Our faith life is sustained, enriched and encouraged in a similar way through preaching and worship. We might remember the fantastic worship services or the 'best sermon ever,' but that isn't what keeps our faith alive. It's the daily sustenance of quality food. Everyone might have their idea of what quality theological food looks (tastes) like. For me it is the Gospel preached -the honesty of the cross brought into my daily life. I like to see the humanity of the one preaching.
Even if it means the one preaching is actually human.
My faith life has been sustained by many a meal, and by countless people who have joined me at the table, but for most of my formative years there was one person standing in the pulpit--feeding me.
He died recently.
The last meal I shared with him was in my sister's basement less than a year ago. Crackers and cheese, salad and ham after he presided at the baptism of my nephew. Shortly after this, he would share news of his lung cancer with his congregation and retire from ministry.
I knew I needed to write him a letter. There was much I should say. But somehow corresponding with someone when you've never done so before seemed odd. I imagine he was at peace with the fact he was dying. I wasn't; and to write the letter meant it was going to happen. I'm tired of people dying in their 60's--my parents age--and to acknowledge the mortality of one more person dying before I think they should, was too much for my to do list. So I put it off.
I'm not overwhelmed with remorse or regret that the letter never got written. He and I didn't have an overly emotional, mentor relationship. We didn't talk often and I didn't go to him for advice or pastoral direction-either personally or professionally. I just know enormous parts of my life would have been different if he hadn't been my pastor.
During confirmation he and the associate pastor both started to plant the seeds of ordained ministry in my mind and being. When I chose a major in college, he would highlight how well it would complement ministry. When I spoke in the congregation in advocacy of my work with HFHI, he complimented my public presence and passion...noting both would serve me well in ministry.
When I finally gave in to the call he had seen years before, it was the years of sermons and classes that served as the foundation for my theological work. Many a class would seem to be restating knowledge I already had ...I came to see how steeped in Lutheran theology I had been. During internship I came to see how my pastoral identity had been shaped by him (both in the ways I would emulate and the ways in which I deviated.) When I began to preach I gave thanks for the countless sermons that had fed me over the years. He didn't preach fancy sermons or put on a huge show, but the ingredients were of high quality, put together with serious thought and great love.
It might be an unrelated coincidence, but I write sermons like he did too--at the, seemingly, last minute. Late Saturday night, the Holy Spirit must be the strongest. Some times as I would be pulling out my hair trying to think of how to get into a sermon, I would picture him sitting at Perkins late at night, sucking down coffee (smoking) and creating his sermon--this image validated my tenancy towards this
I never wrote the letter, but I trust he knew he had a hand in shaping my life. I'll leave it to God to let him know, while I will never forget his influence. Carrying on with his ministry as my guide, might be a better tribute than my letter ever would have been.
He had been my only true pastor. He was friend and pastor to my parents. He was the father of my brother's best friend. He presided at our wedding. He said a prayer at my ordination. He baptized my nephew.
He fed many--may the nourishment continue.
