The preacher and the cockroach

I was reflecting on the task of preaching today and came across this little piece I wrote back in 2012. Although I'm happy to say this was the last time I ever shared the pulpit with a cockroach, I wish I also could tell you it was the last time I ever died during one of my sermons. 

Last Sunday, as I sat in the chancel, mentally preparing myself to preach, I looked down at the floor and saw a giant cockroach wedged up against the left side of the pulpit. It was lying on its back with its desperate little legs twitching in the air. That lovely image was still in my brain as I climbed into the pulpit and looked out at my congregation. There they were, waiting for a word from the Lord, and I was thinking about a near-dead cockroach.

 

I had an important message that day. It was all about denying ourselves, taking up a cross and following Jesus. Mind you, this is not something peripheral to the life of faith. For those of us who aspire to live Jesus lives, this is at the center. So why was I feeling like it was totally irrelevant to the lives of the people I was addressing? Most of them weren’t making eye-contact with me, and those who were didn’t seem to be blinking. Hello? Is anybody out there?

 

The more I talked, the more disconnected I felt. Was it that nobody likes to be reminded about how following Jesus isn’t always fun? Was it that I had preached on this so many times before that they must be tired of hearing it? Was my sermon too academic? Too humorless? Too devoid of honest-to-goodness, real- life examples? Should I have started working on it earlier in the week? Seriously, while I was talking, all of those thoughts were racing through my mind. I was second-guessing myself and a part of me was wondering if maybe it was time for me to consider taking up another line of work.

 

Certainly, I don’t preach for the praise. That would be bonkers. But it helps if I can sense some kind of connection with my listeners while I’m putting myself out there. It’s not easy for me to stand before a congregation and presume to know what I’m talking about. Sometimes I feel like such a fake and I wonder if they can all see right through me. Really, why should they listen to me? What do I know? Preaching feeds on all my insecurities. And every once in a while I have a Sunday like this, where I am praying for the proverbial trap door that will both make me disappear from view and put me out of my misery. With each word I spoke, I felt more and more like that cockroach, struggling to survive

 

I love preaching when I have a fire in my belly. On those Sundays, I can’t wait to step into the pulpit and watch the words fly from my mouth. I’m talking about something that burns within me, something I believe will transform the lives of my listeners. This is like an out-of–the body experience for me. Although I am a terribly self-conscious person, in that holy moment, all I care about is getting the message across as effectively as I can and there is not a self-conscious bone in my body. I have no doubt that there is a God-thing going on. There have been lots of Sundays like that for me. But this was not one of those Sundays.

 

Finally, I came to the end of the sermon. I left the congregation with a question, said “Amen” and sat-the-hell down, thinking that’s something I should have done about ten minutes ago. Thank God it’s over.

 

I looked down and saw no more movement from the cockroach. He died while I was preaching. Just like me. I died while I was preaching, too. Of course, the big difference between us is that I will live to preach again. Maybe that’s why Christian preachers get so worked up over the resurrection. We experience it on a regular basis.

 

And now, the rest of my life...

Like many other people, I pushed through the pandemic, hoping there might be life on the other side, while the cynical bias of my brain pulled on me to doubt it. I battled one wave of depression after another and struggled with extreme isolation that challenged even my introverted self. I taxed my capacity for compassion, unsure if I had it in me to care for other people while so preoccupied with caring for myself. I lived for moments of face time with my grandsons and cried when they disappeared with the simple push of a button. I smothered my skittish cat with more lovin’ than he could comfortably handle. I zoomed every day with a group of women who became my lifeline. I went on a quest for yeast, baked my own bread, and had to stop when it was so good that I ended up eating an entire loaf in one day. I grew my iconic pixie haircut into a shoulder length mess. I dieted and lost 20 pounds and then gained 25 of them back again. I reluctantly cancelled the reservations I had to spend a week at Jellystone Park with Nick and Justin. I learned to write, produce, direct and edit worship videos, which used up so much of my creative bandwidth that I had little space for anything else. I hung onto every word Dr. Fauci said and followed the rising and falling rates of infection, particularly in Baltimore County. I got all worked up over people who were cavalier about the coronavirus and spent way too much time venting to anyone willing to listen. I explored new depths of my racism with naked honesty. I helplessly watched from a distance as beloved members of my congregation died without presence of a pastor or community to help them through it. I bawled my way through election night just as I had four years earlier, but for much different reasons. I applied in vain for a Covid-19 vaccine and finally received one as a gracious gift.

That’s a bit of what I remember from the blur of my life over the past 14 months. And now, suddenly, none of it matters to me. What did I just live through? Was it me or someone else? When I look at the movie line-up on the Hallmark channel, I can’t understand how it came to happen that I’ve already watched all of these cheesy movies. I marvel at my clean, organized closets and wonder who the person was who snuck into my house and accomplished such a Herculean task. I vaguely remember that people were pissing me off a year ago, but I can’t recall who they were or what they did to piss me off.

I’ve turned the page and begun the next chapter. Back working in my office, I’m planning for Ascension’s first indoor worship service since March of 2020. I’m driving to my favorite restaurant, parking the car and actually going inside to eat. I’m making plans for a Jellystone vacation with my grandsons and their parents in July. 

I don’t want to waste another moment of my life fretting about all that I lived through over the past 14 months. My desperate angst has been transformed into giddy gratitude. All I can think about is the rest of my life. It’s been waiting for me. And now it’s here!