Preaching is a strange bird. It is alien to its speaker and even more alien to its hearer. Perhaps this is because the Gospel, finally, is always alien to us. Preachers react to this in varying ways. Some run from it for fear of their own power. Some run toward it, hungry to grasp whatever power it might bestow. Some do it half-heartedly for fear it will confront them. Some do it half-heartedly because it has confronted them.
The Gospel is the thing that will nearly kill you, will almost let you drown, will almost siphon every ounce of hope from your soul, and then give your life back, bruised and bloodied but somehow more alive, more powerful, and containing more of your true self than it did before. In some ways, proclaiming the Gospel forces a relationship to the liminal space between death and life, hope and despair, faith and apostasy.
For some, preaching is the thing that we are unable to not do. The words of Jeremiah and Paul become not the whining of a prophet or the run-on of an apostle, but a charge, an accusation, and a gift: "If I say, 'I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,' then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot," (20:9) and "Woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel," (1 Cor 9:16b). Granted, both of these are taken out of context of their respective texts. Both texts, however, occur with respect to and under the auspices of proclamation.
The world does not need the preaching of an easy Gospel of half-truths. There is plenty of that. If nothing is at stake, if we do not risk unpopularity, if we do not risk sounding like fools, if we do not risk our pride, and indeed, if we do not risk everything, we preach fictitious sin and cheap grace. If nothing is at stake and if there is no risk, then we do not preach the Gospel. This is precisely its power and what makes it unpalatable. It demands the lives of the preacher and the hearer in a way that aims at the ultimate questions of life and existence. These questions will not allow us to easily pass by with glib answers or platitudes. They strike to the core of our being, refusing to allow us to use the masks we have so carefully constructed to convince ourselves and everyone else that we are "fine". No, these masks are laid aside.
And as we turn away from the mirror, aghast at our own reflection, the voice of the Gospel comes, "You are beautiful. You are beloved," despite all evidence to the contrary.
The Gospel is the thing that will nearly kill you, will almost let you drown, will almost siphon every ounce of hope from your soul, and then give your life back, bruised and bloodied but somehow more alive, more powerful, and containing more of your true self than it did before. In some ways, proclaiming the Gospel forces a relationship to the liminal space between death and life, hope and despair, faith and apostasy.
For some, preaching is the thing that we are unable to not do. The words of Jeremiah and Paul become not the whining of a prophet or the run-on of an apostle, but a charge, an accusation, and a gift: "If I say, 'I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,' then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot," (20:9) and "Woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel," (1 Cor 9:16b). Granted, both of these are taken out of context of their respective texts. Both texts, however, occur with respect to and under the auspices of proclamation.
The world does not need the preaching of an easy Gospel of half-truths. There is plenty of that. If nothing is at stake, if we do not risk unpopularity, if we do not risk sounding like fools, if we do not risk our pride, and indeed, if we do not risk everything, we preach fictitious sin and cheap grace. If nothing is at stake and if there is no risk, then we do not preach the Gospel. This is precisely its power and what makes it unpalatable. It demands the lives of the preacher and the hearer in a way that aims at the ultimate questions of life and existence. These questions will not allow us to easily pass by with glib answers or platitudes. They strike to the core of our being, refusing to allow us to use the masks we have so carefully constructed to convince ourselves and everyone else that we are "fine". No, these masks are laid aside.
And as we turn away from the mirror, aghast at our own reflection, the voice of the Gospel comes, "You are beautiful. You are beloved," despite all evidence to the contrary.
Preach with courage, dear friends, and preach true sin and true grace. It will cost you everything to do it; then again, it would cost you more to not do it.
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