I have begun listening to podcasts of sermons. My brother Josh is what inspired me. He mentioned how is phone is full of them and he plays them in his truck while driving to work, or while working. I decided to start doing it too - as my car will automatically play it through bluetooth, and I'm wanting more spiritual infusion in my day.
I'm enjoying them, but I was struck today at how formulaic some sermons are - using teaching strategies and techniques that are clever and lessons founded in the Bible - but lacking story. Lacking personal experience. Not that pastors or preachers don't have it ... I'm sure they have many. Maybe they've used all their stories, or maybe their lives have become too open to the public and it's their way of guarding themselves, or maybe it was the sermon I heard today about personal stories and how important they are... it all lead me wishing I could hear more.
It's also my personality. I love stories. It's how I learn and what moves me. So I've decided to start my own sermon series through my own stories - because I know as a teacher, the main student becomes yourself.
So I will begin tagging these posts as sermons and testimonies. And here's the first.
I have no plan, so bear with me.
I was thinking the other day about an experience I had. It was in 2006. My father had been very ill - first with multiple shoulder surgeries that became complicated because of infection. Then heart problems. He was born with a bicuspid heart - most people have a tricuspid - but you can survive (obviously) with only two cusps. Your heart just works harder and ages faster. He had a leaky valve - which was the least of his problems. He had several other things going on, and the source or the solution wasn't clear. His output or ejection rate had dropped to 25% in one test, which was equivalent to heart failure. He was also having "electrical" problems. His heart rate would suddenly drop - on at least one occasion he passed out. And, he seemed to have endocarditis - a bacterial infection of the heart. Mayo Clinic made a case study of his charts as it wasn't clear how to approach the multiple problems.
In the end, they decided to do heart surgery and replace the leaky valve, in hopes that the heart ejection rate would raise to above 60%.
My father did not want surgery. He was miserable that year with his health problems, and afraid I think - as much as I can attribute fear to my father - which I can't because he mostly shuts down his communication systems when he's in pain. However, he was constantly asking for prayer. When ever someone offered or invited prayer - he was in line with the rest. He even sought out people to pray for him.
I realized through his experience, that a part of me saw "asking for prayer" as weakness. It was a horrifying realization, because it implied that I believed prayer was for the weak, and we didn't need prayer. I'll blame my father and our Peterson/Scandinavian heritage for that - our pride in self-sufficiency, hiding behind this claim that we don't want to "inconvenience" somebody, and so we don't ask for help.
I watched my father ask for prayer again and again, and it took me by surprise - and I realized my mistake in my way of thinking, and I admired his persistence and humility. And then I had another horrifying realization - my mother asks for prayer all the time for her eye, why didn't I admire this? She has a lazy eye that impedes her vision and depth perception, as well as makes her self-concious. But how many times did I find myself annoyed that she was always asking for healing of her eye?
My mother was always doing what my father never did. I viewed it as dramatic, or vain, or superficial - as if prayer only had a limited window of time and healing power that should be reserved for the big issues. Whatever those are.
And, somewhere, somehow, I had decided in my conscious or subconscious that her requests weren't that important. I mean, it was her eye, not her heart. Petersons only ask for help when they really need it, not for simple reasons.
A chiropractor said to me once: People are walking around with all this pain and they don't have to.
Huh.
Where did I get this idea that we had to walk around with pain. That I had to grin and bear it? How ridiculous and proud and totally unnecessary. And lonely. Pain is so isolating because you are the only one that knows what you are feeling and suffering - and somewhere along the way I decided or learned in my heart that pain is something you should grin-and-bear because it was about inner strength.
My father, who was normally silent, was vocalizing his pain, and his fear - as best as he could. Setting aside everything maybe he had learned, and so I had learned, to ask for help. And not just help from God, but help from people. Ew! People are the weakest of weak. At least asking God for help, it was a noble and Biblical, but people? People are weird and self-righteous and project their weakness on you and are happy to help for all the wrong reasons, taking strength from your weakness.
One day, I went with my father to get prayer. He had sought out this person. Someone known for a "healing ministry". I went with to support him, and maybe a part of me wanted to protect him too in his vulnerable state. I mean, I've seen these healers before. Who was this guy? Who did he think he was that his prayers would be heard over others?
We went to the ministry's office in the middle of winter. The doors were locked. "Perfect," I said, "The church doors are closed." I was ready to leave, but my father called the number because he had an appointment. All of which just reinforced my feeling of this persons elitism - because he had a "ministry" and "appointments" and apparently, was a busy guy who we were so lucky to have a meeting with.
We entered the office and the man apologized, explained how important he and his time was and so on. He asked my father some questions and began praying . . . and fishing. "I feel as if you have sin. Something God wants you to confess."
"I'm sure I do," my father responded in his typical meek style. The man continued to pray, and stopped again. "You are angry?"
"I don't think so, but maybe."
He continued to pray.
I was waiting. Waiting for my chance.
Then, the man flipped. "I saw this all wrong. You are a humble man. I see white snow."
Wow. Your vision is so mighty.
He prayed some more, moving towards healing prayers. Then he stopped and turned to me - maybe for the first time since we walked in - and he asked, "What do you think?"
And suddenly, everything just fell away. All my pride and judgements. All this man's gloss, glitter, and garbage. All my garbage. It didn't even matter what he meant by his question, because suddenly, in spite of everything I was feeling and seeing up to that point, it was all replaced unexplainably with faith and trust in God.
"It is done." Were the words that came to my mind and the words I spoke. I doubt either the man or my father understood me (frankly, or even cared), but that didn't matter either. I had faith, and it was a gift, because up to that point I had nothing but snide remarks and self-righteousness. I wasn't even sure if that meant he would be healed or not, or even that he would survive. It was just this big package of faith placed in my heart - faith in God or father, in Jesus who died for us, in our prayers being heard and my father being looked after. IN SPITE OF our posturing, being blatantly prideful or quietly proud - God's work was done, had been decided, and was being done in all of our lives.
Matthew 7:11
11"If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!
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