Not What But How

"A movie is not what it is about. It is about how it is about." --Roger Ebert
We walked into the church house--building complex--in Seoul, South Korea and were ushered to a balcony pew. A membership of several hundred thousand made this the largest church in the world. I estimated ten thousand worshipers filling the sanctuary in this one service.

We were early. On a raised platform in the main auditorium, I saw a large orchestra: in the strings section I counted six cellos. After the service, we were taken to the church cafeteria, the largest I’ve ever seen. We didn’t go to the bookstore.

When we had first been ushered in for the main service, I noticed a set of headphones hanging on the back of the pew in front of me. On the control knob, by a turn of the dial, we could choose among five or six languages. The service was conducted, of course, in the Korean language, but translators provided audio access to Chinese, Japanese, English, German, Spanish, or French. They sang the same hymns we had sung in Oklahoma churches in the 1930s and 1940s.

So far, so good. It felt good to worship with this many fellow Christians. Then, however, the preacher began. In a meanspirited tone of voice, he ranted a harsh fundamentalist sermon. As Roger Ebert noted about movies, he sermon was not what it was about, it was about how it was about. Somewhere, I had once read: "When the truth is told in a hateful manner, it is no longer the truth." As I left, I was confident the church had not grown to such enormous size based on this man’s preaching.

A few days later, we flew to Taipei, Taiwan. As our bus neared the Fortuna Hotel, where we would stay for a week or two, I noticed a small Baptist church, just three blocks from the hotel. Saturday I walked to the church house, found the door open, and walked in. I’ve been in church since I was a one-year-old, so I was quite comfortable walking in. Two secretaries were at work in the office.

Before we came to Taiwan I had been told that many Taiwanese were conversant in English, so I asked the ladies what time the Sunday morning service would take place. It quickly became apparent that these church workers were not among the "conversant in English" numbers.

On the wall I saw a clock, and on the desk, a calendar. An idea came do me. I walked over and pointed to the date of Sunday, the next day, then stepped to the desk and pointed at the clock. It took about three repetitions of my gestural question before one of them caught on. She smiled, wrote a note, and graciously handed it to me. I looked at the note. It read: 10:00.

The previous Sunday in the largest church in the world, I had heard it all in my own language; for me, the sermon had killed the service. The little Baptist church in Taipei had about sixty in attendance. As I came in, and then as others came in, everyone greeted me with a warm smile. Several extended their hand for me to take.

The service was entirely in Mandarin. I understood not a word, but I knew the music, so I joined their singing from a Baptist Hymnal, published in Nashville and translated into Mandarin Chinese. I knew I was at home. We were part of the same family, at worship. The white-headed pastor began his sermon with a warm smile and a loving tone of voice. I don’t know a thing he said, but his smile and loving tone and expression was mirrored in the people’s faces.

I left, knowing I had been in the presence of God and God’s people.

A sermon is not what it is about. It is about how it is about.