Sunday Through a Pastor’s Eyes

Somehow on a Sunday, 8 a.m. feels early. The streets are empty as I make my way to church, hoping that the early morning hours I spent praying over my sermon will pay off. Maybe one day the sermon will feel ready before Sunday services begin.

I see that Michael, the homeless man who has adopted us, is waiting on the church steps. I wonder if today will be what he calls one of his bad days. You never know. "Sorry, you know I don't carry cash, brother, but we'll have some coffee going soon, and you're welcome to come in and warm up." As I let us both into the building, I wonder if it's wise to be alone with him. I can see it's not one of his better days.

I'm used to the sounds of the empty church, but I hear something new today as I pass the bathrooms. Has that toilet been running all night again? I fish around in the cistern and do my best to re-hook the chain, but I know it's a temporary fix. I guess our utilities bills will go over budget again, and once we pay for a plumber the bank account will take an even bigger hit. Let's hope giving this month makes room for tricky toilets. I'll drop a note to the administrator. Probably should make an "out of order" sign, too.

Let's hope giving this month makes room for tricky toilets. I'll drop a note to the administrator.

On my way to the office I check in on the sanctuary where volunteers are arriving and setting up instruments. "Good morning! Thanks for everything you do!" I call as I run my hand along the radiator, relieved to find it's functioning today. Looks like we need more candles, so I head for the office.

Dropping my bag on my desk, I have that hovering feeling that I should go over my sermon one more time. Will thinking more about it really make a difference? Where is the place between under- and over-prepared, that perfect spot where I'm also still learning, where I allow God to enter into the preaching with me? Will I ever have a Sunday where I'm comfortable with this burdensome honor? (Or is it an honorable burden?) I really should get those candles and write that email about the plumber.

Speaking of plumbing, just this once I really should go to the bathroom before people start arriving. On my way I notice John, one of our oldest members, picking up trash around the entryway. I wave at him through the window and mouth the words, "Thank you!" I've been meaning to invite his family for dinner. Such faithful people. Maybe next month.

Michelle rounds the corner, jokes with John, and bustles inside. Greeting her with a hug, I ask if things are any different since last time we met. Her face says no but she tries to sound hopeful. I'm at a loss to know how to comfort her in light of the troubles she's facing. A sound tech volunteer pops his head out of the sanctuary and asks if I know where we keep the extra batteries. So I promise to have coffee with her this week and excuse myself to dig around for batteries. Oh, and candles too.

There's still time to run to the bathroom before the service begins so I make my way there via the sanctuary. Everything seems in order. I check in with the staff and we have a quick run through the order of service and pray for the day. As we pray I remember that I never did go over the sermon that one last time and add a prayer that God will work through whatever I have to bring. I feel Rebecca's reassuring presence beside me during the prayer. She holds my hand a little longer after the prayer is done and asks me how I am. She's the closest thing to a friend I have here and I'd dearly love to tell her how I am. What would I say? It takes me a while to find the answer and when I do, I realize there isn't time to go into it now, with the service about to begin. So I tear myself away from this conversation to start ramping things up. It's not a performance so I shouldn't be anxious. But something significant is about to happen, and I have a part in making it happen.

One pulls me aside and picks up a story he was telling me last Sunday, a detailed telling of the state of his intestines. I really hope my lapel mic is off.

The service goes pretty much as usual. There's a commotion at one point to clean up a coffee spill and a few slides don't match the music. During the song set, I have my weekly fear that I'll lose my voice mid-sermon so I run out to grab myself a glass of water. I rarely drink it. It just makes me feel better to have it beside me when I preach. The water dispenser is empty so I duck into the kitchen to refill it and see that the coffee volunteers are still there, cleaning up. I take time to thank them for their work and ask them how they are. One pulls me aside and picks up a story he was telling me last Sunday, a detailed telling of the state of his intestines. I really hope my lapel mic is off. I hope he'll be okay. Then I hope it's not contagious. I can hear the final song before the sermon is wrapping up and I realize I have to run. As I dash back into the sanctuary just in time, I see I've forgotten my water.

I choose to turn my hurried entrance into positive energy and set aside my self-accusation that I wasn't standing in prayerful preparation. As I find my sermon notes and gather my thoughts, I'm happy to see people seem engaged. A few respond with laughter in the right places. At one point, I lose my train of thought and at another I forget an important segue, but I laugh at myself to pretend I don't care. Toward the end of the sermon, I notice a young man in tears in the back and hope they're good tears. As I'm getting ready to wrap this thing up, a new wording falls into place in my mind, something with rhythm that bears repeating, so I repeat it. The final pieces that refused to fit together at my computer come together here as I speak, not only for my congregation but for me. When it's done I hope it also meant something to someone else.

The rest of the service is a blur of the words I say every week over offerings and communions and announcements and doxologies and as I take a seat at the end of the service I do so with a sigh. It was good and now it's done. I bow my head and the prayer feels so right. Or is it good because it lets me rest my eyes?

I glance up from prayer to see a new couple enthusiastically moving towards me. I've asked their names twice now. It was two J's. Justin and Joanne? John and Julie? I see their faces and hope it means they enjoyed the sermon. (Is it ego, wanting some sign that my work is effective? Is it good to want proof that God can use my feeble offerings to bless others?) They've just started a home business and they want me to hand out flyers to people in the congregation. As they hand me a business card, I see the teary young man standing tentatively behind them. He has that, "I'd like to speak to you but I'm standing a little way off so I don't intrude on your current conversation" posture. I smile at him to let him know I've seen him and try to find a way to include him.

My daughter sidles up to me and although I can't tear away from the chatty couple, I pull her close to me. I hope that she senses my attention even if it's divided. This girl has sacrificed more for this place than anyone knows, and I don't want her growing up thinking I cared more for my parishioners than I did for her. I decide this is a good time to use our family trick of finding out names we should know. "Have you met this couple?" I ask my daughter. She holds out her hand and says, "No, my name is Trudy." The two J's introduce themselves but I miss it as I notice that the teary man has left. I hope he comes back next Sunday. I pray that God will guide him through whatever brought him to tears. I finally attend to my daughter's question, careful to give her at least as much of my energy as I give everyone else, and she skips back to her friends. I take the business card and apologize to the two J's, "Sunday isn't the best time for long conversations, I'm afraid. Could you drop me an email?"

I let my eyes scan the room. Is there anyone left standing alone? Any newcomer un-welcomed? People gather in happy groups, and I'm glad to see there aren't any loners. And at the same time, it saddens me. That makes me the only one.

Turning my attention to the final tasks to be wrapped up, I feel my pulse returning to normal. With each door I lock, I find myself slowing. Now for home. As I open my car door, I hear my name. "Before you go, can we pray? I have exams this week and I don't feel ready." Of course we can pray. It's what I'm here for. But if I had already left, would he have been okay? Would he have prayed without me? I feel with him genuinely as he shares his family's expectations and the pressure he feels, how he hasn't been able to sleep, which means he can't focus to study. It's beyond my help and so as we pray I give his week to the Lord and we both feel a little better. "Let me know how things go! I'll be thinking of you this week!" I call, hoping that will be true.

Driving home, I go over my mental checklist: Did I catch up with the people who most needed my attention this week? Did I double check the door that sticks? I hope that Michael hasn't hidden away in one of the back bathrooms again. Who can blame him when the streets are so cold? I hope there's a warm lunch awaiting me at home. I think I flipped on the slow cooker in my early morning rush. But beyond hunger for food, there's a deeper hunger: for sleep. I've worked eight-hour shifts in offices and ten-hour shifts in restaurants. Why does this six-hour work day wear me out more than any of them?

(This is a work of fiction loosely based on my last seven years of ministry.)

Mandy Smith is lead pastor of University Christian Church in Cincinnati, Ohio.