I have probably witnessed in excess of 1,500 sermons over the past 35 years. Of those, I remember about a dozen vividly. There's another two dozen, maybe, of which I have some residual memory. The older I get, the more sermons I hear, the more I want to be challenged. I grow weary of safe, predictable interpretations; I am tired of brow-beating mean-spiritedness; bored with clichéd punch lines; I yawn at sickly sincere limousine lefties. Are we too polite as Christians, or specifically as Presbyterians, or perhaps as Canadians, to question the value of Sunday service? Perhaps we have a life long training in genuflecting to the clergy — regardless of what they say must be so?
Rarely if ever do I carry the service or the sermon with me past coffee-hour. Of the sermons I remember vividly, two are because the preachers were dopes. Both of those, coincidentally, happened to be at weddings. In one the minister, half way through the sermon, realized that leave and cleave — the woman shall leave her family and cleave to her husband — rhymed. He couldn't let this realization pass, and used the rhyme every third sentence. In the other ceremony the minister cautioned the bride, "Yes, Tony likes to play the horses, but be thankful that when he wins he brings you home a nice dress." That advice was given in 1999!
Another sermon I remember dates back 30 years in which the minister spoke of the thoughts that flow out of congregants' minds during service. He pointed to the church rafters and told us if we looked carefully we could see expensive things, shiny things, sexy things and a lot of other non-churchy wishes that were released from us during worship. I have been looking up at church rafters for years now; and, yes, sometimes I do see those objects. Often my own thoughts.
I remember one service from the early-1980s. I was tired, probably a little hung-over (church would be a lot easier if it didn't follow Saturday night). It was Communion Sunday and that little piece of bread and that little cup of grape juice filled me completely. I still can recall the feeling inside my body as the elements transformed my physical state. I wait for that each time I take the body and the blood.
But often Sunday morning seems more a duty than a delight. I know that most ministers work hard on their sermons and prayers. I know they take Sunday service very seriously, but, and I don't think I'm alone in this, it rarely deepens, strengthens, maintains or clarifies my spirituality. If anything, it seems at times to dent my faith. I find most preaching to be condescending — paternalistic, if you would like, though the attitude isn't limited to males. I'm guessing that has something to do with the way ministers are taught.
In short, this weekly activity, arguably the most powerful cumulative cultural experience in society, is a dud. And I find that interesting. Everything in our culture is rated and judged: movies, books, jobs, colleagues, food, clothes, professors, cars, diapers. In a culture overwhelmed by choices we constantly need tools to help us focus — consumer magazines, daily newspapers, TV shows are filled with advice on what to buy, where to get it, how to get it.
And, yet, when it comes to our church experience, we just take it. (A by-product of the paternalism, perhaps?) There is a website — www.shipoffools.com — that offers some reviews of Sunday services, everything from the greeter, the pew, the sermon, to the coffee. The list of questions is instructive. (Sadly, there are no reviews of Presbyterian services, but perhaps one of you could correct that.) We cleave to our congregations for a variety of personal reasons. We stay because our fellows in the pews become our family; and Sunday service is merely the dysfunctional weekly gathering of the clan. The sermon, the price we have to pay for coffee hour.
