Sleeping in church

Some may have read an article in last weekend’s newspaper about sleep apnoea by former Roman Catholic priest, Michael McGirr (Good Night and Good Luck). He began his article with a couple of amusing anecdotes which give an insight into another kind of church experience…

 I said Mass on Sunday evenings in a parish full of wonderful young families. I thought I was doing everyone a favour by keeping the sermon short, a discipline I achieved by sticking to topics I knew something about. Generally, my wisdom had petered out by the end of the third minute. One day, after the service, a mother of three young boys took me to task for my brevity.

Her problem was practical. By late Sunday afternoon she was totally exhausted and facing the weekly prospect of getting the lunches cut, the boys to school and herself to work the following morning. The sermon was her only chance for a bit of a nap. Would I mind stretching it out a bit longer?

I knew I was improving when I nodded off during the sermon myself. Once a sermon gets beyond a couple of minutes, it reaches a delicate point at which the preacher has no idea what he or she is going to say next. In the Jesuit tradition of which I was a part, this point normally came closer to the start of the sermon than the end. One strategy, when stuck for an idea, was to pause briefly and, in a reassuring tone, invite the congregation to reflect on what you had just been saying.

It was on one such occasion that, with my hands joined devoutly on the lectern, my head started to nod. My eyes closed. My breathing slowed and deepened. It was only when I bumped into the microphone that I woke myself up and noticed that the congregation was giggling. I remember thinking that I must have said something funny and wondered what it was.

I find that story funny (for reasons other than because I relate to it) but also a bit troubling. It is troubling because it reinforces the picture that many Australians have of church. They think that church is basically a place where nothing of any significance occurs; the best reason for going is to catch up on sleep! Here, that view of church is unfortunately reinforced by someone who used to run one.

Michael McGirr’s story highlights the difference between the Roman Catholic tradition and the Reformed Protestant position that our church maintains. In the Roman Catholic tradition, the Mass is where the action is because they believe that is where you receive Christ (literally in the bread and wine). The sermon (or homily) is a peripheral. I guess this is why, at least according to Michael McGirr,  Roman Catholic priests give sermons minimal preparation (if any) and speak for a only few a few minutes about whatever comes to mind, with their parishioners not even pretending to listen.

By contrast, our conviction is that a person receives Christ in his biblical Word, with the Lord’s Supper reinforcing that Word. For this reason, we try to make the Word central to our church services. We try to let the Bible set the agenda by preaching systematically through sections of the Bible week by week instead of dreaming up ad hoc topics for sermons. Our ministers spend many hours each week reading, analysing, studying and reflecting upon the Bible in preparation for their Sunday sermon. We aim to make our sermons substantial as well as interesting. This stems from the conviction that God’s Word is where the action is.

This is also why we hope that people come to our church prepared to hear God’s Word. This should include getting a good night’s sleep beforehand so that one can stay awake and engaged during church. As the article noted, a good night’s sleep is not possible for some who have sleeping disorders – and these are quite common and very debilitating – but I earnestly hope that none of our regulars see our sermons as an opportunity for a nap!

Hearing the Word is the most important activity of the week. After all, as James 1:18 says, “He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created.”

Steve