When this article appeared in Leadership, exactly a decade ago, readers gave it high marks. Many books and articles on preaching, it seems, are too simple or too complex. Readers told us they appreciated this article by Fred Smith because it applies expert wisdom to the basics. It’s uncommonly wise on the common elements of public speaking.
Every summer you can find advertisements for basketball or football camps where big-name stars, for a fee, will instruct young people dreaming of athletic greatness.
I wonder how much actual learning takes place when an all-star quarterback, who spends most of his time reading and outmaneuvering sophisticated defenses, tries to coach a junior-higher who’s still trying to figure out how to grip the ball with hands that aren’t quite big enough.
Sometimes people learn more, not from the superstars who have long since learned to perform the basics without conscious thought, but from others only slightly further down the road, those who’ve recently shared the same struggle.
Often, I suspect, a similar effect happens to those who want to achieve superstar poise and eloquence in the pulpit. The key is focusing not on the dazzling techniques but on the fundamentals. Improvement comes from concentrating on the basics until we can perform them without conscious thought. We need to focus on the basics and to find pleasure in the step-by-step advance.
Here are some fundamental areas that I find speakers may overlook as they try to improve.
Establishing a friendly atmosphere
To a large degree, the atmosphere we establish will determine how effective our sermon is going to be. Atmosphere is created by both our verbal and nonverbal messages.
I hear a lot of preachers, for instance, who are pretty sloppy in their opening comments. Perhaps it’s because they haven’t thought about them, but the mood they create right from the start makes it tough to benefit from the rest of the sermon.
Most of us know you don’t want to start on a negative note. “I hope you all will excuse my voice this morning. I’ve had a cold all week.”
Or “I really appreciate you all coming on a miserable, rainy day like today.”
Or “Folks, we just are not getting enough people. When I stand up here and look out at this congregation. . .”
What kind of impression do these introductions make on the listeners? Probably not a good one. You’re not starting from their need. You’re starting from your need. And that’s not the way to fill people with anticipation for the Word you have to give.
This is why I enjoy starting with something like “This has been a wonderful week”—people want to know why it’s been wonderful. They’ve had a lousy week. But there are few weeks for which you can’t think up some way it has been good—”I haven’t been sued a single time this week.” And people laugh.
Or “I haven’t had an automobile accident this week, not even a scratch.” Little things like that. And then you can say, “No, really. It’s been a fine week. I talked to some friends on the phone, and I was just reminded of the marvelous gift of friendship.”
This builds a friendly atmosphere. It conveys a feeling anybody can identify with.
People may say to themselves, “Yes, I talked to some friends this week, too. And sometimes I forget how good that is.”
That’s one way to help establish a warm, friendly atmosphere. There are other ways, but the important thing is to avoid opening negatively or from self-interest or insecurity. I want to communicate openness, that I’m here to serve these people.
This setting of the atmosphere, of course, begins before I speak my first word. We can show warmth by our demeanor on the platform. I try to pick out certain people and smile at them. This not only affirms those people, but it also shows the whole congregation I’m glad to be there.
People need to know how you feel before you start to speak. They want to know whether you’re friendly or worried or mad. For me, the most difficult discipline in speaking is going in with the proper attitude. If I do not want to speak, it is so difficult for me to speak well.
Attitude control is essential. I must go up there with a friendly attitude, with a genuine desire to help those people, to give them something they’ll find beneficial.
It also helps to notice how people are sitting and to gauge the emotional climate of the congregation. This affects how you need to come across.
Recently I spoke at a Presbyterian church in Memphis. The 8 a.m. service was about half full. People were sitting in ones and twos and threes. This means I needed to communicate with them individually. The 11 a.m. service, however, was packed, which meant I needed to communicate to them en masse.
What’s the difference? When people are scattered in a sparsely populated sanctuary, they feel exposed. They can’t hide. In a jammed auditorium, people think they’re hidden, anonymous, and therefore as you speak, you can detect a more open response.
So in the 8 a.m. service, I knew I had to be more personal, speaking as if we were standing face to face and having a conversation. In my opening comments, I used the approach I would if I’d just shaken hands with someone. “You know I’m a Baptist. You also know I’m a social climber, since I’m talking to Presbyterians.” I laughed, and they gave a me a courteous laugh. You don’t expect a big laugh out of a sparse audience any more than you would from someone you’re just getting acquainted with.
Then I said a few more personal things, just as if we were still shaking hands. “You know, I was born less than a hundred miles from this place. The town has been kind enough not to put up a sign disclaiming it, even though they haven’t put up a sign claiming it.”
That kind of light humor fits a small audience. I wouldn’t tell a story that requires a big audience in that situation. I just needed to introduce myself with a warm, friendly little greeting.
At 11 A.M., however, with the place packed and with the magnificent choir behind me, I started by turning to the choir and saying, “I wanted to be a singer, not a businessman. And I had everything except talent.” That’s a crowd joke. I wouldn’t have said that to just a few people. But the choir laughed, and the whole church laughed. Then I went ahead and said, “When I found out I couldn’t be a singer, I went into religious music, leading singing.” They, of course, caught the innuendo, and they laughed freely with me, and I was ready to proceed with my remarks. But that kind of humor requires a large audience.
So whether you’re a rookie speaker or a seasoned pastor, and by whatever the technique, it’s important to begin by establishing a friendly atmosphere.
When people are thinking more about how you’re saying something than what you’re saying, your effectiveness is lost.
Encouraging participation, not observation
Another way we all can improve is by remembering that our goal is not simply to have people sit quietly while we talk, but to have their minds actively engaged by our subject matter.
Since I’ve been writing for Leadership, I’ve had various preachers send me sermon tapes. I have to believe they send me their best tape. And I really ache. I’d like to sit down with them and say, “Let’s talk about what you’re doing as a communicator.”
One common mistake is trying to create feelings by overdramatization—by telling sob stories, or getting tears in the voice, or yelling. Listeners quickly realize the speaker isn’t depending on the subject matter to produce the emotion, but the dramatization. And when people are thinking more about how you’re saying something than what you’re saying, your effectiveness is lost.
On the other hand, some preachers are so deadpan, they might as well be reading a recipe or a research report. You’d never guess they thought real people were listening.
In either case, my recommendation is to try more conversational preaching. People listen to it without antipathy. When I raise my voice, people tend to put up a barrier to my increased volume. It’s like that story about the kid who told his mother he’d decided to be a preacher.
“Why?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “if I’m going to be attending church all my life, I’d much rather stand up and yell than sit and listen to it.”
The minute somebody starts yelling, people mentally distance themselves. Many preachers think they’re doing it for emphasis, but generally it doesn’t work that way. It deemphasizes.
If I want to say something really important, I’ll lower my voice—and people will kind of lean forward to hear what I’m saying. In a sense, you’re putting intimacy in a point by lowering your voice. You’re saying, “This point means something to me. I’m telling you something from my heart.”
By increasing the volume, often the sermon comes across as more a performance than a heartfelt point you’re making to another individual. If you want people to digest what you’re saying, you don’t want them to feel you’re performing.
I don’t want people to observe. I want them to participate, because the whole object of speaking is to influence attitudes and behavior.
How do I encourage participation? Not necessarily by being entertaining. If people are listening for the next story or next joke, I’ve become a performer. I’ve got to be smart enough to know when my material is getting inside them. I may need to make them laugh. I may need a pointed statement. But when they are genuinely listening and understanding, they are participating.
My goal is not to have people say, “Oh, you’re such a great speaker.” Then I know I’ve failed. If they are conscious of my speaking ability, they see me as a performer. They have not participated. My goal is for people to say, “You know, Fred, I’ve had those kinds of thoughts all my life, but I’ve never had the words for them. Now I’ve got words for them.” Then I feel I’ve given them a handle for something. I’ve crystallized their thoughts and experiences into a statement or story and made it real for them. I’ve enabled them to give it to somebody else.
Obviously speakers must do the talking, but you let the audience “talk” too. You talk for them. If I’m making a controversial point, I’ll say, “I can tell by your faces that you really don’t agree with that.” Or “You’re saying to me, ‘That’s all right for you to say, but that doesn’t fit my situation.’ And I agree with you, because all of us are not alike.”
What I’ve done is to say their words for them. They’re thinking, He understands. He’s not trying to poke this stuff down our throat. And they want me to continue the conversation.
The key here is to make sure we see the process as a conversation and not a performance. The way I’ve disciplined myself on this is to ask myself if I secretly enjoy the front-and-center role. I believe I’m never ready to speak for God unless I’d rather somebody else do it. No matter how much preparation I’ve done, if at the moment before I stand, I wouldn’t be happy for somebody else to do it, then I’m not ready to speak for God. I’m really going to be speaking for myself. And people will be observing a performance, not participating in the presentation of a clear biblical word.
Ensuring I’m believable
I keep a constant watch on my believability. Unless I can believe me when I make a statement, I won’t make it.
At certain times I can believe me saying something, because I’m practicing what I’m preaching. But other times I can’t, and I’ll cut that part out of my speech. Let’s say I’ve had an argument with my wife before I speak. I will not use an illustration or statement about the marital love relationship because Mary Alice wouldn’t believe me if I said it—and I wouldn’t, either. Even though the statement is absolutely true, I could not say it and believe it.
Now, if I get with Mary Alice and say, “Honey, I was wrong” or “You were wrong” or “We were wrong,” and we resolve the issue, then I can believe me saying some things about marriage. But I won’t ask my audience to believe what I can’t.
For me, this has meant giving up saying some things I would love to be heard saying.
This also affects the references I can make. I have a private love of literature, for instance, that for some reason I’m not able to get across to people. It’s not an area I can communicate believably, no matter how interested I am. Perhaps it’s my southern accent, perhaps it’s just personal style, but I’m much more effective using some of my homespun common sense.
Nor can I, for example, use stories that have sexual overtones. There are people who can use sexual material effectively. I can’t.
I don’t use politically oriented material because I’m not particularly interested in politics. I would laugh at myself waving the flag and making a Fourth of July speech.
I can’t effectively use material that has to do with sudden “miraculous” changes because I’m such a believer in process. While I believe in the miracles of the Bible, I have difficulty teaching people to expect them.
I can’t be an inspirational speaker saying, “You can do anything you think you can do . . . and what the mind can conceive, the body can perform.” That just isn’t me.
Nor am I able to preach effectively on prophecy. While I can listen to others do it and appreciate their ability to do so, I can’t do it believably because I have so many personal misgivings. I would not feel on solid ground. I’d have to quote someone else.
I want to be like Jesus as much as I can, “speaking as one having authority.” Unlike the scribes, who spent most of their time quoting other authorities, Jesus spoke directly. He, of course, had divine authority.
How do we establish our authority? As credible speakers, we’ve got to establish some authority or there’s no reason to listen to us.
You can establish your authority by being a researcher, a Bible scholar, or a collector of scintillating anecdotes. You may have had certain life experiences. But whatever your authority, you have to be careful of extrapolation—taking a principle from an area you know and trying to apply it to an area you don’t know.
Extrapolation is where most speakers show their ignorance, and it undermines their genuine authority.
I believe I’m never ready to speak for God unless I’d rather somebody else do it.
I listen to some preachers extrapolate their knowledge into the business world, and they do it well. Others, however, tell a business story and they reveal how little they know about business.
A friend of mine was preaching and trying to relate to the sportsmen in the congregation, so he told a story about ice fishermen in Minnesota who were sitting in their huts catching muskies.
Afterward a man in the congregation told him, “That was a good story, but they don’t fish for muskies in the winter.” My friend’s attempt to come across as “in the know” only showed the sportsmen he wasn’t.
So I’m careful when I extrapolate. Did I stick to things I know? When people see that I’m pretending to be familiar with something I’m not, that hurts my believability.
Making my voice inconspicuous
Few speakers have great voices, but most have ones perfectly adequate if people can understand the words. But I’ve found people are turned off by preachers who have a seminary brogue, who have developed an intellectual pronunciation, or who preach as if they were reciting Shakespeare. I immediately say, “They’re performing.”
If I’m conscious of a speaker’s voice after listening for two minutes, then the voice has become a distraction. In the first two minutes, people should make a decision about your voice and then think no more about it. It’s exactly like your clothing. When you stand up, if people are conscious of your clothes after once seeing you, there’s something wrong with your clothes. You’re either overdressed or underdressed. You’re not properly dressed to speak.
The same is true of the voice. It should come across as natural. But there’s more to it than that.
The voice should always contain some fire—conviction, animation. Fire in the voice means that the mind and the voice are engaged. There’s a direct relationship between an active mind and an active voice.
If you recite the nursery rhyme “Mary had a little lamb,” you don’t have to engage your brain. Chances are you’ll say it with a sing-song voice. The voice indicates what’s going on in the mind.
In preaching it’s important that the voice be in gear with the mind, that it accurately represent the mind.
For example, if I am not really interested in a point I will leave it out, because my voice will be flat. My voice will say, “This point isn’t important” no matter what my words say. It will tell the audience I’m really not interested. If I try to fake it, those who are sensitive will know it. So it’s counterproductive to try to convince people of a point your voice doesn’t believe.
I like to listen to people say certain words. The way people say the word God has always intrigued me. With some people, you can almost feel the relationship. It’s personal. With others, it’s majestic. With others, it’s sharp or brittle. The fact that it is so different among different people means there is a different relationship and the voice is saying what the mind feels.
Sales people sometimes call this quality enthusiasm. I think it’s more than enthusiasm. Sometimes it will be awe or reverence. There are times when the voice ought to halt in reverence before a word. You don’t do that like an actor. It’s just that when the mind halts, the voice ought to halt. The voice is truly a mirror of the mind.
Fire in the voice has nothing to do with having a good voice or a poor voice. Some of the whiniest voices I’ve ever heard come from the best speakers. But audiences will listen to a poor voice, as long as there’s fire, because as soon as the audience realizes the voice is real, they adjust to it.
Using gestures effectively
Gestures have a vocabulary all their own. The Spanish painter Goya charged as much to paint the hands as to paint the face, because the hands are the most difficult of all parts of the body to paint.
Delsarte, back in the last century, studied for several years how the hands show emotion. He got so good at it that he could sit in a park and tell whether a baby was held by a maid or its mother by the intensity of the hands.
I, too, have become interested in what hands say. When I watch a speaker, I watch the hands. I want to see whether gestures are spontaneous or programmed. I want to see whether the spontaneous gestures are repetitious or varied. My friend Haddon Robinson has one of the finest pairs of hands I know. I’ve tried to count the different formations his hands make, and the number gets astronomical. Yet they’re absolutely spontaneous, and they’re in harmony with what he’s saying and with the sound of his voice. He has a large vocabulary of both gestures and words.
One of our former presidents could say something like “You know I love you,” but he would make a hacking gesture. Some psychiatrist friends who used to watch him told me, “His hands tell you how much he really loves you.” You don’t use a hacking motion with a genuine, spontaneous expression of love.
Great music conductors, for example, will often not use a baton so they can communicate more clearly. The orchestra can read their hands better than the baton. The baton can give the beat or the accent, but hands can give the nuance.
Many people will prophesy with their hands. They’ll let you know what’s coming before they actually say it. The hands come alive before the voice does. And people detect this even if they’re not aware of it.
Or you see somebody who points his finger at you like a pistol. You never expect a real friendly statement after that. The teacher points a finger at you and then reprimands you.
I’ve found speakers can’t develop mastery of gestures quickly, but they can give themselves permission to improve. Sometimes people don’t succeed because they’re afraid to try. Any time we want to develop our skills, we start by giving ourselves permission to grow.
With gestures, the key is simply to make sure they’re spontaneous and that they represent the voice and the mind. But give yourself permission to let them vary and be expressive.
Here’s one to start with. If you’re going to be delivering a climactic statement, instead of getting intense too soon, it’s better to relax your body and back away a half step from the audience. Then just before you come into the climactic statement, step toward the audience and straighten up. That way your body as well as your voice projects the message.
Gestures also include giving people your eyes. In speaking, eyes are almost as important as the voice. Everyone knows the importance of eye contact, but the temptation I have is to zero in on a few people up front who are attentive. Maybe I’m insecure, but it’s easier to talk to those people. I have to remind myself not to neglect those out on the wings. Like the farmer who’s feeding the chickens, you have to throw the corn wide enough for everyone to get some. So I tell myself, Remember the smaller chickens on the fringe. I want them to know I’m thinking of them, too.
Remembering my limited knowledge
I remember an embarrassing situation one night at a business meeting with a group of executives.
One man, who considered himself an authority on international oil because he read the newspaper, was popping off about the oil situation and how it could easily be resolved.
What he didn’t know was that another man in the room had just returned from chairing an international conference of major oil companies. After the first fellow finished spouting off, proving his ignorance, this man quietly but effectively showed him to be the fool he was.
I said to myself, I hope that never happens to me!
I left that meeting determined to make sure, in any speaking I do, that I leave open the possibility that someone may be there who knows an awful lot more about the subject than I do. The memory of that business meeting has stayed in my mind and tempered many remarks I’ve been tempted to make.
On the other hand, sometimes speakers are too impressed with who’s in the audience.
The other night I was in a church listening to the preacher when a well-known university president slipped into the sanctuary. The preacher changed his style considerably; I could tell he was preaching for the benefit of this one individual. He went from preaching to giving an intellectual performance, trying to impress with his learning. He seemed to forget the rest of the audience.
I couldn’t be too critical, however, because at times I’ve done the same thing. When some prominent person is present, the great temptation is to speak to him alone. But that’s prostitution. That’s spending other people’s time simply to make a personal impression.
But as I sat listening to the preacher being overly influenced by this university president, suddenly the thought occurred to me, Doesn’t he realize God is listening?
When God is listening, that’s about as big a celebrity as anyone is going to have. And isn’t he always our ultimate audience?
So in the back of my mind, I always try to remember that God is present. And if he isn’t, maybe we ought to dismiss early.
Fred Smith is a business executive in Dallas, Texas; a board member of Christianity Today International; and a contributing editor of Leadership.
1997 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. For reprint information call 630-260-6200 or contact us.
