Sick of Sermons

Never watch a medical drama with a medical professional. At least not unless you're ready to hear why it's all wrong. Sure, those actors can pronounce necrotizing fasciitis, but sooner or later they'll hold the stethoscope wrong, and that's when your medical friend will make a guttural noise, followed by "that's not how you're supposed to do that." It's probably true. But it doesn't help me connect to the story.

Expertise makes it easy to spot imperfection. I've wanted to tell my show-spoiling friends that the inability to see beyond imperfections might be symptomatic of a sickness. The technical term for the malady is expertitis. It's an inflammation of the expertise cortex, that, when unchecked, can lead to a chronic overstimulation of the pompous gland.

I know because I have it.

The symptoms

In graduate school and as I entered the ministry, I found that I and many of my friends became afflicted with expertitis either while listening to a sermon or immediately following one. Symptoms of this sickness include grimaces, sidelong glances, snide whispers, and pedantic monologues in the car ride home or over lunch. Or, sometimes the only symptom exhibited is mentally checking-out—disconnecting from the sermon, the preacher, the Word.

Some sufferers have lived with this condition for so long that they have found ways to manage it: committing to ministries that pull them out of the sermon, "prophetic" blogging, venting during theology pub night, or using the sermon-time for completely unrelated spiritual exercises. The long-term prognosis is grave: spiritual malnourishment. The table that God sets for us has two parts, Word and Sacrament, and Christ is the bread of both. But we only get what we're willing to receive.

How can we fight this illness that has us always excusing ourselves from the table during the first course and frequently ruining the appetite of others? I recommend aggressive treatment.

Brain implants: thinking true things about the sermon

It matters that we think rightly about the sermon. If we think of it as entertainment then it makes sense to give a review. If the sermon is something more profound than that, it should give people like me pause that we so often respond like television critics.

From the very earliest days, the apostles proclaimed that the whole Old Testament had finally reached its purpose in Jesus. This act became a trademark of the church throughout time. The apostles' teaching (New Testament) about the Old Testament is still what we devote ourselves to in the sermon.

So here's the first thing I've tried to have implanted in my brain: the sermon tradition is older, bigger, holier, and cooler than any preacher, church, or recent seminary graduate out there. I ought to approach this time-honored and sacred tradition with an attitude of respect.

And here's the second thing: The Father gave us the Holy Spirit and this tradition of proclamation so that we can regularly meet Jesus anew, both personally and corporately as a church. Every sermon, that is the opportunity I'm being granted. Yes, I may have to divide some truth from error. But if I give my attention to the truth rather than the error, then I may meet Jesus and be changed and draw closer to my neighbor who is also meeting Jesus and being changed. Knowing that the sermon is such a grand opportunity increases my diligence not to miss what God is doing.

Cardiac bypass reversal: love the preacher

Now we move on to an even bigger, more dangerous procedure: loving the preacher. If we want to recover from the spiritually harmful effects of expertitis, then we will need to re-engage our hearts.

About five years ago, I attended my denomination's residential program for pre-field missionaries. I was anxious when I arrived. Although I could tow the confessional line, I was part of a young subculture that was discontent with the state of the institutional church. Before I arrived, I had already checked out mentally and relationally.

I thank God that he didn't let me stay that way. It was impossible to live in community and avoid spiritual interactions. As I prayed with others in the program, I not only saw their love for Jesus and the work of the Spirit in their lives, but I also saw their weakness: the couple that had changed regions after 30 years in West Africa and were struggling to cope, the single guy whose greatest fear was that his father would die while he was overseas. As I prayed that God would bless these people, I found I could no longer adopt a purely critical stance toward them when the weekly rotation for teaching landed on them. I began to notice more truth in what they said. As I began to love them, it became easier to receive from them the good things God had graced them with.

This experience gave me new eyes for seeing the people who are ministering to me. As I sit under instruction at my church now, I remember how I was once nourished by God when instead of ignoring the personhood of my teachers, I saw the image of God in them.

What is a mark of listening to a sermon lovingly? One mark is listening for what the preacher is trying to say, not what they aren't trying to say or what they may have inadvertently said. Trying to infer the preacher's theological camp from a few turns of phrase is one way I've often failed at this. Rather than hearing this particular word, all I heard was "Calvinism, Calvinism, Calvinism." Love is on the side of the person who is speaking; it sees the image of God in the speaker, hears their heart, and searches for the truth in the message. Sometimes preachers misspeak while trying to make a point. When we're listening lovingly, we can often discern the true intention and usually it will be something we can affirm to the glory of God.

But what is it like to listen to a sermon lovingly when you hear the intent but disagree? Loving our pastors, people with real authority in our lives, calls us into a risky trusting in which we say, I think I'm right about this, but I might be wrong. It doesn't mean that I have to agree with everything being said, but it means that I should entertain the possibility that I am wrong and speak more humbly about this topic in the future. Love creates that kind of openness.

But what if I still disagree? Loving my preacher in that moment may mean that I ask God to give me love. It's hard to do. It requires faith that God will take care of this sermon, not me. Asking God to help me love the preacher often turns me outward to seek something to affirm: something that is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, or trustworthy. That is a search God always blesses.

Outpatient care

When you're sick, it takes a while to recover. Depending on how chronic your expertitis, it may take a lot of time and effort—intentional exercising of attention to the right things. I call that focusal therapy, and I have to do it a lot. I find more and more, though, that I forget myself during a sermon and am able to love and receive. But it's still a little tough to enjoy those medical dramas.

John Raines is the brother of a wonderful medical professional, his sister Kristen. He has done cross-cultural and pastoral ministry both overseas and in the States for a little while now.