My First Sermon 25 Years Later

Not my very first ever sermon in the late eighties.  Mercy banished that to the lost annals of the Kings of Israel. October 18th, however, was the silver anniversary of the first sermon I preached at the church I serve. If you’re interested, the cassette is probably in my garage. 

There are very few sermons that I vividly remember preaching. This is one.  I’ve never lost the visual memory of our former building on that morning and, by now, the mostly former members who were there.  Some moved away. Tragically, a few shipwrecked their faith.  It was an older congregation when I arrived, and many have since been welcomed into glory. Others simply wanted a different pastor and are flourishing elsewhere. Thankfully, I have been able to stay. It’s a wonderful place to serve and I am humbled by the congregation’s enduring embrace of my ministry.

I preached my first sermon here on a famous passage about preaching. It seemed fitting since I was (so I thought but never said outload) quite possibly on my way to becoming something of a famous preacher myself.  You will note the irony.

And I, when I came to you, brothers, did not come proclaiming to you the testimony of God with lofty speech or wisdom. ² For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. ³ And I was with you in weakness and in fear and much trembling, ⁴ and my speech and my message were not in plausible words of wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, ⁵ so that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God. 1 Cor. 2.1-5

Despite the internal contradiction between text and preacher, the better parts of my soul where in that sermon, too. I had the alluring hope of a young minister clearing the field of his new homestead. I think my earnestness was genuine.  Plus, I was faithful to the text in form and content which is almost, but not quite, everything. The folks who heard it seemed to think it was fine. In their minds the new pastor got a base hit, maybe even a double.  For my part, I thought I hit it out of the park.  However, in the high-def replay of middle-aged reflection I look like a little leaguer who swung way too early and then frantically swung again. Not pretty, but as I said my earnestness was genuine.

Here’s what my first at-bat looks like in slow-motion.

Verse 1—

Anyone who heard me that day must have known that despite Paul’s example I came with my Irish eloquence at the ready and was eager to display whatever intellect I could muster. Naturally, the inaugural sermon at my new church called for homiletical art and intellectual vigor.  That’s a problem if we take the passage at face value as we should, of course.

Verse 2—  

In the months that followed my auditors would learn that although I was trained well in the knowledge of Christ, I knew other stuff too and had plenty of ideas about what we should do and how we should do it. I’m not apologetic for that since Paul clearly had a plan himself.  But I am sorry that I wasn’t self-aware enough to see how my inner whiteboard operated in me at the time. Verse two tripped me up at bit as well.

Verse 3—

My biggest fear, really my only fear that Sunday, was that the sermon wouldn’t go well.  The ontological reality of preaching in the Presence of Christ Jesus, as Paul later said, didn’t register.  My professors taught me to believe in the power of the Word and the centrality of the pulpit. I still do. But there was more going on that Sunday. My pride and my Myers-Briggs have often convinced me I can do more than my gifts merit.  So, despite preaching on the words of a trembling Apostle, it didn’t occur to me that not being afraid might portend an issue. It became apparent years later, that it had occurred to God. 

In his time he would introduce me to myself through trying providence that I don’t have the energy to go into except to say verse three was the one I really screwed up; not hermeneutically, but personally. Leaving aside the gravity of preaching about an infinite God to eternal souls, I should have realized that my self-assurance was self-protective.  God’s hard, but kind hand eventually showed me that I was pretty much always afraid but didn’t know it. Anxiety was the white noise of my mind and part of everything I did in ministry and the rest of life. 

This, however, is a happy post! So let’s move on to the good part. Paul makes a subtle shift halfway through verse 4 on his way to every sermon’s saving grace.

Verses 4 and 5—

…my speech and my message were not in plausible words of wisdom (as we’ve seen, this is not entirely true of me), but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, so that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God.

The Spirit was not bound by the horizons of the preachers’ sanctification.  He was pleased to fill in what I lacked and preach in his power while I did my best to preach in mine.  In time he showed me who I was that Sunday and hundreds after, but that morning his Church was too important to wait for the preacher to figure himself out. He demonstrated his power right past mine.  It wasn’t hard. 

So, was it a good or bad sermon? If you were there, you would have probably said it was good. For my part, despite these awkward reflections I think it was a decent effort.  God’s grace covers a multitude of sermons.  And even if it didn’t, I am one of perhaps 7 people who remember it, six of whom would need some prodding and lie a little bit about how good it was. After the benediction, most folks just went to lunch and moved on.  

That humbling reflection leaves me with two lessons for anyone who expounds the Word of God to the people of God.  Preachers never know as much about themselves as they know about their passage. And no one listens to our sermons as closely as the One who fills in what they lack, not even us.