The Long Obedience of a Small Town
Eugene Peterson borrowed a phrase from Nietzsche — “a long obedience in the same direction” — and gave it to the Church. After twelve years on Roguski Road, I think I am only beginning to understand what he meant.
Sermons, short essays, and notes from the pastor’s desk.
Eugene Peterson borrowed a phrase from Nietzsche — “a long obedience in the same direction” — and gave it to the Church. After twelve years on Roguski Road, I think I am only beginning to understand what he meant.
I am not against new songs. We sing several. But there is something a hymn does that a chorus cannot — it hands you words your grandmother sang at her own kitchen sink, and it tells you, gently, that you are not the first to be afraid.
We could pass the trays. It would be faster. But we walk forward — slowly, awkwardly, sometimes leaning on each other — because the gospel itself is something you have to come and receive.
I planted my first crop in 1974. I have planted fifty since. There is no shortcut between flooding the field and bringing in the combine. The Christian life is, I have come to believe, mostly the same.
Twenty-two years as a hospice nurse taught me what no seminary could: the gospel is loudest when it is whispered to someone who is no longer afraid.
You do not need a desert to keep Lent. A levee road at sunrise will do. So will a kitchen sink, a long phone call with your father, a fast you tell no one about.
One short letter from Pastor Leonard, on the first Monday of every month. No marketing, no tracking, no fluff.