Altar Call

But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them, …. “Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.” So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added [Acts 2:14a, 36, 41].

As I have shared with the members of “my” Wednesday morning Bible Study, I vividly remember the shortest sermon I’ve ever heard, although it took place almost 40 years ago. It was delivered by Father Oscar, then one of the priests at Belmont Abbey College and Basilica. I suspect that it was on a Wednesday or Thursday. I know it was during Lent. You see, for several years during the early-to-mid 1980s, I occasionally attended Mass at the Abbey with my close friend and, at that time, law partner, Bob Gallagher. Bob and his wonderful wife, Jackie, were then—and still are—very devout.

Since I’m a Protestant, I didn’t, of course, receive the Eucharist along with Bob, but I didn’t feel excluded. As a Protestant, I had no daily Eucharist service to go to anyway. Bob and I enjoyed the short ride to the Abbey, the short Mass, and the ride back to the office. It was a great way to clear one’s mind. Try it sometime!

On that day, Father Oscar stepped to the pulpit within the Basilica, stared for a full fifteen seconds at the small group in attendance—Protestants like me are made quite uncomfortable by silence—and then he delivered his sermon:

You people can accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, … or you can go to hell.

Then he sat down.

As I sat in the pew beside Bob, I thought to myself, “Now that was an altar call!”

Indeed, as I look back on that experience—on that sermon—I realize that God used Father Oscar’s words as one of several hundred “nudges,” coaxing me, cajoling me, challenging me, forcing me—no, forcing Jane and me—to move beyond the perception of safety within our so-called “controlled” world of the 1980s, and into a complicated, wild, unpredictable, uncontrollable, yet utterly fulfilling life here in Durham.

Father Oscar’s sermon broke all the homiletical rules that I would later learn. Yet, you see, since true sermon is where God causes speaker to speak, and listener to hear, all the oratorial rules flew out the window in order that, through that same window, Holy Spirit could move in.

It is easy to miss this important point about preaching: it isn’t one-sided. To be sure, done correctly, preaching involves an important dynamic of effective, clear speaking, on the one hand. Yet, on the other, it also depends as much on the dynamic of effective, clear listening.

I can quickly think of another instance in which a sermon broke all the conventional homiletical rules. While I didn’t actually hear this one, I have read it numerous times. It was preached about 2,000 years ago. That sermon is contained within the first reading appointed for this upcoming Sunday [Acts: 2:14a, 36-41, Third Sunday of Easter, RCL, Year A]. It’s a sermon delivered by Peter, one of “the Eleven” [Acts 2:14].

At first blush, Peter is certainly an unlikely preacher. Within the safety of the Upper Room, when no one but the other ten + Jesus were watching and listening during their evening meal “on the night that Jesus was betrayed,” Peter had stepped forward and said that no matter what happened, Jesus could count on him. At that moment, Jesus had retorted, of course, that Peter would be able “to count” the three times he’d deny his Lord before the rooster crowed the next morning. Just as Jesus had predicted, mighty Peter—Peter the rock—was later confronted by a humble household servant with the question, “Were you not one of those with the Galilean?”

His famous response, “I don’t know who you’re talking about” [Mathew 26:69, paraphrased].

In this week’s lesson, recording events that took place just seven weeks after Peter’s denial, “the Rock” is a different man. Confronted by a group standing around outside “the place” where the Pentecostal believers had gathered and received the Holy Spirit [Acts 2:1], Peter speaks boldly. When the sneering non-believers point to those who have received the Holy Spirit and chidingly remark, “They are filled with new wine” [Acts 2:13], Peter does not cower. He does not deny his Lord. He speaks up, albeit not sounding like any preacher we’ve likely encountered. I love the way our friend, Will Willimon, paraphrases Peter’s response:

We’re not drunk! Yet. It’s only nine in the morning [Acts 2:15].

Peter continues with a sermon that would have earned him—at best—a C-minus in preaching class. He relates:

This man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law. But God raised him up, having released him from the agony of death, …. [Acts 2:23-24a].

I love the way that Will jestingly describes Peter’s sermon: “Short, ridiculously so. No illustrations, culturally insensitive, accusatory, without intellectual foundation, no connections, no bridge from there to here.” And yet, as Will and many other homiletical experts have attested over the years, something happened that day! Cut to the heart [2:37a], many of those who had sneered said to Peter and the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?” [2:37b].

Peter’s response, “Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” [2:38]. Something happened in Peter’s sermon. Peter’s words become a true sermon since God caused speaker to speak, and listener to hear.

So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added [2:41].

Two (of many) wonderful things about the God we worship are His patience and His unpredictability. The Almighty God of power will wait you out. God will never give up on you. And that same Almighty God will use anything and/or anyone to get His way. He’ll even use ineffective preachers.

My first “boss” during my Asbury UMC years (1987-1994) was the Reverend Wally Ellis. A powerful preacher, he was not. He was, however, one of the most lovable people I’ve ever known. Asbury was his last appointment within the United Methodist Church. We were a quiet parish. The bishop’s idea was to reward a good and faithful servant with three or four years of relative peace and quiet. And so, the bishop sent Wally to Asbury. At that same time, the field education office at Duke Divinity School sent me there as well.

Most of Wally’s sermons were recycled from his earlier days. I knew this because from my perch near the pulpit, I could see the discolored pages from his sermon notebook. There was that Sunday in early 1988 when Wally dipped deep into his barrel of sermons. Wally didn’t so much preach his sermons as he read them. On that Sunday, I could spy that he was nearing the end of his message. Wally looked at the congregation, and then down at his manuscript, and confidently said:

And so, brothers and sisters in Christ, as we face the challenges that lie ahead in 1966, I know that we will put our trust and faith in the only One who is both trustworthy and faithful: even Jesus the Christ.

Wally sat down abruptly. My mind took me back to the Abbey and I again realized that our God was at it again. You see, God is and was perfectly happy to use a tired, old minister like Wally. He was equally happy to push a seminarian named Tom who, in his late 30s, was struggling with life choices and family responsibilities. Therein lies some really good news: God is intent upon being heard, even in the face of inept preaching. He won’t let anything, or anyone stop Him.

Two weeks after Wally’s early 1988 sermon, the two of us were sitting in his Asbury office talking. A member of the church—let’s call him Jon—stepped into the open door and knocked gently. He said, “Can we talk?”

I got up to leave, but Jon said, “No, Tom, you stay. This involves you as well.”

Through Asbury activities, I knew Jon well. Intensely bright, Jon was in his early 30s. He had earned both a B.A. and an M.A. in English Lit from Duke. He came in, shut the door, and quickly sat down.

Let’s make this quick. I’ve tarried long enough already. Wally, for the past six months or so, I’ve listened to the two of you in the Asbury pulpit and although I’ve searched for every excuse I could find, I now know that Christ is calling me into service for His church. Your sermon two weeks ago, in which you looked so optimistically into to the future, pushed me over the edge. I just want to thank you for helping me resolve my issues. I’ve initiated the paperwork to enter Duke Divinity School this Fall.

Our incorrigible God will use anything and anyone. He took a one-sentence sermon by Father Oscar, a sermon containing a mere 17 words, and seared a message into the heart of a young Gaston County father. Years later, he took the words of a wonderful, loving, but quite tired pastor named Wally, a pastor who wasn’t quite sure what year it was, and used those inept words to reach out to Jon.

Thanks be to God that the preacher isn’t in control of the message. Neither is the listener. And so, folks, a word of advice: You really need to be careful when you’re listening to a sermon. You never know what might happen.