Preaching Through a Storm : Confirming the power of preaching in the tempest of church Conflict

by H. Beecher Hicks Jr.

• ISBN13: 9780310200918
• ISBN10: 0310200911
• Copyright: 1987-04-01
• Publisher: Harpercollins Christian Pub

Summary

Drawing on his own experience in shepherding a church through a difficult building program, the author explains how to survive the storms of pastoral ministry spiritually and emotionally.

Table of Contents

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

1.

I've Been in the Storm So Long

Prologue

Sermon: How Long the Night?

Epilogue

2.

Predicting a Storm

Prologue

Sermon: How to Silence a Preacher; or, Shut Your Mouth!

Epilogue

3.

Maintaining Relationships

Prologue

Sermon: In Pursuit of Peace

Epilogue

4.

The Eye of the Storm

Prologue

Sermon: Concerning This House

Epilogue

5.

The Identity of Evil

Prologue

Sermon: Recycled Evil

Epilogue

6.

If It Had Not Been for the Lord

Prologue

Sermon: Thank You!

Epilogue

7.

The Preacher's Friend

Prologue

Sermon: Abraham: God's Friend

Epilogue

8.

Tragedy or Triumph?

Prologue

Sermon: When Brooks Dry Up

Sermon: Enough Is Enough!

Sermon: Whatever Happened to Elijah?

Epilogue

9.

The Storm Is Passing Over

Prologue

Sermon: All Night Long

Sermon: When Glory Comes!

Epilogue

10.

Preparing for the Next Storm

Prologue

Sermon: The Peril and the Power of Preaching

11.

Storms Keep Coming

Prologue

Sermon: The Promise of His Presence

Interlude

Sermon: Storms Keep Coming!

Epilogue

Excerpts

Chapter 1
I've Been in the Storm So Long
Prologue
When caught in the midst of a storm, a minute will seem an hour, an hour will seem an eternity. Time perception is lost; life and death hang on every moment. Such a thought, no doubt, caused our foreparents to sing, “I been in the storm so long!”
At the “ripe old age” of forty-four years, it is clearly inaccurate, if not impertinent, to suggest that one has been in the storm “so long.” Yet my impression is valid if for no other reason than the fact that it seemed “so long” (would it ever end?) to me. Every day seems endless in a storm; every night knows no termination to the depth of its darkness. Patience is a word that loses its meaning—indeed, it appears ludicrous in the face of the urgency one feels. One cannot see “the light at the end of the tunnel.” One doubts the tunnel has an end. It is not helpful to hear, “Good things come to those who wait.” Waiting seems no more than hopeless inertia. It is wasted counsel to advise a storm-tossed seaman, “It's always darkest before the dawn” or “If you can just hold out till tomorrow, everything will be all right.” The dawn seems to bear its own darkness, and it seems futile to “hold out” while groping in the dark for something or someone by which one may simply “hold on.” In the time of my own discontent, the winter of 1981, I was already learning to sing, “I been in the storm so long!”
Actually, it all started with an honest-to-goodness thunderstorm. In the summer of 1977, on my birthdate, the Metropolitan Baptist Church voted by overwhelming majority to call me as its fifth pastor in more than a century of Christian service. At the time of the call, I was pastor of a large, historic congregation in Houston, Texas. The two churches had much in common: an old structure, significant historical heritage, an older membership marked by the unmistakable absence of many babies in the Sunday morning nursery.
Given such similarities, one could question—if but for a moment—the wisdom of God in ordaining and directing (demanding?) what seemed at the time to be a lateral movement of ministry. I should have known. God does, indeed, “move in mysterious ways.” On the night of my call to this significant pulpit in the nation's capital, the event was ushered in on the wings of a storm. I am told that the old structure shook with the vibrations of thunder and lightning, as more than a thousand members crowded the sanctuary to cast their ballot. And while the storm raged, the first ballot was cast. Its verdict was clear: our family would move northward to begin a new ministry. Could it be that the storm that June night in 1977 was both sign and symbol of storms which were yet to come?
Those first years of the pastorate were distinguished only by the predictable rising and falling of the usual tides of church life. The “honeymoon” lasted far longer than normal; it appeared that we were afloat on a calm and placid lake.
The first of those storms to come was my own. The ground was covered with snow as the clear, crisp air of a January night settled into stillness. I picked up the receiver on the first ring of the phone and heard the words, “Mama has just taken her flight.” In the middle of the night it was the dawn of death. My mother had gone home to be with God, and my own private, personal, internal storm began to rage.
I had never known death. I had counseled others in their experience of the anguish of death. I had stood by the bedside of countless others who, in the words of Deacon Matthew Carter, had “changed worlds and swapped lives.” I had studied clinically the meaning of death, including having read Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's On Death and Dying. But I had never really known in a personal way the assault, the insult, the indignity of death.
The death of my mother was not a tragedy; it was a sweet release from pain and suffering for her. For me, however, it was in a very real sense a personal catastrophe. Death in this instance required of my psyche adjustments I was not prepared to make, calling forth emotions with which I had never had to deal. The support of family, friends, and church did not ease the pain or assuage the grief. I could not make sense of these strange and unwelcome feelings which intruded into the seeming balance of my life.
I recognized the classic symptoms. Non-acceptance. This is not really happening. Not to me. Not now. Guilt. What could I have done that I did not do? Why was I absent from home at the moment of her flight? Why did I permit my brother to be the only child of my parents to stand along with my father in this hour of family need? Depression. I must not be a very good person, a very good son. What else is going to happen? This is not the end…. There is more to follow…. Why am I so lonely in the company of so many friends? With whom am I angry—God, family, medical science, myself? I have become Jeremiah in my own time—my head is waters, my eyes a fountain of tears, I weep day and night (Jeremiah 9:1). For me, there is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician there (Jeremiah 8:22). Nobody knows the trouble I see … I been in the storm so long!

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Excerpted from Preaching Through a Storm: Confirming the power of preaching in the tempest of church Conflict by H. Beecher Hicks
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