by James Webb
High in the mountains was a gem mine, owned collectively by several villages in the region. The mine was worked by a single man who, twice a year, would travel from village to village, distributing the precious stones that he had worked from the earth.
Today I am repenting of my bad memory. I had allowed myself to forget something important.
I had not forgotten that God is kind, or that He is generous, or that He loves me. No, it was something else. Read more
Now that’s a tricky question.
The thing is, I’m not sure that I do. Sometimes, over the years, people have asked me if I enjoy preaching. ‘Enjoy’ is not the word I would use. Read more
I have an overactive imagination. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it isn’t. It’s helpful for my writing, for one thing, but on the other hand, it’s very easy for me to miss what God is doing right in front of my face because I’ve drifted off into one daydream or another. Read more
1) The Bible contains poetry, exposition, theological analysis, parables, historical accounts, song and more. Valid styles of preaching are just as varied; a.k.a. The “More than one way to skin a cat” Principle. Read more
I was sad to hear that Hayward’s Heath Baptist Church has lost another faithful servant. Les Ridd, another who served on the leadership team with me, died at the end of last week. Like Dick, he had been ill for a while, but it doesn’t make it easier.
I was thinking about Les and Dick, and what they gifted to the church, and found it simplest to put my thoughts down into one of my occasional not-poem things.
There are plenty of noisy servants.
“Where there are many words,” said the Teacher,
“sin is not far behind.”
(Loud men and women, we know who we are)
Many words booming from the pulpit,
or clattering onto the page
like a skip full of scrap metal.
“I tell you the truth,” says Jesus.
“They have received their reward in full.”
But there are also the quiet servants,
whom you have never heard,
and will maybe never even see,
(certainly not in a photo on the back of a book)
doing what they do on tiptoe.
Stacking chairs, cutting and sticking with children,
giving lifts and clearing out guttering silently in the background.
“I tell you the truth,” says Jesus.
“For them, the best is yet to come.”
“Why don’t you do something, God?”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t know. Something. Anything!”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s someone who really needs to know that you love them, God. Someone who really needs your help.”
“What should I do, then?”
“Well, something that makes them feel loved.”
“Like what?”
“Well-”
“Should I give them a hug, perhaps? Write them a note telling them that I’m thinking of them? Give them a gift?”
“I suppose-”
“Sometimes all it takes is a smile, you know. Someone smiling at you can make a lot of difference. Should I smile at them, James?”
“I-”
“Because I do. You know that, right? You know that. How about a kind word? That can work wonders. A timely dose of kindness to a wounded soul can turn a broken man into a saint, can’t it? Or have you forgotten that whole pear thing?”
“No, but-”
“Every day I whisper love to people’s hearts. Sometimes I shout. But people aren’t always listening. There are always so many other things they’d rather listen to. And I made a decision a long time ago, a decision to delegate. Delegation is an act of trust, which is an act of love, you see.”
“I know-”
“And I could, I could reach out my arms and take the whole world into a hug, and draw it near to my beating heart and drown out everything else with my love, I could, and one day I will, but for now I have no arms and I have no smile. I gave those things away, James. I gave those things away a long time ago. Do you know who I gave them to, James? Do you?”
“I think-”
“That’s right. I gave them to you, and your brothers and sisters. I didn’t just give you peace and forgiveness and hope, I gave you responsibility. I gave you my arms and my feet and my smile and I said, ‘Here you go. You’re in charge of these now. Use them wisely.’ I delegated.”
“All right, I-”
“I am at work, James. I’m always speaking, always reminding a stubborn world that I’m here. But I’ve got an idea, James, about this person who needs to know my love. Do you want to hear my idea?”
“…”
“Do you, James?”
“Yes, God.”
“Well then, here it is. Are you ready?”
“Yes, God.”
“Why don’t you do something?”
Ah, Matthew 25:14-30. ‘The Parable of the Talents’ practically writes its own sermon. “So, in conclusion, God wants us to use our gifts for Him. Coincidentally, we need people to help lead the Sunday School. There’s a sign-up sheet at the back.” I did mention that I’m cynical, right?
I remember sitting in a classroom, waiting for the lecturer to arrive. He came in and, out of the blue, went off on a rant that had nothing to do with the session that was scheduled. “Some of you,” he said, “are frustrating God because you’re not using your gifts”. Having delivered this message, he calmed down and got on with the lecture that we were supposed to have. I suspect that, years later, he wouldn’t even remember that he’d done this and I’m certain that he has no idea that he was talking to me. Make no mistake, he was talking to me. That random little outburst changed my life. There would be no The Listening Book if he hadn’t been obedient enough to vent on the Holy Spirit’s behalf.
If Jesus had wanted the message of this parable to be ‘God wants you to use your gifts’ then he probably would have finished at verse 25, but he didn’t. Verses 26 to 30 bring the story to its chilling conclusion. The servant who buried the money loses the little that he was entrusted with and is thrown into the sinister ‘Outer Darkness’. No wonder we don’t dwell on that bit. After all, you can understand why the servant did what he did, right? Would a little empathy have killed the master? And before you check, Luke’s version isn’t much better.
These days, when I read this parable I think about the times that I diligently prepared sermons, carefully making the message of Jesus a little more palatable for my congregation. Perhaps it was because I’m a sensitive, pastoral soul, or maybe it was because I was labouring under the mistaken belief that you can make a rose more beautiful by removing its thorns. These days I am even more committed to taking responsibility for how I am communicating, but I am equally aware that I am not doing God some great favour by coming up with eloquent and clever ways to de-fang the Gospel.
What if Jesus’s message here isn’t ‘God wants you to use your gifts’, but rather that ‘Waste makes God angry’?
If that’s true, what do you make of that?
For a long while my favourite Christmas carol was Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Apart from the rousing tune, I considered it to be one of the more theologically robust Christmas carols. That kind of thing has always been important to me, but I’ve mellowed a bit over the years. In the past I was so zealous that I even hesitated to sing the line ‘Veiled in flesh the Godhead see…’ because I thought that it flirted with the heresy of Docetism.
One song that didn’t ever get a look in was Little Drummer Boy. Adding a child with a drum to the nativity story didn’t seem to add anything, except bizarre anachronism and dubious collaborations between David Bowie and Bing Crosby. I could do without any of that.
A couple of years ago I was introduced to a version of the song that didn’t suck (by a guy called Sean Quigley) and as a result I actually started reflecting on the words, which I’d never really listened to before. I began to realise that in many ways this was the most Christocentric of all Christmas songs. While a lot of the thumping Christmas carols may have us declaring great (or possibly insipid and dubious) theological truths, Little Drummer Boy is a song about the personal response required by these truths. It’s like the difference between a poem about the majesty of the ocean, and a poem about swimming in the sea. It has become especially poignant as I have seen my book edge its way towards publication. “Shall I write for you?” I say, and the baby Jesus nods. Like the little boy in the song, what I bring may seem paltry compared to other gifts that are laid before him, but, just like the little boy, the passion of my gift is what really matters. ‘I write my best for him’ and he smiles. He likes it when we make him smile.
