A final word about benedictions: A few years ago it occurred to me that most (some exceptions, of course) benedictions (those worship-ending prayers) were meaningless—rather like an appendix. In most churches, they merely signal that the worship is over, perhaps like the bell ending a round of boxing. During benedictions, musicians turn the pages of their music for their final gig, ushers scurry to open the exit doors, and parishioners grab their coats.
I think benedictions deserve better.
I’ve come to regard them as the last word of the pastor to the congregation as they split for six days of tough living in a larger world. The benediction is a blessing upon the people, and it is designed to remind them of great themes of assurance and challenge they should carry with them in the short-future. A mother giving her children last minute reminders as they head for the school bus is a picture that comes to mind. Or a coach exhorting a team just before the game begins.
If an invocation invites God’s presence and stamps a worship service as a holy event, the benediction sends the people forth to be whatever the people of God are supposed to be. “I bless you” is a pastor’s final formal words.
With this wonderful pastoral privilege—the blessing of people—in mind, I have found myself writing benedictions. Last Sunday, I gave the New Hampshire congregation where we worship this benediction:
“I have this benediction for you,” I said. “As you leave this sanctuary, make sure that you are clothed in the vast and awesome love of the Heavenly Father. If you should stumble and fall, it will be that very love that will draw you back to his presence. Be careful to seize every opportunity to reflect God’s love in your words and in your actions toward others. Do not be angry, selfish, or arrogant people, but—in response to his love—let your patience and kindness flow toward those who are weaker and more vulnerable than you. If you are intentional about these things, the blessing of the God of love will be upon you. Remember, we shall stand before him some day and all our thoughts and deeds will be made known. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I bid you farewell.”
As I spoke that final sentence I signed the cross into the people. And then they were gone.
Reflections: A few days ago, my wife, Gail and I, journeyed to Nashville, Tennessee, to speak at the Mt. Zion Baptist Church, a huge congregation of African/American people led by Bishop Joseph Walker. When we arrived we were immediately taken under the care of three wonderful men and women who identified themselves by name and said, “We’re your armor bearers.” I’ve heard the term before, but asked them what it meant anyway. “We’re here to serve you in any way we can so that you are totally free to deliver your message to the people tonight.” And that’s what our armor-bearers did. Did we need water? A rest-room? A quiet place to go over our notes? They made it happen. Among several thousand people, they understood that there might be a need for protection from the kind of person who wants to tie you down in purposeless conversation. We were protected. Did we need prayer? They had prayers.
One of them—a marvelous forty-something man of incredible dignity and warmth—had a serious cancer in his body. But he said his problems were not of concern for the moment. Serving us was.
What a marvelous tradition. What an incredible lesson to us. It’s nice to have your “armor” carried by another for a few hours. As long as one remembers that his chance to be armor bearer to someone else may happen the next day.
Happy reciprocity.
Books I’m reading: Tracy Kidder (great, great writer) will tweak your conscious (it did mine) with Mountains Beyond Mountains. It’s a vivid account of a young doctor wading through the poverty of Haiti.
Others that I’ve loved this month: Anthony Everitt’s biography of Cicero (Random House) and Robert D. Putnam’s Better Together (Simon and Schuster), an account of a dozen or more ventures in community across America. “Saddleback Church” is one of the key chapters. This latter book will hint at where the church is headed.
Calvin Miller has a wonderful, new meditative book, A Hunger for the Holy (Howard Press) that broods on various Psalms. Near the book’s beginning is this Calvin Miller poem. Take a deep breath, shut off all distractions, and let these words wash over you. That’s what I’ve done several times.
In this secluded place I meet a king.
He comes alone to drink reality
With me. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we sit
And sip a life that passes by the crowd.
As inwardness is born—a felted thing
Of power—a commonality of grace—
A union where unmended hopes are knit
Where silence roars as quiet sings aloud.
Oh Christ, I love it here! It is our place.
Speak Lord or not. Touch me or not. Show then
Your will or bid me wait in patient grace.
Fill all my hungry need with joy again.
With simple loaves of bread and chaliced wine
Heaven, earth, and all of God are mine.
Gordon MacDonald is chair of World Relief and editor at large of Leadership.
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