The Worst Part of Preaching

We are counting down the top 40 articles published by Leadership Journal, including this one from 2002.

Only those who have done time behind a pulpit understand this: the worst part of Sunday morning is standing at the door after the service. Sermons come from the soul. Thus, to deliver a sermon is to reveal our innermost parts in front of the entire congregation. By the time preachers get to the pulpit, the text has already beaten us up, and consoled and renewed us in the grace of God. So when we look out and say, "Hear the Word of the Lord," we really believe it has the power to change lives. Then after delivering this sacred message, we stand at the door smiling, with our souls still hanging out.

Here's one of the preacher's great secrets that people in the pews don't know: we hope they won't comment too much on the sermon. What we want people to say is simply a gentle "thank you." If they say much more, we just melt into a puddle, because we haven't yet recovered from the tender holiness of the moment.

At the door we're too quickly thrust back into the ordinary, even profane existence of daily life. Here are some of the more incredible comments I've heard:

Did you get a haircut?

I'm glad my husband heard that sermon.

Where did you find that message?

You must not be feeling very well.

Thanks for trying so hard.

My son has Tourette's. Please apologize to the people who were around us.

So then you agree with the Apostle Paul?

I really enjoyed last week's sermon.

My favorite TV preacher is _____ and someday you're going to be just like him.

When I hear such comments, I smile and say, "Thanks for sharing," but deep inside I'm thinking I have to find another line of work.

Sometimes worshipers offer "helpful" criticism on the sermon, which always happens when I illustrate from science or art. Other times they want to point out that their favorite author or biblical scholar has a different interpretation of today's text. They are trying to help, but they don't realize that beneath the thin veneer of our professionalism, we feel like a precious, extravagant gift wasn't received. We hoped their souls were also opened to the Word of God that remolded ours.

The comments that really send me over the edge have nothing to do with the sermon. They are made by church members who impatiently stand in line to complain about the last committee meeting they attended.

I wonder where they were while the rest of us were standing in the presence of Almighty God.

We preachers don't know what to do if people try to be affirming or describe how powerful the sermon was. When that happens, we try to take it back saying polite things. What we mean to say is "The Holy Spirit is obviously trying to tell you something, and maybe you want to go somewhere, alone, to listen to the still small voice." But we don't say that. We just smile.

After dying a hundred deaths at the door over the years, I have concluded that this is also a grace from God. It is his way of telling me that the Word always has to become flesh and dwell among us. If God wasn't all that bothered to leave the splendors of heaven in Jesus Christ and live among people who typically didn't "get it," then why should I think that my fumbling expressions of his Word should lead to mass repentance?

It really isn't about the preacher, or the sermon, or even the members who don't exactly know what to do with this Word. It is about the Holy Spirit who alone can make the inspired Scriptures speak to all of those wonderfully ordinary concerns people bring into the sanctuary, and still carry with them as they leave. Only now, whether they realize it or not, they also carry more of the life-changing Word in their souls.

That's the real reason we preachers keep smiling at the door.

Craig Barnes was pastor of National Presbyterian Church in Washington, D.C., when he wrote this article. He is now president of Princeton Theological Seminary.