I was only asked once to visit in
the home of a former parishioner. Mr. Elker (not
his name). His wife still attended, as did his son and daughter. The visit
was not an order, but a request. I was never comfortable with cold calls, but I
made an appointment.
Mr. Elker had regularly attended
for several years and suddenly stopped for no apparent reason. None of the
family members knew why any more than any of the church members. I was told he
was a very friendly man.
One never knows what to expect
when knocking on the door of a stranger, even when invited. This was a
surprise.
“Well, finally. I was wondering
when someone from the church was going to come calling! Come in.” I did not
expect such enthusiasm. We introduced ourselves and I learned he had been a
reporter for the Los Angeles Times. He knew to get to the heart of a story. He
began with who was I, who sent me and why? I felt it best not to beat around
the bush and to just be direct. I was sure he would respond to nothing less.
Before I answered he asked if I
would like some coffee. I really didn’t but thought I should accept. I had not
yet become a coffee drinker, but could handle it with cream and sugar. After
being served I answered his questions.
The elders requested that I visit
you to see if there was anything they could do to make it easier for you to
return. He followed up with why didn’t the pastor come. I really didn’t know
and had wondered that same thing. He was clearly disappointed and began to
interrogate me. How long had I worked for the church? Who had hired me? What
was my relationship to the pastor, the elders, and which specific elders. I did
not sugar coat anything nor try to deceive him.
As suddenly as he began, he stopped
and said, “Let me show you something.” He left the room and came back with a
stack of small notebooks. He sat them on the coffee table and took the top one.
“Because I was a reporter, I have always taken notes at everything I attend.
These are the ones from that church.” I didn’t like the way he said “that.”
He
started with the one on top, the most recent one from his last visits to the
church. He rattled through the premise of the last couple of months of sermons.
He noted the gist of the jokes, the single verse passage used and the point of
the sermons. I paid careful attention trying to determine his point before he
said it. He picked up the second and the third notebook and did the same page
flipping and explanation. A picture was developing but I kept my mouth shut
hoping he would ask me what I thought was his point.
When he stopped he said the point
of every message was “Jesus loves me this I know.” There was no other focus. He
said it was not a bad point, but it was the only point. He conceded that the
pastor was a very good storyteller and could deliver a great joke, but he had
nothing to say. “If the purpose of a pastor was to feed the sheep, where was
the food? The man had preached the same sermon every Sunday since he arrived
and only changed the verse, jokes and stories. There is no depth, no food and I
think he is as phony as a three-dollar bill.
I did not want to report all that
he said, but gave a brief summary and reported that he would not be returning.
What I did was to begin listening to the sermons and ultimately came to the
same conclusion. He was feeding the congregation the same pabulum every Sunday.
What was going on/ He was the pastor of the largest district church and a
member of the District Executive Committee (DEXCOM). Nothing was making sense,
but something was askew.
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