It was a Sunday night in 2004. I was the scheduled speaker at my church and had just launched into a prayerfully-prepared, carefully-researched sermon which deep down I hoped would be blindingly insightful and occasionally humorous. I had PowerPoint slides. I had audio clips. I had disco balls and pyrotechnics (well, not really). I had prayed that God would use me to declare his holy message to the people.
Just three minutes into my talk “Collin” walked through the front door, down the right-hand aisle, and in front of the entire congregation loudly announced that he’d walked for miles to come and see if truth was being declared in this House of God. ‘I used to come here years ago,’ Collin added. ‘Back when it was controlled by the Reich.’
Oh dear.
Some of the audience thought it was a stunt. I thought the staff were playing a joke on me. We soon discovered it was neither. I walked down off the stage, welcomed Collin, walked back to the lectern and tried to regain everyone’s attention. A few minutes later as we laughed together at a humorous aside, Collin interjected:
‘What was that? Did you say something about the King of Prussia?’
And so began Collin’s verbal dressing down of me; a barrage of breathless religious talk eloquent in wording, incoherent in meaning and escalating in volume. I stepped down again and moved towards Collin, trying to communicate that I was friend and not foe by closing the distance between us, and began madly considering the alternatives for a peaceful resolution. Every attempt to speak turned his volume up another notch. He moved closer, his face just inches away from mine, yelling his accusations of idolatry and heresy at me.
Then he slapped my cheek and jumped up onto the stage. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my sermon notes fly into the air. I turned around in time to see Collin throw the lectern down to the ground, smashing it in two. This was definitely not a joke.
We had a predominantly younger audience that night and some of the congregation left their seats, perhaps to help, perhaps to call the police. Collin got startled by that, ran down off the stage, dodged back and then started up the aisle he had entered just a quarter-hour before. He darted back for one last pronouncement, and then ran out the door.
And the church sat in silence.
The congregation gathered and began to pray—for Collin, for peace to return, and for God’s plans to be achieved that evening. People prayed for me, and small groups gathered around individuals who were tearful and traumatised by the event.
I’m proud of that church. No one screamed obscenities or launched football tackles. Instead, love was shown to victim and perpetrator alike. Collin obviously had a mental illness, and people prayed for Collin. They also comforted the tearful, and I received calls the next day asking how I was doing.
Wrapping up the evening, I had asked the church what lessons could be learnt from the experience. One reply was most telling: ‘We’ve learnt how to love the seemingly unlovable.’
I never did finish my sermon. But then again, I didn’t really need to. God had spoken, replacing my clever sermon with an experiential learning activity on love.