A few months ago, while sitting in church listening to the sermon, there was a kid in the pew behind me who was struggling to pay attention. He was fidgety, kicking the pew in front of him, drawing on the bulletin, and whispering constantly to his parents. I recall trying to listen to the sermon, but my focus was constantly torn away by the movements and noises of this young child. And as I was trying to refocus my attention, the pastor said something about being transformed. Before I could figure out the context of this statement, the child behind me began to whisper in amazement to his father, “He said ‘transformed’?!? He said ‘transformed’?!?” It was as if the pastor had said that we all would receive a million dollars at the end of the service. The kid was astonished, not being able to believe what he had just heard. This pastor was speaking about transformation, and no one reacted. Didn’t people realize what the pastor had just said? He said transformed?!?
I remember being initially amused by this kid’s exuberance. It was cute that he was struck with awe at the idea of transformation. And then I was convicted. Why wasn’t I astonished at the idea of transformation? And not just any transformation, but one brought about by God himself? One in which God’s life is extended to us and lived out through us! Why wasn’t I shocked? When did transformation become a normal, daily, regular ‘ol thing?
I began to take a catalogue of my own life. When was the last time I experienced true transformation? When was the last time I experienced change, positive change in which it was clear that the hand of God was forming me into the image of his Son? How long would I accept, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis, the sticks and mud before me when I was being offered a holiday at the sea? God is in the business of remaking us anew, of refashioning us into new humans. We have died and Christ is living His life in us! He said transformed?!?
I have tried to make a habit of welcoming and embracing the distractions that come during worship. When I see someone outside our sanctuary taking pictures of us while we worship, I thank God that our worship has caught the world off guard. When the power goes out, I thank God that we don’t need modern conveniences to be the church. When someone faints or calls out for a doctor, I am reminded that we are not immortal and that death has no sting, even if it may shock us awake. And when a child is whispering a play by play of the church service to everyone on the right half of the sanctuary, I try to listen to what insights into the Christian life the young can offer the old.
Most often, the sermon I hear each week is spoken from the pulpit by one of our ordained pastors, men and women who have years of study and training under their belt. But that Sunday, the sermon I heard was spoken in the pew behind me, my pastor still unable to tie his own shoes.
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