On Sickness, Sports, and Preaching

Photo by  Martin Reisch  on  Unsplash

Photo by Martin Reisch on Unsplash

I’m not sure that those three things have any particular correlation to one another, except to say that this present sickness has made me watch and do things that my normally healthy self would avoid. I watched the NFL Pro Bowl. 

I will admit that I was in and out of a conscious state on Sunday afternoon mainly out of pure exhaustion from preaching two services and having either the flu or the cold. I can’t say for sure because the CDC continues to alter the definitions of what is a cold and what is the flu. I have both. Or neither one. I don’t know. 

Anyway as I lay in a semi-comatose state on my couch on Sunday the only thing that sounded remotely therapeutic was the sound of helmet-on-helmet collisions and the soothing monochrome voice of Sean McDonough. Even though it was absolutely the most boring and worthless game of the whole season I allowed it to venture into my psyche as I drifted in and out of sleep. 

In some way that is what preaching on Sunday morning was for me. I crawled in sick because I loved the passage I was to preach so much, and the topic of the glory of Christ was one that I would literally have to be dead not to try and communicate. I remember my introduction — the clever email I found about the Nigerian astronaut that was still stuck on a Soviet space-station after 28 years and all that was needed was my assistance in the form of a bank account to transfer the 15 million dollars to safely get him home. I remember pointing out our need to see the real Christ, not some cultured counterfeit, and I remember very little else. I did this twice. 

I don’t know if it was a good sermon. I suspect that it was a slow roller up the third base line. Good enough. Serviceable. Not great. I don’t know if it helped anyone, or if I should put away some pride next time I’m sick and make the call to the bullpen and let a healthier, better-rested man bring the power of the gospel to bear on the church. 

What I do know, and cherish, is after the first service a kind and humble gentleman came up to pray for me. That meant all the world. I don’t remember much else. I don’t need to. 

I may not endeavor to preach feeling that poorly ever again. But to proclaim Christ was worth it. And if I ever do, perhaps it’ll be on Pro Bowl Sunday and a drug-induced coma will quickly take me away after the church services to soft touch hits and the sons of Brees fighting on the sidelines.