It was Saturday night, September 15, 2001. All week long our nation had been reeling under the horrific events of Tuesday morning. But it was Saturday night, and I had to preach the next morning.
It surprises a lot of people that know me, but most of the time my sermon is finished earlier than that. On a good week it is finished on Thursday. On a normal week it is finished on Friday. On a bad week it is finished by 2:00 on Saturday.
On this week however…. Only one other time in my career have I been working on a sermon that late. (The Sunday after the terrorist attack on Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston.)
All week long I had struggled to find the words, any words that might help make sense of what was happening. But there were none. How can you make sense out of the senseless? I couldn’t explain it to my daughters, how could I explain it to a congregation? How could I assure them that God had not abandoned us when we had watched buildings collapse? How could I remind them of the call of the Prince of Peace when all we wanted was revenge?
All week long I struggled to find something, anything to say. But nothing made sense.
So at 9:45 pm on Saturday night I hit the delete button and started over.
The next morning the little sanctuary at Providence Baptist Church on Daniel Island in Charleston, SC was packed. Every seat was taken and we had to hurriedly find some more. Everyone was there to…..be together, to grieve, to look for hope, assurance.
All week long I have searched for that sermon. I wanted to read it, to see what I said, to remember. My intention was to post it as a remembrance.
I remember preaching that morning, but what I said???
The sermon does not exist. It is not on my computer, in my files. Sermons from dates around that Sunday are there. The sermon I preached on the first anniversary, the 10 Anniversary are there.
But that Sunday….
My guess is that what I said really didn’t matter nearly as much as the “being together.” On that day, on that day and maybe this one, we really do need the body of Christ.