Even at the beach there's no escape. We were sitting on blankets watching our children
swim. The woman asked me what I was
reading, and then what kind of work I did. Then came the stinging question, spoken
with a faint sneer: "What gives you the audacity to think you have
anything to tell people about God?"
It's a question I ask myself every day. Who am I to think that I can actually bring people a word from God? And do it week after week? A word from God? A word to feed the hungry soul, refresh the weary, restore the broken heart, awaken the complacent, bring down the hypocrite? An authentic word from God?
Perhaps there are people who come to church and sit through a sermon as an act of penance. No doubt there are those who come to church expecting little or nothing from the pulpit. They have other reasons for being there. But what about the believer who comes hungering for fresh bread? Or the seeker who stumbles into church daring to hope that she or he may hear something that will answer the cry for truth that haunts their inmost soul?
There may be pastors and evangelists who are quite certain that their cupboard is full, they have the answer for the weary friend who arrives at midnight in need of a sustaining spiritual meal. And perhaps there are clergy who grind out sermons as easily as frying flapjacks. Smother the message in sufficient butter and syrup, and the preaching part of Sunday worship is well taken care of. But that woman's question still challenges the person who seriously believes himself/herself to be under a call to preach. "What gives you the audacity to think that you have anything to tell people about God?"
We're not talking about homiletics. We're not discussing the well-crafted sermon. We're not concerned here about eloquence, or how to present the Story in a relevant way. We're talking about getting a fresh word from God that our hearers will recognize as a word from God. The man or woman who is charged with the responsibility of preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ is driven into a wilderness where prophets are made. And in that wilderness never a day goes by when the preacher is not taunted by an inner voice which says, "Who do you think you are, to presume to actually speak for God?" And if our answer is, "I'm not claiming to speak for God!" the voice responds, "Then what are you doing in that pulpit?"
The actor's lines are there in black and white. With sufficient effort and skill she can memorize them and "get into" them and make them live. The lawyer's words may take hours of research and sweat and teamwork and refining. But they can be found by anyone who has the intellect and patience to create them. But the preacher of the Christian gospel has a dilemma: he or she stands before the congregation specifically to bring forth a prophetic word that will transform its scriptural origin from dead letter to burning Spirit. Yet no matter how gifted the preacher may be with wit and eloquence and intellectual grasp of the theology, he or she is still destitute. Who am I that I should dare to stand before these people and claim to be speaking a word from God? Yet this is exactly what I'm here to do. God help me!
The prophets of old experienced this dilemma. "Woe to me!" cried Isaiah, "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips." "Ah, Sovereign Lord," said Jeremiah, "I do not know how to speak; I am only a child." "Who am I," protests Moses,
"that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?.....O Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue." Yet the word found utterance in these prophets. They spoke for God. And those who rejected what these prophets said were left without excuse.
If you were to ask Jeremiah what gives him the audacity to think that he has a word from God, it is hardly likely that he would defend himself. Jeremiah would probably shake his head and confess that he's trapped in his calling. There's nothing he can do but keep going.
But if I say, "I will not
mention him
Or
speak any more in his name"
His
word is in my heart like a burning fire,
Shut
up in my bones.
I
am weary of holding it in;
Indeed,
I cannot.
The living God is keeping this man in the wilderness where prophets are sustained. And Jeremiah will speak the word that burns in his soul. But he will never feel adequate or qualified. He will suffer. He will know the scorn of men and the misgivings in his own heart which never ceases to mock him with the question, "What gives you the hubris to do this?"
The Price of Fresh Bread
Jesus never lectured his disciples in homiletics. He just sent them out to preach. We are told that he gave them authority over unclean spirits and diseases. He commanded them to preach as they went, announcing that the kingdom of heaven is at hand. And while they were themselves astonished at the redemptive power that accompanied their work, they too knew their own inadequacy. It drove them to prayer. "Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples." After giving them the model prayer of the kingdom Jesus began to teach them the kind of prayer every authentic preacher of the gospel is driven to.
"Suppose one of you has a
friend, and he goes to him at midnight and says,
'Friend, lend me three loaves of bread,
because a friend of mine on a journey has come to me, and I have nothing to set before him.'"
Jesus is talking to his apostles, the men he has been sending out to preach the word. He's teaching them that they always start with an empty cupboard. The bread of God cannot be stockpiled. It has to be fresh. And it has to come from the "friend" next door. Every time. This is not to say that we can dispense with preparation and "just pray." But it is to say that all preparation for delivering the gospel, all thought in developing the message, takes place in that wilderness where prophets are made. And it always begins with the same prayer: "A friend of mine has come on a journey and I have nothing to set before him." Jeremiah may have been born with a call on his life which he could not escape. But that fire in his heart was there because this man lived on the edge of a spiritual volcano. He was burning with the word because his soul was turned toward God. He was relentless in his pleading with Yahweh. His ministry to others was secondary to his endless dialogue with God himself.
You are always righteous, O Lord,
When I
bring a case before you,
Yet I would speak with you about your justice:
Why does
the way of the wicked prosper?
Why do all
the faithless live at ease?
Here is a prophet who speaks for God. Yet his own heart is filled with questions, the very questions his hearers are asking. Before his audience he speaks with a boldness which nearly costs him his life again and again. But when he stands before the God of Israel he remains weak and empty. He needs answers. He needs assurance. He cries out for more light. It's the price every prophet has to pay for fresh bread.
No Escape
The man or woman who stands under a call to preach the word remains trapped in this dilemma to the end of life. There is no escape. In fact the awareness of our own inadequacy only increases as we grow in grace. And this awareness of our destitution tempts us to look for a way out. Not long after the resurrection Peter tried to slip back into his old predictable life style. "I'm going fishing," he announced. The others knew exactly how Peter was feeling. They needed a break, an escape. "We'll go with you."
Of course it's not that easy for a prophet to escape his calling. The fishing expedition was a flop, until the Lord Jesus came on the scene with a sign that shook Peter out of his funk. "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these (fish)?" "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." "Feed my lambs." Three times the same question. Three times the same answer. "If you love me, this is what you're going to do: you're going to feed my sheep. And, by the way, your life, too, is marked for a cross. Follow me." That was the end of Peter's fishing trip. His life was not his own. He was bought with a price. And now, as a man whose life was no longer his own, Peter would preach the word. He would feed the sheep.
It is no accident that Jesus connected his command to "feed my sheep" with a reminder that Peter's life would be lived under the shadow of a cross. Peter's cross. The cross assigned to him by the living God. Resurrection life will pour out of his mouth because this man is already dead to the world around him and to every escape he could ever dream up.
"What gives you the audacity to think that you have anything to tell people about God?" It's not audacity. It's necessity. Inadequate as we are, once that call grips our heart, we have no choice.
But
if I say, "I will not mention him
or
speak any more in his name,"
his word is in my heart like a
burning fire,
shut
up in my bones.
I
am weary of holding it in;
indeed,
I cannot.
I am doomed to be the man, the woman who keeps wearing down the path to the Friend next door, and crying out for fresh bread to feed my latest guest so that the fire in my bones can find relief.
Richard Bieber 2010