I preached my first sermon at Little River United Methodist Church as a seventeen-year-old. My home-church pastor knew that I had experienced a call to the ordained ministry. He decided to give me an opportunity to preach . . . while he was out of town.

It did not go well.

I began the sermon with a weak introduction, and the message went downhill from there. I got the handwritten pages mixed up halfway through the homily and never quite recovered. The sermon lasted 14 minutes, which included 3 minutes of uhs, ahs, and you knows. I may—or may not—have added a 4^th person to the Trinity and cited Paul’s letter to the Philippines.

The congregation graciously greeted me after the service with words of appreciation and affirmation. Then again, I was related to half of them.

My mother recorded the service on a cassette player, but I never felt a need to revisit the humiliating experience. The tape vanished at some point over the years by an act of divine grace.

Fifty years separate yesterday and today; but I still get anxious before each sermon. The queasy emotion recognizes preaching’s audacious task. I pray for the grace to never leave that nervous teenager behind.