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When my son Mathew turned five, my wife and I signed him up for peewee hockey. We thought it would be cute. We envisioned munchkins wobbling on skates, leaning on sticks twice their size, chasing the puck around a massive rink.

After the first practice (indeed, it was very cute), we received a phone call from a man calling himself "a fellow hockey parent."

"Our first game is this Sunday at 11:00 a.m.," he informed me politely, "and it's your turn to drive. And that's not all." He was excited. "We have a great idea for you and your wife, volunteering at our annual Christmas tree sale, a fundraiser for the local hockey association."

A bit stunned, I said, "Wow, sounds like fun, but I have to work on Sundays," adding in my best ministerial tone, "I'm a pastor, you know."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "Well," the hockey man said, "Can your wife drive? We'd sure appreciate your commitment." As if trumping my clergy card, he asserted, "This is really important, you know."

Silly us. Little did we know that cute had nothing to with peewee hockey. This was a serious game, nay, a way of life. They never said it out loud, but I'm certain that if they were arrested for being hockey parents, they would want enough evidence to convict them. They made it clear that peewee hockey was a high and holy calling. Ordinary parents shouldn't dabble in it.

My son wobbled through the season and promptly retired. (We're enjoying our new role as soccer parents). But I'm still grateful for my connection with the peewee hockey parents. Honestly! They taught me some profound lessons.

Without badgering or belittling, they communicated a clear, uncompromising message: "We know you long to do something significant, even heroic. We believe our hockey program fulfills that longing. So here's your chance to be a hero. Get on board with us."

They had perfected the fine art of challenging people. And, unwittingly, they caused me to rethink my approach to pastoring, especially my preaching. Certainly my sermons communicated warmth and acceptance. But compared to peewee hockey, my preaching looked pretty feeble. Did I challenge people? Did they appeal to that longing for the heroic?

I discovered I had some work to do. Here's what I learned from my hockey friends.

Reading the Gospels, it's tough to miss Jesus' directness. He was always grace-filled, but on numerous occasions Jesus was also blunt. He placed the cost of discipleship up front, never burying the challenge in fine print.

My hockey friends did the same thing. Without a particle of shyness, they communicated the expectations. "If you want to be a good hockey parent, you will be at the Christmas tree lot by three o'clock on Christmas Eve." They don't indulge in cheap grace.

By contrast, I was guilty of indirect preaching. Five years into my first pastorate, for instance, I preached what I thought was a powerful sermon on a difficult Bible passage—just the right blend of sound exegesis, organization, application, encouragement, and even a few chuckles.

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