Praying for people after sermons like Sunday’s is brutal.
I confess, I’m not a safe and predictable preacher, I go there…I don’t try to sensationalize or traumatize, but I don’t try to sanitize.
I think the reality of people’s sin and sufferings demands a gospel that touches their horror with hope and healing.
The pulpit is my operating table. It’s raw, rough, bloody and sometime involves life and death procedures.
I’m in the work of saving lives not just inspiring and giving good advise.
I’m in a chaotic and desperate emergency room…not a calm and quiet doctor’s office.
I’m a medic on the frontlines, arms deep in violence and gore trying to do work among skull shattering bullets, the ear deafening roar of the enemies opposition, and the heart breaking sobs to mama and pleas to the God over all this savage hell.
When did the churches of Jesus stop becoming places where men with devils shriek and wail and hemorrhaging women grab on to the Savior for dear life?
If I told you the confessions from the altar you’d weep and beat your chest in repentance from ever settling for pious and predictable sanctuaries.