Cleaning out my office after 26 years of ministry in the same small town congregation, I stumbled across my father’s sermon notes.
Since his death in 1991, I’ve kept several boxes of his hand-scrawled outlines enshrined in a filing cabinet, to honor his memory, maintaining a sacred bond with my heritage. But leafing through these mementos of glory thundered from the pulpit, I finally admitted the truth to myself. There was no life in them.
For Dad, notes did not contain the life. It was in the delivery. The notes weren’t the sermon. Rather, they were like spent bullet shell casings, or fireworks that had already been shot. They were just scraps of words without significance.
The day I threw my father’s sermons in the dumpster, it felt somewhat like a second burial. . . with hope of resurrection.