I was recently introduced to a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye entitled “Valentine for Ernest Mann.” I know nothing about the poet or the context of the poem or the title. But the poem struck me as important truth. It’s about poems and poetry but, more than that, it’s about life and living. It’s about perspective and intentionality. Oh, it’s good.

While reflecting on the truth contained in these short verses, I naturally thought about preaching. And sermons. I replaced the word “poem” in the composition with the word “sermon,” and the whole thing became more profound and much more personal.

Here it is, with my unauthorized substitutions. Where you see the word “sermon,” Nye used the word “poem.” Same thing, in many ways.

You can’t order a sermon like you order a taco.
Walk up to  the counter, say, “I’ll take two”
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,
write me a sermon,” deserves something in reply.
So I’ll tell you a secret instead:
sermons hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn’t understand why she was crying.
“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”

And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the sermons that had been hiding
in the eyes of the skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us,
we find sermons. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.

And let me know.

I pray this poem inspires you like it does me, to commit to “live in a way that lets us find” the sermons and the poems that are hiding all around us in plain sight.

Peace,

Allan