Learning to Preach

We all try to fall into a groove where life becomes more manageable and we can be comfortable. But then something happens to move us out of that comfort zone and we have the opportunity to learn and grow. When that happens we are faced with a choice: Do I return to the old way as soon as possible or do I take a risk and open myself to a new way of being in the world?

At the three-point parish where I started ordained ministry, the senior pastor and I presided at four worship services every week. One of us would lead worship at the two churches in town on Sunday morning. The other would be at the Saturday evening worship in town and then drive to the country church on Sunday morning.  We would do this for a month and then trade. This rotation meant that I had to write and deliver a sermon every week. Most associate pastors don’t get to preach that often or even close to it. Since I enjoy preaching it was a great opportunity to do something I felt I was good at. The frequency also helped me get better.

Coming out of seminary I worked hard to craft each sermon, carefully choosing phrases and editing my words until they were just right (or until I ran out of time and couldn’t work on them anymore). Having put all that time into them I would print them out on the dot-matrix printer connected to my computer, double spacing them so that I could easily read from my manuscript as I stood in the pulpit. I would rehearse by reading through a sermon two or three times before worship, making sure I was able to look up from my text and make eye contact with the congregation. This, I was told in preaching class, made it more personal for the people in the pews. At the end of the first service I would greet the worshipers at the back of the church, pack my bible, sermon, and whatever else I needed into my briefcase and take it all with me to the next service.

If I was in town for the month the drive was just six blocks to the next church. If I was going to preach at the country church it was a beautiful, winding drive through the hills, valleys and farmland of western Wisconsin that took between 15 and 20 minutes. It was, of course, one of the days when I was at the country church that I arrived for worship and discovered that I had left my sermon manuscript sitting in the pulpit after the Saturday evening worship.

I dug through my briefcase one more time hoping that it would miraculously appear. Looking at the clock I did the math with the sickening realization that I didn’t have time to run back into town and retrieve my sermon. It occurred to me that I could send someone from the congregation into town but there was no guarantee that they would be back when it was time for the sermon. I either had to explain to the congregation what had happened and tell them there would be no sermon that day, or I would have to preach from memory. I chose to risk the embarrassment of preaching from memory, possibly forgetting part of the sermon over the embarrassment of admitting that I was unprepared.

When it was time for the sermon, instead of stepping up into the pulpit, I descended to the floor in front of the congregation. In that old, country church the pulpit was a raised platform that jutted out from the front wall above the congregation. Whenever I stood in the pulpit my feet were at eye level with the worshipers sitting in the pews. The architectural design was meant to be impressive and authoritative. Stepping down to be at the level of those in worship had a very different feel; definitely more casual but more intimate too. Instead of being someone who stood over them I was standing among them. I realized the symbolism and significance of that gesture immediately.

As I preached that day without manuscript or notes I discovered a sense of freedom. I had been using my manuscript as a crutch. I knew what I was preaching but was too worried about the exact way in which I said things. I knew the points I wanted to make and the illustrations that I had chosen to make those points. I had been telling stories by memory for years and a sermon is simply a story of how we understand something written in the Bible. By stepping away from the manuscript I sounded more like myself. Preaching became a personal thing, a way of sharing what I understood about the text, faith and life.

The encouragement I received after the service caught me off guard. The sermon I preached was not as concise as my regular sermons with a manuscript, but it seemed to have struck a chord with those in worship that day. Sheepishly, I admitted the real reason behind the change in preaching style while in my mind I committed myself to making the change a permanent one.

Noted media professor Marshall McLuhan said that “the medium is the message.” Preaching a sermon from the heart, without notes, sends a message to the listener beyond the meaning of the words. For me it meant more work rehearsing what I wanted to say. It also brought a change to the way I prepared sermons. I no longer spend time fretting over exact wording in front of a computer screen. Instead, I spend time listening to the words that come out of my mouth, wondering how I would hear it if I were sitting in the congregation.

Had I never left that manuscript in town I might never have discovered the style of preaching that works so well for me. In the years since then I have continued to experiment with that style, searching for my voice in a world that is ever changing.