There is a first time for everything...

As Jon and I were walking toward church on Sunday morning it seemed a little strange that there were so few people standing around outside and that we couldn’t hear singing. Stepping into the building, there were only four or five people sitting in chairs and nothing was happening. We plopped down and waited for a few minutes until someone explained that many women were away at the annual women’s retreat so church would be shortened (it seemed no one had anticipated this so nothing was planned for the service). As we all started singing a song, someone touched my shoulder and asked me to follow them. I followed her outside where she asked if I would mind giving the Sunday message. My pulse immediately doubled. Why me? I explained that I had never preached before but that didn’t seem to dissuade her, she simply replied, “Well, there is a first time for everything.” Not knowing what else to do I agreed. Hoping for a starting point, I asked if there was any particular Scripture she would like me to use. No, I could use anything I wanted.

Returning to my seat inside, my hands trembled as I opened the Anglican church lectionary to that Sundays’ Scripture listings, hoping for a familiar passage that I could use. I read through the first nine references, looking two of them up, without finding anything that felt readily usable. With the song before my sermon starting to come to a close, I started to panic. Reading the last reference, a small amount of hope and relief started to come as I read the reference for 2 Samuel 24. I knew and liked that passage. Flipping my Bible to the right page I started reading. I made it through the first four verses before I heard my name amid a jumble of Setswana and knew it was time. Slowly walking toward the front, my mind racing to make some logical sequence of explanation and application, my body didn’t feel large enough to contain so much anxiety. I announced the Scripture reference and someone stood up and started reading it in Setswana. Thankfully, it takes three times longer to say anything in Setswana than in English so during the reading I had time to read through the passage carefully, formulate a vague semblance of a plan, and pray for grace and wisdom. As I prayed a sense of peace crept over me, I still wasn’t sure what I was going to say but I wasn’t nervous anymore. By that time the woman reading in Setswana had stopped and was looking at me with expectation. I began.

Fortunately, preaching with a translator gives a person time to think and find direction in between each sentence. This regular pause was a tremendous assist in keeping me from meanderingly rambling. In the end the sermon I gave certainly wasn’t profound, but Jon assures me that it went amazingly well: it made sense, was sincere, and provided something to think about (that is a miracle coming from me – I’m not very adept at articulating my thoughts even when I have it well thought through and an outline written down). God truly does work through weakness (and pauses for translation).