Every Sunday morning around 11:30am I do this really odd thing. I get up in front a group of 40 of my closest friends. I open up a loose translation of a book whose latest content is 1200 years old and whose oldest content is 5000 years old. I read a passage and talk about it for about 25 minutes. My goal is to show the group how that passage informs our understanding of who God is and what God requires of us.
This speech takes a hard week to put together. By “hard” I mean exhausting. By “week” I mean hours of historical and theological study, drafting and redrafting, collecting pictures for visual aids, arguing with myself over minute points, and practicing out loud to an empty sanctuary. Worse than the hours of work, are the emotional highs and lows. Even worse than those is the very uncomfortable feeling of arrogance I get when I stand up to speak. The worst of all is the new exhaustion I feel when it all ends right around noon, an exhaustion compounded by the fact I have to do it all over again in the next 7 very short days.
I have been doing this almost every Sunday for about 5 years now and it has not felt any less weird the more I do it. If anything it feels more odd now than it did 5 years ago. This may be because lately I have met some non church types, those wonderful saints of the world who have never darkened the doorway of a house of God. I try to explain to them the process of preparing and delivering a sermon and that there is a group of people willing to pay me money to do this. Their bewildered expressions confirm one thing, “My vocation is the most curious of all.”
It isn’t the 25 minute monologue that makes it weird. There are dozens of other professions who do something similar, actors, comedians, newscasters, politicians etcetera. No, the weirdness of preaching is threefold.
First, there is the curious loyalty to a centuries old book, a loyalty grounded in the belief that this book holds the keys to an eternal and abundant life.
Second, there is the bold, almost audacious claim that the God who rules over all eternity and created all things chose me to give this 25 minute speech to these 40 people every week.
Third, there is the belief, legitimately grounded in the data of my life, that I am the worst person ever chosen for this task.
This awkward 25 minute event repeated once weekly provides the context for Will Willimon’s new book, “How Odd of God: Chosen for the Curious Vocation of Preaching.” He begins the work by noting his delight at reading the papers of undergrads in their first ministry class. He tasked the naive undergrads to write about why they believe the God of all Creation would choose them to preach. He now laments he should have asked them to write what kind of God would choose them to preach. I agree the latter is the more interesting paper. Luckily, “How Odd of God” is just such a paper.
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Arguing from Barth’s works, Willimon describes this God as the God of “yes” who out of love chooses us feeble, sinful humans to join him in the work. Willimon relies heavily on Barth’s doctrine of election to claim that God elects us not just for salvation but for mission (the hallmark tenet of the missional movement). According to Willimon, nothing can proclaim the doctrine of election louder than an inadequate preacher standing up behind a lectern every Sunday and claiming, “God chose me despite all my failings to give you this message today.”
If there is anything to critique in Willimon’s excellent text, it is that Willimon rambles more than usual. In fact, the book is not too different from the late works of other saints who, having aged to a special level of holiness, can now afford to write more poetry than prose. This isn’t the text of a young man: articulate, perfectly structured, and easy to skim. This is half journal, half textbook which means there isn’t always an obvious correlation between one paragraph and the next. Do not get me wrong, I absolutely do not fault Willimon for this. I personally love that as the saints age, the mystery of God awakens a poetry in them not seen in the younger selves. I have read very similar books by aging theologians and though I don’t follow their arguments, their conclusions are still so poignant they bring tears to my eyes.
But to be fair, making me cry this week was not hard. I stepped out of the pulpit last Sunday to a nightmare of conflict that consumed my week and threatened to make my entire vocation not only curious but frivolous. I spent the week stuck in the vortex that is my chaotic thoughts, trying to iron out whether or not I could/should even step into another pulpit again and wondering if God knew what God was doing in calling me to proclaim the truths of our faith in clever little 25 minute speeches every Sunday. Of course I am not worthy of the calling, at least by the current American understanding of “worthiness” (which isn’t biblical by the way). However, Willimon’s thesis means that just by standing in a pulpit and claiming “God chose me” reveals a wildly loving God. After all, if he chose a wretch like me, he probably chose you as well.
How odd of God indeed!