Fifty years ago, a much younger, much more nervous version of me stepped into a pulpit for the very first time. My sermon was too long, my theology was too thin, and my confidence was too high for someone who had no idea what he was doing. In other words, I fit right in with every preacher who ever lived.

Half a century later, I stand amazed — not only that God has been faithful, but that congregations have been too. Some of them even stayed awake. If you want to understand humanity, don’t study psychology. Don’t read philosophy. Just preach weekly for fifty years and watch what happens in the pews.

I’ve seen:

People sleeping so soundly during my sermons that I considered checking for a pulse. One gentleman snored in perfect rhythm with the Doxology. I took it as a compliment. Parents losing control of toddlers who suddenly discovered their spiritual gift was interpretive dance in the center aisle. Teenagers communicating entirely by eyeroll, a language I now speak fluently. Peppermint unwrappers — the saints who believe they can open a candy “quietly,” which somehow takes seven minutes and sounds like a raccoon rummaging through aluminum siding. Folks, at this point in my ministry, I beg you: grip it and rip it. The Lord already knows.

After fifty years, I owe some congregations an apology. Not for theology, not for leadership decisions, not for pastoral missteps — though I’ve had my share of those — but for some truly lousy sermons. There were sermons that wandered. Sermons that limped. Sermons that should have been humanely euthanized. Sermons that were so confusing even I wasn’t sure what I meant.

To the churches who endured them: Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your grace. And thank you for not forming a search committee.

Through it all — the laughter, the tears, the baptisms, the funerals, the potlucks, the revivals, the meetings that should’ve been emails — I have been surrounded by people who loved Jesus and tried their best to love one another.

I’ve watched congregations rally around the grieving, celebrate the newly married, welcome the newborn, and feed the hungry. I’ve seen the church at its most beautiful: ordinary people doing extraordinary things because Christ lives in them.

Fifty years of ministry has taught me this: Following Jesus is less about perfection and more about direction. Less about knowing all the answers and more about trusting the One who does. Less about preaching great sermons and more about living a faithful life.

I’ve stumbled, learned, grown, laughed, cried, and kept walking — because Jesus kept leading. And somehow, by grace alone, I’ve made it to this milestone.  If the next years bring more sleeping saints, more peppermint concerts, more toddlers on the loose, and more holy moments of grace — I’ll count myself blessed.

Thank you for letting me preach, love, learn, and laugh among you. Thank you for fifty years of community. Thank you for walking with me as I’ve tried to walk with Christ. And if you happen to fall asleep during this article, I’ll take that as a sign of spiritual peace.