If you had asked me years ago how I prepared sermons, the answer would have been different from the one I’m about to give.  Forty years ago, I would have been forty-four years old and in the prime of my pastoral ministry, I think we could say.

Back then I would have told you that a couple of times a year I take my Bible and some books and leave town for a few days in order to plan my preaching schedule for the next six months or more. I would decide on topics, scriptures, and themes, and little more than that.  Then, back at home, I would try to reserve a few hours two or three days a week for sermon study, and give thought to the sermons in the hopper for the next month or two.

In the meantime, in all my thinking and reading I was on the lookout for material to flesh out those sermons:  Illustrations, stories, insights, ideas, burdens, conversations with anyone, everything.

I was a sermon producing machine.  You have to be–every pastor knows this–to turn out several sermons a week year after year, and not repeat yourself.  Trying to stay fresh, always biblical, and forever interesting.

And we would laugh at the jokes about how pastors work one hour a week.  My wife (wives) could tell you of the times I got up in the middle of the night to write down something about an upcoming sermon.  Even in my subconscious, I was working on sermons.

But no longer.

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“Go and stand in the temple and speak to the people all the words of this life” (Acts 5:20).

I feel like I have a delivery to make.

I will drive a hundred miles up the interstate to the church where I’m to preach that morning. Sometimes Bertha is with me, sometimes she isn’t. I’ll greet some of the people and check with the worship leader to make sure we’re on the same page. At the appointed time, I will rise and ask everyone to turn to Romans 8.

All week long, I have lived in Romans 8.  I’ve read it, thought about it, written about it, read about it some more, and talked to the Lord about it.  I feel I have a load to deliver.

An hour later, driving home, I will feel spent.  Empty. Unburdened.  Drained.

I hope I will feel pleased, but that’s not always a sure thing. Sometimes I return from preaching feeling, as the basketball players put it, that I have left it in the locker room (instead of on the floor, in the game itself).  Sometimes we preachers are disgusted that such a glorious message has to be filtered through such an imperfect vessel. As though we had tried to depict a sunset with crayons.  Tried to explain calculus with the understanding of a six-year-old.

The wonder is that God can use such a pitiful attempt.

And yet, we did not volunteer for this.  We did not presumptuously present ourselves to the Lord as capable, eager spokespeople.

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