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

Good morning church family,

It bothers me that NBC can do such a wonderful job telling the life story of an Olympic athlete but seems completely incapable of telling the story of someone running for president. And it’s not just NBC – nearly every media outlet that’s allowed behind closed doors and given access to the candidates, is failing the rest of us who have to stay on this side of the rope line. Americans are better informed about those who represented the country on fields of play in Paris than they are about those seeking to represent them in Washington. Whether that’s by design or not I suppose I won’t try and say but we, the electorate, are certainly underserved by those we’ve empowered to aid us in the important work we’re called to do.

In America, the people and their president operate under an unwritten contract. For the people’s part, they readily acknowledge that the president can’t possibly consult them on the hundreds of decisions he must make every day. There is simply no mechanism that would allow for a true democracy in a nation of millions. So, the people elect to the land’s highest office an autocrat who is pretty much free to do whatever he wants with his term. Of course, the people will boo and hiss; heartened by the safeguards of tricameral checks and balances and the regular chance to yank the chain at the ballot box.

And for the candidate’s part, he agrees to open his mind to the electorate during his candidacy; answering every question that’s asked and going on the record concerning every issue of the day. And the people won’t be satisfied with just a pamphlet drop; their heads being showered with bullet-pointed presentations of policy positions and platform stances. These are important, of course, but hardly provide the measure of a man. The people want to know what makes a candidate tick. They want the clock face to swing back on its hinges; offering a look at the guts and gears inside. The governed want to learn a leader’s life story. What tragedies and triumphs have formed his character? Who were his teachers and what books and studies formed his thinking? How did he fare when life punched him in the mouth? How did he respond to the honey-tongued seductions of the press, the machine politicians, and the super PACs? The answers to these questions help the people know if there’s any fight in the dog or spirit in the horse. After all, those hundreds of decisions that come his way every day – they won’t be made by computer algorithms but by a heart, mind, and gut.

For the most part, this contract has worked well for the country. Whether they had any affection for their presidents or not, Americans have historically seen the occupants of the Oval Office as real flesh and blood folk whose warts-and-all-lives were generally known by all. This created an inexplicable bond and connection. Because citizens weren’t governed by shadowy ciphers whisked out from behind the curtain every now and again but instead by individuals they understood to be more or less like themselves, they couldn’t help but develop a rooting attachment for them. And that’s a good thing.

Over the last few cycles, however, it seems as though this contract has been broken. Candidates seem to make their entrance onto the national stage by catapult now; flung at us out of nowhere. And the press, instead of working to fill the gaping holes in their biographies, create cults of personality instead.

An electorate that votes a complete stranger into office shares the same fate as a woman who agrees to marry a man based entirely on the information provided on his online dating service profile. Of course, it’s possible for such a relationship to work out for her but if it does, she’d only have dumb luck to thank. It would have been far wiser for her to do some old-fashioned digging; gotten to know his friends a little, watched him interact with his mother, observed him captain his ship through some choppy waters, and logged enough time with him to get an accurate baseline for understanding his character.

I find it interesting that in the qualifications the Apostle Paul lists for the position of elder, most require some level of intimate acquaintance. “If anyone aspires to the office of overseer,” Paul writes to Timothy, “he desires a noble task. Therefore an overseer must be above reproach, the husband of one wife, sober-minded, self-controlled, respectable, hospitable, able to teach, not a drunkard, not violent but gentle, not quarrelsome, not a lover of money. He must manage his own household well, with all dignity keeping his children submissive, for if someone doesn’t know how to manage his own household, how will he care for God’s church?” Reading back through that list of qualifications, it’s clear that one could never really qualify for church leadership who wasn’t known – truly known – by the people. At a surface level, you would know if someone had a side-wife, of course, and you could probably tell if someone was mastered by his money. But how could anyone really know if a man was hospitable based on his public speaking performance or learn if he was sober-minded by watching him smile and shake hands at the gate? To know if someone was respectable, self-controlled, or able to manage his household well you’d have to be given a glimpse behind the curtain.

Now, I certainly understand that precious few people in any land could ever be as intimately acquainted with their governor, king, or president as they could be with someone who might be their pastor. But as long as the people of this great land are given the sobering responsibility of choosing their ruler, they really ought to be afforded the chance to know more than the little they can learn by seeing them in airbrushed stage appearances or from the propaganda splashed about on 6” by 8” mailers.

Obviously, we would all love to have a wise president leading our country. But wisdom, which is different from knowledge or expertise, isn’t something that can be attained through study, hard work, or years of winning the street. Wisdom begins through a fear or reverence of God. The greater a person’s God-consciousness, the more likely he or she is to benefit from the accountability that comes from serving under His watchful eye. The more a person respects God, the more open he or she will be to the counsel of His word.

I hope we all vote in the presidential election this November and I’m well aware that we’ll all base our votes on different sets of values and priorities. I’m quite sure we wouldn’t be able as a church to cast a single ballot. And that’s a wonderful thing as long as we all vote our conscience. But before the campaigns ramp up this fall and perhaps while the cement is yet a little wet, I want to encourage all of us to try and do the work the press won’t do for us. As the designated driver for our drunk country, the church must do the best it can to elect the candidate who will best employ a biblical worldview in all the decisions made on our behalf. Dig a little deeper than Wikipedia’s summary biographies. Listen not just to the positions the candidates take but for any clues they might give as to the reason for their stands – the “why” always being more important than the “what”. Finally, pray and ask for discernment. Voting need not be a secular activity but should be an act of worship – not of the candidate of course – but of the Sovereign we must trust to rule over it all.

It’s going to be so good to gather together in the morning for fellowship, prayer, worship, and encouragement. Thank the Lord for the gift of His church! Come prepared to both give and receive of the good things God has given throughout the week. See you in the morning:) May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

-Pastor Tate