Instrumental Interference

I don’t want to complain . . . but I will anyway.

I have had such a time with the sermon this week. I know it’s in there somewhere, but it is refusing to make its way to the paper this week. At least so far. I guess it’s a good thing that Sunday comes no matter what, so something has to appear somewhere, sometime before 11 am on Sunday morning.

I hate to disenchant all of you who thought preachers wrote their sermons six months in advance.

So today, instead of trying to write, I’d like to point out . . . in my defense . . . two small relevant details.

First, this is kind of an anomaly. I’m usually finished with the sermon by this time in the week. Okay, maybe not DONE done, but certainly mostly done (note for context: this was written last Friday, but I got you, didn’t I?  Sermon done on Tuesday . . . now, that’s funny!). Not that this fact helps the current situation, but I felt compelled to include it here before I bring out the big guns.

The second, and main reason my sermon is not getting done at this moment is this: as of last week Hannah has taken up the oboe.

I now firmly and unequivocally believe that I am constitutionally unable to hear the Spirit of God when all evidence would lead you to believe that a cow is dying a slow and painful death in the middle of the living room (just adjacent to where I am writing).

Ultimately, I completely support musical development in our family, but up until this point it has not affected my ability to sermon-write.

I try to go into another room-and find you can hear this special sound through the walls.

I try to go outside on the porch with the dog, but his ears pick up the strains and he starts howling along.

I even take the laptop out to the car and tried to write, but it seems that special whine/howl is now firmly imprinted on the soft tissue of my brain and I cannot think coherently about anything except why we ever thought it was a good idea for Hannah to take the instrumental music elective this year in the first place.

Thus I maintain that this is certainly reason enough for me to send my regrets Sunday morning, don’t you?  Surely someone could stand up and say: “Jeremiah wrote a poetic treatise on the anger of God.  Please open your Bibles and discuss amongst yourselves.”

Yes, I think that might be the way to go, because I imagine by then I’ll be lying in bed, hopefully under heavy sedation, with earplugs firmly in place and a cold washcloth on my forehead.

I’ll keep you posted.

(Update: Sermon written and preached.  Hannah is still working on perfecting the oboe.)