There’s an ancient Chinese poem that goes something like this:

     It goes something like that, if memory serves.

     Anyway, that’s how I remember the poem, and that is how I pass that poem on to you.

     I have been a communicator since before I can remember. From my first bellow, following my first breath, I have communicated, sometimes by design, and always in spite of my designs, because, as one of my teachers was fond of saying, we can’t not communicate. Either by design, or by default, we communicate by what we say, and don’t say, and by our gestures and other body language, too.

     And then there is the business of expectations. We read into the words of powerful persons, such as our pastors, what we believe and expect them to say. And sometimes we also read into these persons’ words what we ourselves are thinking and feeling. The roles that we accept, or that are forced on us, communicate in powerful ways, usually by default rather than by design.

     Sometimes I brood on the uselessness of letters, and the words and sentences and paragraphs and sermons that letters produce. Much more often, however, I celebrate the richness of human communication, and when I get second-hand feedback that so-and-so got such-and-such from my sermon – and I don’t recognize the message that comes back to me – I usually chuckle. Sometimes, after I chuckle, I have to back up and try to communicate what it was that I had been trying to communicate. Communication occurs on many levels, at the same time, and I try to fix what I can if there has been a lapse on my part or a misunderstanding that might be negative if left alone.

     At the same time, however, if I preach a sermon that takes you to a place where God wants you to be, on that day, who am I to complain that you didn’t hear what I wanted you to hear? I am so in awe, and so happy, to be part of God’s mysterious and powerful ways of communicating that I would not think of complaining. I want you to hear my words and also go where God wants to take you. If you find your mind wandering during my sermons, that is good. The Lord is near. Be strong and take heart.

     I myself sometimes go to a place where God takes me when I preach or write essays such as the one that you are reading right now. It’s like a trance, sometimes, and if I’m in such a trance when I’m preaching, it is likely that you will find yourself in a similar trance while you listen. Reveries promote reveries. This is true of preaching, writing, music, and so many things more. We prize the occasions where these trances, or reveries, produce powerful and satisfying thoughts and sensations.

     I know this, and I use this knowledge to craft my sermons and writings, so if you find yourself going away to a special place in your soul, it is because God wants you there and I know how to participate in this wonderful mystery. I use vivid images and stories when I preach and write, and that is by design, too, as a way of joining God’s ways of communicating.

     And I know that God works through our human attempts to communicate, in ways that I don’t always know or even understand. I trust God’s ways, so I know that God can use a broken reed such as myself to get a point across, and I don’t need to know all in order to prepare a way for the Lord, so to speak. Even broken attempts to communicate can serve God’s purposes. When I was studying English literature, we called such events Creative Misunderstandings. For example, I can assure you that I didn’t give an accurate rendition of the ancient Chinese poem that I started this letter off with, but I can guarantee you that any misunderstandings or lapses on my part take us closer to our goal than the original would, or I would not have selectively remembered the original. In essence, I have made the poem my own and have given the original new meaning and power for me, and now for you.

     If I have an agenda as a preacher and writer, it is what I’m telling you here: I want to participate in God’s communication with you by using my gifts, study, and experience to set up situations where God can work with you for God’s own purposes.

     The Reformed Tradition that the Presbyterian Church is part of affirms that the one who preaches is literally speaking the Word of God. I have heard seminary students express a kind of terror of such an ability and calling. They were right to be concerned, but there is no need to be afraid. The Lord is near when the people gather in the name of Jesus Christ, to sing God’s praises and to hear God’s Word both read and preached.

     Is this a great job, or what?

     It is right to be concerned, because our God is awesome and awe-making – the word awful – meaning full of awe – once stretched enough to cover this idea of the holy dread that one experiences in the presence of God. And though it is right to be concerned when in the presence of God, it is not necessary to be afraid, any more than we are afraid when we light a fire and warm ourselves in its presence. Fire can bless or burn, just as God can.

     Concerned? Yes. Afraid? No.

     And God can burn and bless at the same time, and we call this the Refiner’s Fire, and we give thanks for the process that brings us closer to the image that God holds for each one of us.

     What God does for persons, God also does for churches. In the fire of God’s love, we find ourselves changing as persons and as believers together, because nothing but God is forever on this earth. As we go through our life together, as God’s people in this time and this place, we sometimes weep as we walk, or sing glad songs. When we lose cherished images of what our life together is supposed to be like, we weep and lament. And as we walk in the light of God’s burning love, we find, if we have eyes to see or ears to hear or bodies to sense and understand, that God is near to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. The universe, God’s creation, is yearning and groaning toward God, and we follow along, like little children, happy and sad by turns, quickly righting ourselves when we fall, and comforting one another with songs, suckers, and love.

     While we walk on, the storytellers among us do their work, knowing that the Lord is near and that the stories, simple as they are, have power to create new life and power to save God’s people. This is a great job, and I hope that God blesses you in ways as powerful and as joy-giving. All you need do is ask, then act.