The preparation and the packaging of a message are like the gestation and the childhood of a sermon. Now, like one reaching maturity, the sermon is ready to move out of the house and do some work.
Sermon delivery or “homiletics” is an art, not a science. It can be caught easier than it can be taught. Sitting under good preaching is a great way to learn the manifold tricks of the trade. No two preachers are exactly alike. They will have different styles, voice command, tone, pitch, intensity, movement, gesticulation, and humor. Yet we all recognize when a sermon has been delivered well, and when it has fallen on the floor like a broken egg.
For some preachers, it’s easy to deliver a sermon with passion. For others, it’s hard work. But passionate preaching can be mastered by anyone who is willing to learn. Passion is communicated through rate of speech, pitch of voice, volume, intensity, pauses, gestures, facial expressions, and other forms of body language that represent what is brewing inside.
“But,” goes the objection, “I’m not naturally passionate, I have no Latino blood in me, so it would be unnatural and insincere for me to shout, cry, and pound the pulpit while preaching.” That may be true. Everyone displays passion differently, but everyone has ways of expressing their feelings. One football fan celebrates his team’s victory with loud whoops and hollering. Another fan sits quietly, weeping with joy. Some preachers get vocal and physically animated in the pulpit. That comes naturally to them. Others whisper for effect, or pause dramatically, allowing the audience to contemplate the magnanimity of the truth they have just heard.
If you are genuinely interested in the material you are delivering, and you are moved by the truth you are sharing, evidence of that must show up in your communication. John Piper, a preacher known for his passionate delivery style, has an exhortation that should settle the matter for any objector,
Compelling preaching gives the impression that something very great is at stake… Lack of intensity in preaching can only communicate that the preacher does not believe or has never been seriously gripped by the reality of which he speaks—or that the subject matter is insignificant.
I would not go as far as some who say that being boring is a preacher’s worst sin. Preaching heresy effectively is a worse sin than preaching truth ineffectively. But do we really need to choose?
Assuming the content is excellent (and this is a big assumption these days, but for argument’s sake…) the effectiveness of the sermon usually largely on how it is delivered. There are exceptions. A mature, patient congregation well-trained in the art of listening can enjoy the benefits of rich content despite a dry as dust delivery. A starving survivor may appreciate the nutrition of a raw egg. But as the preacher, do you really want people to have to work hard at sucking moisture for their souls from the gravel of your delivery? Do you want your listeners to have a spiritual life that is nourished by the raw yoke and albumen of exegetical data? Why not cook up some creativity over the flame of passion? Why not add the flavor of illustration, sprinkled with the salt of humor and the peppering of well-placed pauses?
Some may object, “Is that not just emotional manipulation, trying to bypass the reasoning of the mind by appealing to the baseness of ear-tickling?”
I. Packer responds in this way,
The purpose of preaching is not to stir people to action while bypassing their minds, so that they never see what reason God gives them for doing what the preacher requires of them (that is manipulation); nor is the purpose to stock people’s minds with truth, no matter how vital and clear, which then lies fallow and does not become the seedbed and source of changed lives (that is academicism).... The purpose of preaching is to inform, persuade, and call forth an appropriate response to the God whose message and instruction are being delivered.
Arguably the most passionate preacher of the Great Awakening, George Whitefield, was accused of being too theatrical in his preaching, a “consummate actor.” Whitefield’s own words explain his reason for intensity in the pulpit,
I’ll tell you a story. The Archbishop of Canterbury in the year 1675 was acquainted with Mr. Butterton the [actor]. One day the Archbishop… said to Butterton …
“Pray inform me Mr. Butterton, what is the reason you actors on stage can affect your congregations with speaking of things imaginary, as if they were real, while we in church speak of things real, which our congregations only receive as if they were imaginary?”
“Why my Lord,” says Butterton, “the reason is very plain. We actors on stage speak of things imaginary, as if they were real and you in the pulpit speak of things real as if they were imaginary.’”
“Therefore,” added Whitefield, “I will bawl [shout loudly], I will not be a velvet-mouthed preacher.”
Whitfield lived his life in light of the Bēma. And his preaching showed it.
As a teacher of God’s word, you will be judged for the effort you put into your preparation and your delivery. You don’t have to be the next Spurgeon, but you do need to do the best you can. Yes, content is the most important. Yes, if you need to choose between delivering error well or truth poorly, content is king. But that is a false dichotomy. You can do both. You must both obtain the truth and deliver it well. It just takes more effort on your part. But that is why James says “Let not many of you become teachers.” If you can’t get God’s message right and deliver that message in a way that does justice to the riveting content, then do not become a teacher.
There is a reason a cliché becomes popular—it is widely recognized as a truism. “Practice what you preach” is axiomatic for the preacher. Application of the sermon starts with you, or your hypocrisy will slit the throat of every sermon you preach.
The sermon is not over when you leave the pulpit. Your words will resonate in the lives of your hearers, but more importantly, they must echo in your own life as well. In a golf swing this is called the follow through. The shot is not over when the club strikes the ball. It’s finished when the ball leaves the clubface. The impact produces the energy that propels the ball, but the follow through guides its direction. A life that models the lesson will guide the direction more than the impact of a 40-minute sermon.
Ignaz Semmelweiss was the Austro-Hungarian physician who in 1850 discovered that the spread of infection in hospital wards could be dramatically reduced simply by hand washing. Soon after the discovery, Semmelweiss died from an infected cut on his hand. In the same way, the preacher’s message may save the lives of others, but it needs to be applied to himself, or he will not gain reward from the Master.
Paul exhorted Timothy, “ Practice these things, immerse yourself in them, so that all may see your progress. Keep a close watch on yourself and on the teaching. Persist in this, for by so doing you will save both yourself and your hearers” (1 Tim 4: 15 – 16). As the preacher, you are a member of your own audience. Do not fall into the trap of warning others to wash their hands, while your own infected palm kills you.
