I love what I'm learning at Pathways Theological Education. It forces me to be thoughtful about my intentions and discernment process in ministry and to really think about WHY and HOW we do things in the church. My current class, Preaching for Special Occasions, is particularly practical in many ways. We are learning how to create liturgy for weddings, funerals, eccumenical and mutli-faith settings, and for special occasions. This discussion question was particularly interesting to me. Here are my reflections on it.
How does the process of preparing and writing liturgies and sermons for weddings and funerals compare to the task of writing liturgies and sermons for regular congregational worship? What are the harder parts? the easier parts? Is there a theological difference in purpose? Why or why not?
Writing a sermon or shaping a liturgy has never felt to me like just arranging words in a particular order. At its best, it’s trying to catch the heartbeat of a moment – whether that’s the quiet pulse of the lectionary in an ordinary Sunday servicer or the jarring, sad occasion of a funeral. Each lliturgy requires being present for that specific moment and what it requires, and I’ve found that the purpose behind the service almost always dictates the way the writing goes.
Take a Sunday service. That’s the weekly rhythm – the steady work of nurturing a community that’s still figuring out how to follow Christ together in these specific times. I think of it as tending a garden: small, repeated acts of care. A sermon here doesn’t have to “wow” people once and for all; it’s part of an ongoing journey. You’re teaching, encouraging, sometimes prodding, but always trying to keep people anchored in Scripture and worship. Because you’re speaking to such a wide mix – folks who’ve been in church for decades, someone brand new, maybe a visitor dragged in by a friend – you’re always reaching in several directions at once. It’s the bread-and-butter kind of ministry, and it stretches you to be both clear and patient, as well as speaking relevantly to that particular moment in our collective lives as a community.
Now compare that with a wedding. The energy is completely different. A wedding sermon doesn’t need to be a crash course in theology; it’s about standing alongside two people who are stepping into covenant and letting the gospel illuminate what that means. Honestly, I always feel the pressure of the occasion – you know there are family members there who don’t show up in church for moments like this, so whatever you say might be the only time they really listen to Scripture. It’s a delicate balance: honoring the couple’s unique story, speaking hope into their future, and at the same time keeping Christ at the center.
Funerals, though – those are another level altogether. You can’t hide behind polished words. People are raw, grieving, often barely holding themselves together. A funeral sermon isn’t just a eulogy with Bible verses sprinkled on top; it’s standing in the middle of loss and daring to speak about resurrection. That’s hard. You want to honor the person who’s died, but you also have to name the larger truth: that death is real, but so is Christ’s victory over it. Sometimes the most pastoral thing is simply to acknowledge the pain in the room before you can even begin to talk about hope.
What makes weddings and funerals “easier,” if that’s the right word, is the focus. The story is already there: the joy of two lives coming together, or the grief of one life ending. You sit with families, you listen, and you gather details that help you make the message real. You don’t have to invent the emotional core – it’s handed to you. But the stakes are sky-high. A clumsy or tone-deaf sermon can sour what should have been a holy moment.
Sunday sermons, on the other hand, don’t usually carry that once-in-a-lifetime weight, but they bring their own grind. Week after week you’re looking for a fresh word, trying not to repeat yourself, and praying that the familiar passages don’t sound tired. I think I would personally wrestle more with routine Sundays than with funerals, simply because of the challenge of making the gospel feel fresh to people who think they already know it.
In the end, whether it’s a marriage covenant, a graveside farewell, or another week in the sanctuary, the writing is always about helping people meet God in that moment. The difference is what the moment demands of the preacher. Sometimes it’s tenderness, sometimes bold proclamation or prophetic witness, and sometimes just the courage to stand with people in silence. That variety is exhausting, but it’s also what makes this work holy - it keeps me leaning on grace rather than technique.
