Bearing Witness

I don’t usually listen to sermons or ministry talks on my way home from work for the same reason I

can’t bring myself to read parenting books after my kids are asleep. It’s not that I couldn’t use the help (in either department). It’s just that, by that point in the day, I’m done.

But last week, I broke my own rule and chose to listen to a talk on CD, lent me by a friend. An old talk given by Eugene Peterson, at some forgotten pastors conference called “What’s a Pastor Good For?”

I’m so glad I did.

What is a pastor good for?

That’s a question I’ve been asking myself sarcastically, seriously, desperately and frequently these last 4 months or so. “What’s a pastor good for?” What is it that I am supposed to be doing here anyway?

And in his usual way, Peterson clarifies without flattening. Says it all without saying too much.

According to Peterson, one of the things that “a pastor is good for” is to bear witness to the work of the Spirit, the formation of Christ in the lives of his or her congregation. Among a small handful of other things, a pastor is good for paying attention, to what God is up to in one particular congregation.

She is able to do this mostly because she has really good seats.

Bearing witness. In these last four months, I’ve floundered, I’ve made mistakes, I’ve disappointed people and considered seriously whether I am in the wrong line of work.

But also, but also I have seen sights that are positively breathtaking. More beautiful even than the exquisite fall trees of this October: the real actual formation of Christ in the real, actual lives of men and women.

In the past month alone I have seen the following heart-stopping views:

A teenager who requests to get out of bed early on Saturday morning to help cook Thanksgiving dinner for folks who might otherwise have nothing to eat.

Communion bread baked by hand and with care as an expression of love to God and community. A stunning act of service that expresses Jesus’ statement, “this is my body” better than any sermon I’ve ever heard or preached.

A real, genuine apology offered not begrudgingly out of necessity, but willingly because it was right.

The faithfulness of volunteers who show up to do hard, mundane things, repeatedly, joyfully and with enough courage to believe it matters- even after all these years.

And these are just a sampling of what I’ve seen. And what I’ve seen is a fraction of how Christ is making his home among this particular group of actual people on the West End of Kitchener-Waterloo.

I’m enough of a cynic to know these types of things don’t happen by accident, neither are they the usual course of human nature. We don’t do stuff like that on our own. It must be Something Else. Someone Else.

There aren’t good words for the beauty of this gospel life, lived out over the vast sweep of human history and before my very eyes. The beauty of how, in spite of everything, all the failed kings, and wannabe Messiahs, just when the Israelites had given up hope, God sent Jesus.

And the beauty of how, in a culture of hate and fear, when everybody keeps saying on Twitter that church attendance is declining, and goodness is losing and after we’ve finished sharing all the inflammatory articles and hashtagging #allthethings, we might as well just go home…in spite of all of that, the Spirit has not left us alone.

In spite of everything, Christ still stands at the door and knocks and some among us have opened the door and He has come inside.

So to my congregation, small, wounded, full of courage, full of friendship, full of joy:

I see you. And I also see Him, in you.

I am standing here with you, following Him alongside you. I have a thousand shortcomings, as you well know. But you have trusted me to bear witness so I will do that as best I know how.

I’m here to tell you I see it as surely as I see the beautiful colours of fall. It’s real. It’s happening. Christ is in our midst.