I need to tell you this story.
When I was a pastor over ten years ago, I preached at a tiny conference & after a young woman approached me. She had tears in her eyes, said she was single & anxious all the time & nearing 40 & “accomplished nothing.” I hurt for her. Then suddenly,
When I was a pastor over ten years ago, I preached at a tiny conference & after a young woman approached me. She had tears in her eyes, said she was single & anxious all the time & nearing 40 & “accomplished nothing.” I hurt for her. Then suddenly,
I drew a blank on what to say. My seminary hadn’t prepared me for this. And I was scared for her. How would her church reply? Her pastor? Was this place safe? All I could do was process with her, validate her feelings, remind her of her inherent value, pray with her. So then,
After I met this young anxious woman, I changed two things.
1) I rewrote the rest of my sermons.
2) I vowed to always think of this women & others like her every time I spoke or wrote.
I knew up to then, to my own shame, I had never preached for the ones in the back row.
1) I rewrote the rest of my sermons.
2) I vowed to always think of this women & others like her every time I spoke or wrote.
I knew up to then, to my own shame, I had never preached for the ones in the back row.
To this day, if anything I say does not speak to the person in the back row, to someone like me or her, it’s not worth saying. If it doesn’t work in hurt, it won’t work at all. I have to remember where people really live. Hope cannot smother or bypass, but must only gently enter.
If our words only work for the well-off, able-bodied, & undisturbed, then maybe we’re 1) only speaking to popular powerful folks, 2) expecting profit from big pockets, or 3) comfortable outside reality. I made that mistake as much as others have with me. Keep me where people are.
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