You aren’t hitting the ball out of the park like you used to, Pastor! And I’m not the only one keeping score!”
When I confessed I did not expect to hit a home run every Sunday morning, Ted’s face flushed with anger.
“Then what are we paying you to do?” he demanded. “I expect you to feed me during that half hour each Sunday so I have enough to go on the rest of the week!”
Since that animated conversation, I’ve reflected on Ted’s analogy. He has a point: Each time I take my stance in front of the congregation, I am faced with the challenge of making contact. But then again, does a congregation have a right to expect me to clear the 400-foot fence every week? Am I their only source of spiritual input?
I’ve had to conclude I will never be a home run king; I’m a percentage hitter.
WHEN IT MATTERS MOST
I followed the New York Yankees during the dynasty years of the Bronx Bombers—with Whitey Ford, Moose Skowron, Clete Boyer, Yogi Berra, Roger Maris, Bobby Richardson, and Mickey Mantle.
Chances were pretty good that if runners were in scoring position and Yogi Berra was up, the runners would safely reach home. It was uncanny. Time and time again, Yogi came through when he had to. And it wasn’t necessarily a home run. Much of the Yankees’ success in the early sixties was the proven ability of Yogi to produce when it mattered most.
That’s what a percentage hitter does—produce when it matters most.
The 1989 World Series between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland Athletics was interrupted by an earthquake that measured 7.2 on the Richter scale. Lives were lost. Homes destroyed. A section of the Bay Bridge collapsed. Our church in Concord, a suburb of San Francisco, was dramatically affected by the trauma.
I still remember the message I preached that Sunday. It wasn’t the best sermon I’ve ever preached; I was too shook up to prepare adequately that week. But it was a timely word. My text was Psalm 46—”God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble … though the earth give way … “
My people needed reminding that God was still in control. Fear of death, frazzled nerves, and unprecedented four-hour commutes into the city demanded a simple word of hope. It proved to be a source of needed comfort in an unforgettable week.
Wise old Solomon said, “A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver” (Prov. 25:11). That’s what a percentage preacher does: gets on base when it counts.
WHEN TO SACRIFICE
The week before Thanksgiving a few years ago, I was completely snowed under: my wife and I were expecting relatives, I was gearing up for the annual stewardship banquet, I had a Thanksgiving eve service to prepare for, and I was up to my ears in Advent preparation.
The text for that first Advent Sunday was a good one. I looked forward to honing it into a memorable message. But I knew that my preparation that week would be limited to Saturday night after the kids had been put to sleep. After a light supper and our bedtime ritual with our three daughters, I went for a three-mile run in anticipation of a late night.
When I returned, my wife met me at the front door. An elderly woman in the church had suffered a massive heart attack and was in the emergency room. Without showering, I donned my sweats and sped to the local hospital. The family, in shock, greeted me with news that Katherine had just died. I gathered with them and prayed and shared their grief. I got little sleep that night.
The next morning I had no choice but to wing it. I had preached on the text before, but the sermon was no home run. In fact, I probably didn’t even get to first base. That message was a sacrifice fly; I sacrificed my batting average to do what needed to be done. But that’s what a percentage hitter does.
WHAT I DO BEST
The year Roger Maris edged out Mickey Mantle for the home run crown, a short but agile second baseman contributed just as much to the Yankees’ race for the pennant—Bobby Richardson.
Richardson had a greedy glove and great moves on the infield. But he was not a consistent threat to hit the ball over the outfield fence. As long as the M & M boys did what they were capable of doing, Bobby Richardson could contribute his line drives and sacrifice flies. The responsibility for winning didn’t rest solely on his shoulders.
Percentage preachers could take some cues from Richardson. What pastor hasn’t been challenged with “Why can’t you preach more like Mr. Big Name Preacher?”
In those instances, my tendency is to think, If I had 30 hours a week to spend on one sermon, I could hit a home run each week, too. But I’ve been spending more time in front of the full-length mirror of reality; I’m coming to terms with the gifts God has given me.
Not long ago, my denominational superintendent, sensing my discouragement, said, “Remember, Greg, God created superstar preachers with a purpose only they can fulfill. He created you with a different mix of abilities that they’ll never have. Be free to be yourself.”
I think that’s what Paul meant when he chided the believers in Rome: “Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, but try to have a sane estimation of your capabilities” (Rom. 12:3, Phillips).
Like Bobby Richardson, my skills are needed in spite of the power-hitting strengths of those with more fame and power. Percentage preachers have a silent confidence in what God has given them to do and in the gifts God has given them to do it with.
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Greg Asimakoupoulos is pastor of Naperville Covenant Church in Naperville, Illinois.
1996 Christianity Today/LEADERSHIP Journal
