After a two week lay off, I return to the pulpit tomorrow. The pulpit was ably filled by Jeff Miller and then by Bob Hull during my absence (thanks Jeff and Bob!).
Tomorrow's sermon is on the parable(s) of the four soils. I wrote a fun story about Jake and the Beanstalk for the sermon, but it didn't quite work. It was too complicated and wound up not really making the point I wanted to make. My friend told me not to use it (thanks, Robbie). That' s always a bummer when you put work into a story only to discover it doesn't do what you wanted it to do.
Have no fear, though! Robbie re-launched me in a better direction. I like this sermon. It allowed me to revisit some of the kids who were important to me in my youth ministry. This sermon became more personal to me than most.
Knowing that I would be out of town for most of this week, I asked Willy to write the pastoral prayer (she writes very thoughtful prayers). That means I won't be posting it unless she gives me a copy.
In place of the prayer I will post my opening story from tomorrow's sermon:
Sermon Text: Matthew 13:1-24
Reading this story from Jesus I couldn’t help but remember my days in the youth ministry. That’s because youth tend not to hide the kind of soil they are as well as adults. Some youth are positively wild about making sure you know which one they are. They can’t wait to make sure somebody … anybody!... knows who they are and what they’re about.
I think of Hardison (names are changed, but it should be obvious why I picked the name Hardison). Hardison was hard packed soil if ever there was. I knew him when he was around fifteen years old. He had dark, shoulder-length hair, alert (but hurting) eyes, and he sported a continual, protective smirk. He was nice enough but you got the sense that life was about to turn those hurting eyes into a deeper, longer lasting, set of eyes that just fumed with anger.
I think he only came around the church because he had run out of other places to hang out. He couldn’t hang out at home for some reason. His parents appeared love him, but despite being psychologists, they seemed to have no idea what to do with or about him. I don’t say that to cast stones at psychologists, by the way. There are plenty of parents who want to do what is best for their kids but who find themselves unable to figure out what in the world that is.
Hardison never came to youth group or youth events. He made it clear to me that he was not going to be coaxed into church. He preferred to visit me during the week. Hardison enjoyed plopping down in my office and chatting. He liked to ask me what I was doing in order to tell me why I was wrong for doing it—hoping for a reaction.
“Watcha working on?”
“Sunday night’s lesson.”
“What’s it on?”
“Prayer.”
“Oh. I don’t pray. I’m a Wiccan.”
“Wiccan’s pray, Hardison.” I said. “You’ve heard of Wicca, but you’re no Wiccan.”
“I know. I was just testing you.”
That’s how things went with Hardison. The idea that maybe God had shared with humans what is good versus what is not good made no sense to him. If I had said, “Hardison, the world really does work the way God says it does. God tells us that drunkenness does damage to us, and that goes for drugs, too. The stuff you’re getting into won’t lead you anywhere you want to go. When you get older you’ll either regret what you’re experimenting with now, or you’ll be too mean to admit the regret. God is king. The reason we should listen to him is that he offers real wisdom regarding life on earth.” I said that, by the way, but never all at once.
Such suggestions would cause him to roll his eyes and walk away. I walked a fine line with Hardison.
After I left that church Hardison kept coming around to see my successor, Bob, even as his life began to slide into more and more difficulties. One day Bob had to talk Hardison into turning himself into the police. Hardison was in trouble for possession with intent to distribute and for burglary (I think). To escape the police he was living in the small woods near the church building.
Hard-packed Soil. Whenever he heard about God’s kingdom and living as though God really did know what was best for us, the message made no sense. The evil one snatched it way.
I've never planned this sort of event. I spent the week with the question "Is it appropriate?" rummaging around in me. What is the appropriate level of sentimentality? What is the appropriate level of celebration? Do we mention how much big givers gave? Do they want to be mentioned or would they prefer to be anonymous?
Tom Root and Glenn Diamond entertained us with a few songs to get the evening rolling. I enjoy Tom's music and it fit the occasion perfectly. Thanks, Tom and Glenn.
I called the Pam and Ron earlier in the week to see if they would drive from Maryville for the event. They did! It was great to see them. I'm still working on getting them to move back to Johnson City. I'm seeing no signs of it yet, but I'm a man of faith. After sitting with Carla and Larry they had to be contemplating a return. Didn't they?
Here we see David and Donna chatting with Norton, the father of Charles (whose memory we honored Sunday night).
Best of friends! Helen and Bethany always light up the room.
It looks to me like Heather is sharing a secret with Ross and Gina. Most of you know the secret, but I won't put it on my blog.
Owen looks like he's thinking, "I want that balloon. I need a plan."
Charlotte and Cindy share a hug as daughter and mother of the man we honored.
Emmanuel's Dean looks like he's sharing plans with the future President of Emmanuel.
My lovely wife chats with Peggy and her precocious son (he's a riot).
Amanda and Dr. Dennis. I love this picture. 
Jennifer places the plaque during the prayer of dedication.
