What did you preach on today?

I had a wonderful few days this weekend.  I spoke at a conference on church leadership, and while in the neighborhood, I attended the celebration of a music director who had served a parish for 60 years.  The former filled me with hope at the dedication of local leaders and their enthusiasm, as well as their honest confrontation of their struggles as the church enters unchartered territory.  The latter filled me with awe at the dedication of a devoted servant of God who had patiently enriched the praises and prayers of a congregation through music for 60 years. 

As wonderful as it was, I arrived back at the airport on Sunday night happy but pretty tired and ready to get home.  I was thinking only about relaxing for a minute with a drink and then somehow getting through a late flight to New York. 

When I drove the rental car into the return lane, the agent checked me in, reminded me that I’d left my phone in the car (!), and then asked, completely unexpectedly, “What did you preach on today?”

I was sure I couldn’t have heard her correctly.  “I beg your pardon,” I said.

“What did you preach on today?”  I was startled but realized my collar, from which I hadn’t had time to change, had given me away.

I was relieved that the answer, actually, should have been “nothing.”  Perhaps that is more often the case than I would like to admit.  But what I said instead, with some relief that I was going to dodge a bullet, was “Oh, I didn’t preach today.” 

She was not deterred.  “Well, what was the sermon about where you went to church this morning?” 

Oh, rats.  I decided, wisely I think, not to get into the fine point that we had had Eucharist with a sermon the night before and explain how Saturday night and Sunday morning are the same thing, liturgically speaking.  I knew it wouldn’t have gotten me off the hook anyway. And I didn’t go into the fact that I’d been to Morning Prayer Sunday morning and Evensong Sunday afternoon, each without a sermon.  I figured that could only make things worse.  In fact, I was a little disturbed about when I thought about the implications of a Sunday without any expounding of Scripture, the Saturday night technicality notwithstanding. 

So in a moment of controlled panic I wracked my brain to remember the sermon.  I was frustrated with that because it had actually been a good sermon, quite a good sermon.  Had I not been paying adequate attention?  Regardless, I was not prepared for a quiz.  And the sermon was so good that it warranted more than a ten second synopsis.  I was frustrated with my obvious lack of faith.  I blurted something out at first that clearly didn’t make sense.  She responded with a puzzled look and a “Huh?”

More wracking of the brain.  Finally I blurted out something, which though not profound, was at least minimally coherent and actually related to what the preacher had been trying to impart.  I was pleased that I could remember, basically at least, the Gospel lesson at issue.  I mentioned the book and the chapter and hoped she would give me a pass on the verse. 

It worked.  She was satisfied.  Sort of. 

Then she went on to tell me about her preacher’s sermon that morning.  God was not in a break-giving mood apparently.  She remembered that her pastor had preached on Psalm 150, and she remembered the point of the message, which was that we should not judge how others praise God.  Everyone praises God in her or his own way, he had said, and that none of us is in any place to make qualitative distinctions between prayers and the manner in which they are made.   

I can only hope it applies to her memory of her encounter with a very tired preacher in a purple shirt last night.  It is interesting to me, though, that I remember more about the sermon she heard than the one I did.  And I assure you it has nothing to do with the preacher I heard.

Peace,