secure in our inheritance in Canaan, what better end could there possibly be for whatever breath we have left?

One Saturday, long ago, while I was pastoring in Georgia, I drove across town to visit with Don Tunnell. Don was a tall, slender, ten-years-retired older gentleman in the church. He hailed from War, West Virginia but had lived most of his adult life there in Augusta. Even though he was in his seventies, he still had a full head of wavy, black hair and his big belt buckle sat flat on his trim waist. Don had a sweet, Jimmy Stewart-like manner and an earnest Henry Fonda-like constitution. He was the closest thing to a cowboy that I’d ever seen. If he’d ambled into some saloon I was in and announced that he was looking for some hands to help him drive ten-thousand head of cattle across the Red River to Missouri, I think I would have dropped whatever I was doing to join him. But anyway, while I was sitting with him in his living room that Saturday, looking around at a room that hadn’t been remodeled since the seventies; his wife Mary puttering in the kitchen, Don told me something I’ve never forgotten. Glancing over at his television set, he said, “You know, Pastor, it’s the funniest thing. When I was a young man, all I wanted to do after a long, hard week at work was to sit back on a Saturday and watch college football. But back then I hardly ever got to. Saturday would come and the yard would need mowing, some faucet would be leaking, or the kids had this thing or that for me to carry them to. There was always something and I’d be grumpy and resentful as all get out. And now, Saturday after Saturday comes and even though I’m free as a bird, I never even turn on the durn thing. I’d give anything to be back with a houseful and a million burdens on my back.”

What are all the things we keep ourselves in isolation for? What is all our small talk preserving for us? A little more time with our TV? Empty evenings inside our moated castles with the drawbridge up? Taking our meals alone with only YouTube keeping us company? That’s not the life God is calling us to. That’s not what we’re going to look back on with joy as the light of our setting sun fades to black. What will make our hearts full when we’re full of years, are those conversations that led someone to life without end.

We’re looking forward to gathering into the Lord’s house in the morning to worship our Creator, King, and Counselor and to enjoy communion with Him through the shed blood of Jesus our Savior. It’s a joy and blessing that no depth finder could ever get to the bottom of! Come prepared to give and receive of the good things the Lord has made available to us all. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

In the summer of 1996, between my junior and senior years in college, I bought my first car. Mrs. Sue Rich, a good friend of my grandmother’s, was selling her 1983 Chevrolet Citation for seven-hundred-dollars. I hadn’t planned on buying a car before I graduated. I needed nearly every penny of the wages I earned working my summer job for ServiceMaster in order to pay the minimum registration fee required to begin classes in the fall. Also, I didn’t really need a car. I bummed rides off my parents or borrowed their car to get to and from work all summer. And when it came time to go back to college, I’d get from Rutland, Vermont to Toccoa, Georgia by taking a bus to Penn Station in New York where I’d then hop on Amtrak’s Crescent Line that happened to stop just long enough in Toccoa to jerk water on its way to New Orleans. Once at college, there wasn’t much need for me to drive off campus. I was employed by the school’s custodial department, spent most of my free time in the library, and never took a single girl on a single date. As for my weekly drive down to Dearing to preach at the Iron Hill Advent Christian Church, I was able to sign a car out from the college’s fleet of Aries K cars. Overall, I’d say I managed pretty well without wheels.

But at my parent’s wise urging, I went down to the Fair Haven National Bank and asked the teller for seven one-hundred-dollar bills. Even though I had no reason to act guilty as I made the withdrawal; I couldn’t help but appear a little squirrely in my embarrassment at asking for such a large amount in cash. But I weathered the twelve-to-six side-eye I got from the woman behind the counter, folded the sleeve-full of Benjamins into my front pocket, hopped into the getaway car driven by my mom, and took off for Mrs. Rich’s house.

When I bought the Chevrolet it had fifty-two-thousand miles on it and over the next four years I would add a hundred-thousand more. What a blessing that sweet little ride proved to be to me; representing much more than just a mode of transportation. Not yet having a place of my own, that hatchback sedan was a private little bungalow – fifty square-feet of living space that I could keep however I wanted, furnish in whatever style suited me, and to which I could escape whenever needed and lock up behind me when life’s call beckoned me back. A team of horses under the hood meant freedom for me and the wonderful ability to disappear. If Jesus liked to steal away to lonely mountaintops, I liked to wheel away to lonely parking lots. It’s funny; I used to imagine the front two seats of that car to be like a park bench on wheels that I could move and position wherever I liked.

I would pack a snack and a newspaper, drive about looking for a quiet spot with a view, and back my park bench into place before killing the engine. I wasn’t looking for million-dollar views or anything. I was perfectly content to look out over a highway or study the doings at a truck stop from the far side of the lot. I liked watching folks going in and coming out of grocery stores or strolling up and down lazy Main Streets. All I really needed was a few empty spaces on either side of me and some shade. It was during these brief interludes that I learned how much I enjoyed studying people, towns, and the simple rhythms of everyday life. I eventually ditched the snacks and newspapers; finding feast enough in all the humanity on display. But what I didn’t foresee was the place my rolling park bench would end up having in my weekly sermon writing.

Out of college and into full-time ministry, it took me a number of years to find my voice as a preacher and to develop a sound routine for writing a weekly sermon. In college, I’d received an excellent education in the art of sermon preparation and delivery or “homiletics” as my professors referred to it. But not long after my tassel was turned, I had to stand behind real pulpits on real Sundays and deliver the Word to real people. Summa cum laude quickly turned into help me Lordy. Like a cowboy might break a wild horse, the Lord wrangled with me week after week until I stopped bucking at the saddle on my back, rearing at the halter over my head, and spitting the bit out of my proud mouth. Over time, I learned to listen for the passage He’d have me preach, carve quiet, disciplined time out of my week for careful study, do the rigorous work of arranging my thoughts into a tidy nomenclature, and draft the notes that would serve as the basis of my remarks. It’s been a strenuous but joyous part of my life ever since.

Over the years, I’ve found that church offices and pastor’s studies are excellent places to do most of the week’s-worth of sermon writing. After all, those were the places where I shelved my library, kept my desk, and could expect a fair amount of peace and quiet. In those hallowed spaces I could read through the Bible prayerfully, leave books spread out on my table like open windows on a computer screen, take notes and jot down thoughts and threads, and assemble outlines for the messages. For me, the church office proved an excellent place to quarry and saw the raw material, hammer together the frame, and assemble all the floors, walls, and rooftops. But I found that while most of my sermons were solid, sturdy constructions – plumb from header to floor joist – they could be stuffy, inaccessible compositions. My buildings needed many more windows, doors, and skylights. And this is where my little Chevrolet came in.

It began somewhat accidentally. I had driven downtown to University Hospital to visit with a parishioner who was a patient there. It was late in the week and I was glad to quit my office, so frustrating was the work I was trying to do putting the finishing touches on my message. The substance of the sermon was there; all the points, contexts, and explanations squared away. But for all that the message boasted by way of order and academia, it was desperately wanting for life and lightning. But instead of leaving my Bible and notepad on my desk as I normally would have when heading out to minister, I decided to take them with me to the hospital instead.

After my visit was over, I went back out to where I’d parked my car on the ground level of the hospital’s large parking garage. Where I’d parked happened to have a fine view of the front of the hospital where nearly everyone entered and exited the building. It was a fairly nice day and the car was cool enough in the shade of the garage. I sat behind the wheel, rolled down both front windows, and paused to take in a little people-watching. There was so much to see and I was moved by all the different stories being told by the wheelchairs, car seats, IVs, and bouquets I saw. All the tears, quick-steps, anxious smoke breaks, and clerical collars told still more tales. The more I watched the more I felt I wanted to say to those I saw through the windshield, to others in the lost city around me – to everyone really. In this mood, I picked up my sermon and went back to work on it. As I continued to look out over the scene in front of me, the Lord wrote new life and insight into nearly every line. That sermon ended up being so very different from every other that I’d ever written.

After that I began including into my weekly routine, these times on the “park bench”. I would park and write outside a McDonalds, beside the county courthouse, along the riverfront, at the bank, the golf course, or the gas station – anywhere that I’d have a front row seat to people. What a profound inspiration these environments would prove to be. My little box at the church, in which I was surrounded by bookcases full of commentaries and works of theology, was the ideal place to study the meaning of the Word but the highways and byways proved the better place for my pen to find purpose for that wonderful Word.

Preaching is a small but important part of a pastor’s life. I’m so glad the Lord led me to allow the crowd at Dunkin Donuts to alter my vernacular, the harried mother of four coming out of the grocery store to quicken my pace, and the homeless knocking on my window to bring the whole thing down to earth. And I’m still keeping the practice today. Some of my favorite spots here in Rochester are at the eastern end of the Lowe’s parking lot where I can look down on the traffic going up and down the Spaulding Turnpike, the little parking area across from the Lilac Grille that affords a good view of the downtown sidewalk, and the Milton Road Market Basket has proved an absolute treasure. I parked my bench over at the Franklin Street Cemetery for a while but eventually found that the dead aren’t nearly as interesting as the living. I’ll also sit and write in coffee shops, libraries, and on actual park benches. Everywhere that there’s a little bit of the everyday.

It’s not just preachers that are writing sermons every week. Each and every one of us is delivering a message by our lives, conversation, patronage, and relationships. Our manner of speech, our manner of listening, our engagement in the marketplace of ideas – it’s all preaching a sermon. If you really care about people then you’ll really care about ideas and if you really care about ideas then you’ll really care about people. As we continue to grow in our boldness and proclamation of the gospel during these important days, we’d do well to do a little people-watching this week. It might just break your heart, soften your tongue, and season your sermon with grace.

We’re looking forward to gathering in the morning for worship – it will be so good to sing out loud, share with one another, and listen to what the Lord might want to say to each of us and all of us. It’s grand to be a Christian! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate