My View from the Pulpit

A Sunday Morning View

There is a view of church that most people never get to see. It’s the view from the front. Most Sunday mornings, everyone is looking in my direction. They see the pulpit. They see the worship team. They see the screens. They see me trying to remember whether I have already made that point or if I only thought about making that point.

But while everyone is looking forward, I’m looking back. And let me tell you… The view from the front of the church is interesting. I can see the person who is completely engaged in worship, hands lifted, eyes closed, lost in the presence of God. And three seats away, I can see someone checking their phone. Maybe they’re reading the Bible app. That’s what I choose to believe.

I can see the person nodding along with every point of the sermon.

And I can also see the person nodding off. There is a difference.

Although sometimes it takes me a minute to figure out which one is happening.

I can see the person trying to worship while simultaneously keeping one eye on their kid making sure that they don’t misbehave.

I see the husband and wife who came in arguing. They probably think nobody knows. The pastor knows. We always know. You came through the doors walking six feet apart, sat down without speaking, and when I said, “Turn to your neighbor and tell them God is good,” you both suddenly became fascinated with the people on the other side of you.

I see the person who looks like they would rather be anywhere else in the world. But then, for just a moment, something in the message catches their attention. Their head comes up. And I make a mental note:

Stay here for a minute. God might be doing something.

That’s the thing about my view from the front. I don't just see a congregation. I see stories. I see an empty spot that most people don't notice. I see the family that barely made it through the week. I see the person who asked me for prayer privately but hasn't told anyone else what they're going through. I see the person who just got wonderful news.

I see the person waiting for news. I see the person whose faith feels stronger than ever. And I see the person who isn't even sure what they believe anymore—but they came anyway.

And sometimes, that might be one of the greatest acts of faith in the room.

They came anyway. Sunday morning looks different from the front.

Sometimes while I'm preaching about joy, I know I'm looking at someone whose heart is breaking. Sometimes while I'm preaching about God's provision, I know someone in the room is wondering how they're going to pay a bill. Sometimes while we're singing about God's faithfulness, I'm looking at someone who is quietly asking, "God, are You really going to be faithful to me?" And I wish I could stop everything, walk down from the platform, sit beside them and say: Yes. Hold on. He's not finished yet.

Of course, my Sunday morning view has some funny moments too.

I see you whispering. I see you sneaking candy to your kids. I see you trying to quietly open that candy wrapper during the most silent moment of the entire service. There is apparently no sound louder on planet Earth than a peppermint wrapper during prayer.  I see the visitor trying to figure out when to stand, when to sit, where the bathroom is, and whether Pentecostals always get this excited. But after all the Sundays I've stood at the front of a church, I've realized something.

My favorite part of the view isn't what I see people doing.

It's what I imagine God is doing where I can't see. Because I can see faces.

God sees hearts. I can see someone smiling. God knows what it took for them to get out of bed that morning. I can see someone crying. God knows the prayer behind every tear. I can see someone who seems distracted.

God knows the battle happening inside them. I can see an empty chair.

God may already know the name of the person who will eventually sit there.

That's why I never want to look at Sunday morning as just another service.

It's easy to do. Another Sunday. Another sermon. Another song. Another offering. Another closing prayer. But from where I stand, I'm reminded that every Sunday morning is a room filled with people carrying things nobody else can see.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it… Jesus walks into the room.

He meets the tired mom. The grieving widow. The distracted teenager. The arguing couple. The person full of faith. The person hanging onto faith by a thread. The visitor who isn't sure why they came.

And yes… Even the guy sleeping through point number three.

That's my view from the front of the church. It's imperfect. It's sometimes funny. It's occasionally distracting. It's often emotional. But it is beautiful.

Because when I look out on Sunday morning, I don't see a crowd.

I see people Jesus loves. I see lives God is still writing. I see prayers waiting to be answered. I see testimonies that haven't happened yet.

I see broken people worshiping a perfect Savior. And every once in a while, standing behind that pulpit, I have this thought:

What a privilege it is to have this view.

Because for a few moments every Sunday morning, I get to stand at the front of the church and watch God work from the other side of the room.

And that's a view I hope I never take for granted.

— Ramblings of a Small Church Pastor