Throughout his conquests, Alexander the Great read the Iliad, a book that kindles martial zeal. He often placed his copy, annotated by Aristotle, under his pillow at night alongside his dagger. It’s not stretching it to say this one story’s effect on Alexander may have changed the course of history.
I confess I had been preaching for years before I realized well-told stories wielded this kind of power, that they could actually change people’s lives. I happened onto that realization the hard way. My college degree was in accounting, and I’ve always felt at home with facts, analysis, and principles-the abstract and conceptual. I would have been embarrassed to simply tell a Bible story in a sermon; that was for children. I thought adults needed a quick summary of the story followed by cogent lessons from it.
But then I became pastor of an inner-city church in Chicago. I began to notice my sermons had less impact than in my previous location, a college town. I wasn’t shirking on preparation. I painstakingly studied and outlined each text. But my people too often had blank looks. So I set a goal to learn how to communicate to my people, none of whom were college graduates, and a few of whom couldn’t read.
Other inner-city pastors emphasized oratory and delivery, so I bought a book on classical rhetoric and tried becoming a flame thrower. Blank looks became surprised looks.
Then I read Triumphs of the Imagination, by Leland Ryken, which discusses the nature and value of fiction. Frankly, I hadn’t read fiction in eight years. But Ryken argued that a story has power-in itself. Hearing one, we enter the experience of others, feel what they feel, learn firsthand.
So I tried recounting Bible stories in my sermons, accenting dialogue, building suspense. I began woodenly, then loosened up and found I actually enjoyed telling the stories! Best of all, my people now had looks of interest. They were enjoying the stories, too.
Since then I’ve read many more books on storytelling and fiction writing. I’ve found the same principles these yarn spinners use to make characters appealing and heighten suspense have aided my preaching.
Characterization
People love people. Many magazines exist solely because of this fact. We are inspired by other’s accomplishments. We are curious about their secrets. We are attracted by their virtues and repelled by their flaws. For good or ill, we are never neutral about people.
Fiction writers know that, and they labor to create characters that will bond with the readers’ interests. If we care about their character, we will keep reading their book.
God has filled his Book with fascinating people: Joab, a no-holds-barred pragmatist; Abigail, an unflappable crisis manager; Jonadab, a crafty schemer; or Jonathan, the greatest friend someone could have.
In order to spotlight characters in a Bible story or modern-day illustration, I must know them. Fiction writers spend days imagining their characters’ habits, emotions, weaknesses, abilities, ambitions, and fears. As I prepare to tell a story, I take the time to ask myself, Were these people extroverted or introverted? What was their relationship to God? Were they assertive or passive, impetuous or controlled, can-do types or defeatists? This thinking takes time, because people are complex. But if I don’t do it, I end up with cardboard figures that are indistinguishable and boring.
One way to bring biblical characters alive in my mind is to find contemporary parallels. Recently Jeroboam took off his sandals and put on black wing tips for me. Here is the consummate one-minute manager, high on the list of corporate headhunters. He is ousted from management only to return to claim the presidential suite. Yet he compromises principles and loses out with God.
Another way to ensure the characters in my sermons are vital is to concentrate on the universal elements of their personalities: ambition, loss, romance, unfulfilled desires, success, stress, and so on. Last year I preached an expository series through the life of David, and I wrestled with the text where David feigns insanity. Then I spotted the common denominator-when facing a crisis, David was resourceful. The text sprang open.
I have also found that Bible characters are more relevant if I unveil their possible thoughts and motivations. My listeners know the complexity of their own inner lives. They identify with the Bible character when they discover his or her personal struggles.
For example, I imagined Sarah’s reaction when the Lord promised Abraham, “I will surely return to you about this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son,” something like this:
“Sarah was speechless. Then came a sudden association, a memory sadly pushed to the back of her mind years ago: God had promised they would have offspring as numerous as the stars of the sky. She had never known what to think of that. And now, at this word from these strangers, she did think, After I am worn out and my master is old, will I now have this pleasure?”
It’s easy to slide into the rut of characterizing by adjectives only. Though adjectives are useful, especially when time is short, fiction writers use many means to make each person in the story vivid and memorable.
 Dialogue. We get to know others by overhearing what they say.
 Actions. Play-by-play is perhaps the easiest way to inject life into a sermon.
 Thoughts. “As water reflects a face, so a man’s heart reflects the man” (Prov. 27:19).
 What other characters say. One person brings the best out of our character; another the worst. Together they give the whole picture, like a statue viewed from different angles.
 Description of appearance. We discern much about others just by looking at them.
Dialogue
Of those methods for enlivening a character, dialogue is perhaps the most powerful. Some fiction writers advise that dialogue should make up one third of the novel.
Some of the most memorable words in the Bible come from dialogue. What preacher would want to do without Moses’ answer to God at the burning bush: “O Lord, please send someone else to do it”? Or Abraham’s words to a curious Isaac as they climb a mountain of Moriah: “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son”?
I have found using dialogue in my sermon’s stories helps in several ways.
First, dialogue invites immediacy. It beckons the listener to eavesdrop on each conversation. The storyteller gathers the listeners and the characters into the same room by using direct quotation rather than indirect. If I quote only indirectly, I put myself between the listeners and the scene: “Jesus then told Nicodemus that unless a man is born again. . . .” However, when I quote directly, I let the character do the talking: “I tell you the truth, unless a man is born again. . . .” A subtle change, but a noticeable improvement in immediacy.
Second, dialogue heightens emotion. Which has more drama, to say, “Elijah sat down under the broom tree and felt depressed,” or “Elijah sat down under the broom tree and said, ‘I have had enough, Lord. Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors’ “?
Third, dialogue reveals the person. We learn much about Naomi through these few words: “Don’t call me Naomi. Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty.” In a sermon I could say, “Naomi had been through great hardship and felt self-pity and bitterness,” but her own words reflect that more powerfully.
Because my listeners intuitively gauge the character from his or her words, I am particularly careful how I paraphrase and deliver Bible characters’ dialogue. Slang and regional accents can add humor and contemporaneity, but they can also mislead or distract when used indiscriminately.
Action and Plot
When we recount a Bible story in a message, we obviously do not write the plot, nor do we alter it. The same thing applies to illustrations from books, news events, or our own lives. But learning what makes for a good plot has attuned me to the crescendos and decrescendos of a story. I want to be like the pianist who interprets a song more sensitively because of his grasp of music theory and composition.
When I was a teenager, I bought a classical music album entitled Fireworks, a marrow-throbbing collection of zeniths from various pieces. We owned other classical music, but I got every last spark out of Fireworks. My tastes have matured; I now enjoy the quiet and subtle movements as much as the grand finales.
My storytelling has followed a similar path. At first I told stories like one long finale, trumpets blaring from beginning to end. But I’ve grown more sensitive to downs and ups. Now I reserve my highest intensity for the climax.
The key to understanding a story’s plot, and where the climax falls, is identifying the conflict. Whenever I prepare to tell a story, I consider: What problems is this person trying to solve? What adversity is there to overcome?
I had told the story of Isaac’s birth many times before I recognized and developed one of the subsidiary conflicts: Would Sarah ever laugh again? Would her life ever take on joy? This problem isn’t verbalized until the end of the story. At the birth of Isaac, Sarah says, “God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me.” I decided to tell Sarah’s story, basing it on the problem of her lack of joy.
Since conflict sparks interest, I’ll usually begin my telling of a story with it. Normally I don’t launch the story with an eloquent description of a person, landscape, or background events; I unload that cargo as the plot progresses. With Sarah’s story I had to establish from the start her lack of laughter, unstated in Genesis until the end. I imagined her reaction to someone else’s celebration:
“A new mother giggled with her family and friends. Sarah smiled too, but she couldn’t laugh; she hadn’t really laughed in years. She was glad for the mother, but it was a hollow gladness and a Mona Lisa smile. Would Sarah ever laugh again?”
Sometimes, feeling pressure from the clock, I rush the beginning of the story to get to the climax and make my point. Taking time to establish the person’s struggle is difficult for me, a get-to-the-point person. But by slighting the conflict I defuse the climax, leaving myself with an emotional dud.
For example, the parting of the Red Sea is a moving climax, but only if you’ve been through Pharaoh’s repeated refusals and the ominous charge of the Egyptian cavalry. So when I told the story during a series in Exodus, I didn’t skip a single plague. The greater the struggles, the more powerful the victory.
Sensory Description
The doorways into the imagination are the five senses. By appealing to the senses, the storyteller takes the listener by the hand and leads him across the threshold into the scene. Notice how the following sensory-filled introduction involves you in Joseph’s experience:
“Joseph’s head pounded as he looked at the crowd of buyers and wondered, Which one will be my master? He wanted to get off his feet, blistered by the desert trek. Raucous, foreign tongues filled his ears, but he longed for the voice of Jacob.”
During my sermon preparation I close my eyes, place myself in the scene, and use my imagination. What do I see? What do I hear? What do I touch, smell, taste? When I put myself into Elijah’s place at the ravine of Kerith where he was fed by ravens, the brook didn’t just run dry. Stones hurt the back of my cupped hands as I pressed them into the riverbed for the trickling water. In the message I won’t use all these perceptions, just enough to satisfy a healthy imagination.
Of the five senses, sight is the most influential. Storytellers are like film makers, who search for meaningful, emotive images: David twirling his sling; Abraham lifting a knife over his son; Adam hiding in the bushes from God.
Lengthy descriptions slow a story, so whenever possible I embroider description into the action. For instance, instead of saying, “Goliath’s sword was heavy,” I would say, “David strained to raise Goliath’s sword over his head.”
When we taste, touch, sniff, observe, and listen, we tell the story freshly even to those who have heard the story ninety-nine times before.
Delivery
Rushing a story is like gulping down a Sunday dinner. It takes time to set the mood, to expressively speak the dialogue. Our listeners will not get emotionally involved in thirty seconds, nor can we build suspense in that time. We need pauses . . . silence.
There are occasions to speak rapidly, to increase the sense of fast action. But in general, a hurried story says, “Just get the facts.” A slower pace says, “Feel this; live this.” I used to balk at spending a large amount of time on a story, because I wanted to get to the point. Now I realize the story gets the point across better than my declarative statements.
By trial and error I’ve developed a storytelling style that works for me. I write out the story in my own words, then read as little as possible, because when eye contact is broken, the mood evaporates. And I tell the story without pausing for principles or application. I want people to experience the story itself in a powerful way first.
Telling a story well requires extra preparation, and when a story is long or I don’t manage time well during the week, I read more during the sermon. And I’ve faced those dreaded moments in which I am a few feet from the pulpit, with solid eye contact, and can’t remember what’s next. But those blunders are forgotten when a story hits home.
Surprises
As I increased the amount of storytelling in my preaching, I didn’t have to jettison principles and propositions. But instead of the traditional format of ideas, then illustrations, I first tell the story or paint the image, proceeding from known to unknown, concrete to abstract. This gives the listener a solid box for storing wispy principles.
Recently I preached on how we often push God to the side during the week and live for our pursuits. But I began by telling of King Ahaz, who was charmed by a pagan altar in Damascus and carved a copy in Jerusalem. He took the liberty of moving the furniture in God’s house, sliding his new altar into the center and the bronze altar to the side. Ahaz instructed the priests to sacrifice on his altar; at God’s altar he would seek divine guidance.
Only then did I raise the question, “Aren’t we like Ahaz if we devote time, energy, and thoughts to personal ambitions but seek God only when we can’t pay the bills?” Weeks later a member confessed, “Pastor, that story showed me exactly what I was doing.”
A second surprise of my increased yarn spinning is that Bible stories have become my main resource for illustrations. The Bible is packed with stories-adventures, mysteries, romances. It has heroes, villains, suspense. I never had enough illustrations before. Now I’ll often use Bible stories to open windows on a subject.
Through these stories, Bible events and characters are becoming symbols for my people, things by which they interpret their lives. Recently Mary told me, “I used to complain a lot: ‘Why do I have to go shopping today?’ ‘I hate to clean the bathroom.’ But when you preached on the desert wanderings, and I saw the Israelites grumbling all the time, I just couldn’t complain any more. And if I catch myself complaining, it hurts me inside because I don’t want to be like them.”
As I tell stories, I am affected as deeply as the listeners. Some time ago I sat with my boys at bedtime reading the story of David and Goliath from a children’s book. I came to David’s famous line: “All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.”
For the rest of the story I fought back tears . . . just reading a children’s book.
I’m not given to tears, but pastoring in Chicago, toe to toe with Goliath, I identified so deeply with David. Suddenly I was ready to fight again.
Craig Brian Larson is pastor of Central Assembly of God, Chicago, IL
Leadership Summer 1987 p. 20-4
Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
