SermonStudio

One who preaches without a net must have something memorable to say. The preacher must also say it in a memorable way. The two are separate yet inseparable. Memorable content can and will die without memorable form. Memorable form that has nothing memorable to say will kill any interest in a congregation -- perhaps impeding them from hearing that preacher for years to come, since boring is more easily forgivable than shallow. Neither will do for one who wishes to preach without a net, simply because we want to preach good news in a spontaneous style, and spontaneous rarely sounds boring, while good news is never shallow. To proclaim news that is really good is interesting in and of itself, but to say it memorably is to plant seeds that will grow thirty, sixty, and hundredfold.

As content and form are separate but equal, so form can be considered from two separate and equal angles: structure and language (thus Cicero's distinction between arrangement and style). One aspect of form deals with the ordering of material -- how the parts fit in with the whole. Another formal aspect is the choice of words and how they are put together in sentences. The difference is, perhaps, one of scale: language is the microcosm of form; structure, the macrocosm. At any rate, both involve the single act of composition. Considering structure and language together as the dual aspects of form reins in the temptation to think of style as merely the embellishment of plain speaking, like decorations on a cake, or to think of structure as inconsequential for those who can turn a phrase with skill. Both aspects of form are essential to a memorable sermon composition.

Notice that I speak of "composition" and not "writing." You compose a sermon; you do not write it. You may (and under this system for preaching without a net, you definitely will) write a first draft of the sermon -- i.e., put certain words down on a piece of paper (or a computer screen). But those words -- papered or screened -- will not be the sermon. The sermon is only, nothing more or less than, the words that are delivered to the congregation. Make no mistake about it, the sermon is never finished until it is preached; before Sunday morning, the question is not whether the sermon is done, but if it is ready to go. After Sunday morning, there is no sermon but the one that lives in the memory of the preacher and congregation. There may well be a written draft -- smudged with corrections, revisions, and traces of the sweaty hands of the one who used these pieces of paper in rehearsal -- but the draft is not the sermon itself, but merely the written remains waiting to be placed in its file-cabinet tomb. The sermon isn't there anymore; it's only a husk.

We have already noted that the composition of the sermon formally begins with the theme sentence. This is a short, simple, declarative sentence of what the sermon is about. It is not an exhortation. It is not a refrain. It contains no metaphors, no twists nor turns of fancy rhetoric. It is simply an unembellished and bald statement of what the preacher is about this week. It is the answer to the question: What is your sermon going to say? Perhaps it is more accurate to say that the theme sentence is what your hearers will say when asked, "Give it to me straight and simple, short and not necessarily sweet, what did the preacher have to tell us?"

The composition of the sermon begins with the theme sentence, short and simple. I should perhaps qualify this, since the theme sentence need not actually appear in the sermon itself. The purpose of the theme sentence is to give the preacher focus during composition. It has governing force. It is the what of the sermon, distilled -- in that sense, it could be considered the last act of study as much as the first act of composition. Depending on the choices the preacher makes about form -- the how of the sermon -- the theme sentence in its original form may or may not make the final cut. Its purpose is not to survive the editing process intact, but to guide the preacher in terms of content. It does not in and of itself determine form. Thus it could be -- and probably should be -- quite prosaic in its own form. A metaphor in the theme statement might obscure the preacher's thinking enough to make the whole sermon fuzzy. Save the metaphor for the sermon itself. Keep the theme sentence pure.

A well-composed theme sentence that is allowed to govern the composition process gives the sermon the quality of unity: the sermon says one and only one thing. This is what the sermon is about. Every sermon needs to have one point -- no more than one, no less than one. If something does not fit that one point, ruthlessly scratch it out of the sermon. Record it in your file for future use, but do not dare to put it in this week, less your sermon crumble into pieces. It cannot be emphasized too strongly -- we write the theme sentence not as something to put in the sermon itself, even though we may do so, but in order to guide us into composing a sermon that says one thing. The purpose of the theme sentence is to clarify and guide the content of the sermon, giving it unity, a laser focus on one thing. Write your theme sentence on a card and tape it on the wall. Write it on a Post-It note and stick it to your computer monitor. Again, these are words that may or may not themselves actually appear in the body of the sermon -- but they are intended to evoke the sermon.

If we are going to write the theme sentence into the sermon, it needs to go at the end, not the beginning. Write the theme sentence at the bottom of the page, not the top. This is because we want the sermon to have the quality of anticipation. If we blurt out the theme sentence at the beginning of the sermon, we have given our listeners no reason to listen to the rest of it. We have given them profit but no delight. It is food delivered in a hermetically sealed sack to a dinner party with noses clothespinned shut and mouths deadened by novocaine -- nourishing, perhaps, but no fun. The sermon should be more like a gourmet meal, prepared in the next room by someone you love, the smells wafting in from the kitchen and stimulating the senses, while the assembled guests talk and laugh and look forward to eating soon. The theme sentence is a plain and blunt utensil because the preacher needs it to be; we don't use it to assault our congregation, but to prepare their feast. So it does not belong at the beginning of the sermon, but if anywhere, at the end. It is the goal of our preaching -- where we want our congregation to end up, not to begin. The old preaching saw, "First I tell 'em what I'm going to tell 'em, then I tell 'em, then I tell 'em what I told 'em," is wrong precisely for this reason. It is a faulty approach to form, because it fails to build any anticipation into the sermon. It hits us over the head with the theme sentence, until we cry, "Uncle!"

The theme sentence is both the last act of study, since it will tell us what the sermon will be about, and the first act of composition, since it will help us develop a structure that has both unity and anticipation. A good theme sentence summarizes the what of the sermon while helping us with the how. But it will not determine our sermon structure for us. The next decision the preacher must make is how to arrange the material gleaned from a week of study.

Structure


For some preachers, the next step is to start writing the first line of the sermon, and continue on until the end. While this has the virtue of spontaneity, it is not the route we will take if we really want to sound spontaneous on Sunday morning, unless the preacher has a highly-developed intuitive sense of form. We run the danger of composing in uncertain and haphazard manner, confusing structural elements because we haven't thought the sermon through as a whole. Or we risk subjecting our congregations to a kind of deadening repetition -- we don't think about structure, so we end up using the same structure by default week after week. The congregation quickly catches on: "Begins with a joke, ends with a teary story," and this relieves them from the obligation of listening. Form can be heard as content -- if you always say it the same way, people may conclude that you are saying the same thing over and over again. Preachers need to consider sermon structure, if for no other reason than to keep their congregations on their toes.

Sermon structure makes all the difference in developing those two qualities we began to consider with the theme sentence: unity and anticipation. Structure can in and of itself create or destroy unity. The old "three points and a poem" sermon form was death to unity; built into the structure was the notion that we were going to say three different things, not one -- there was nothing about the structure that demanded that the three points, or even the poem, be connected. How much better to choose a structure such as "Not This/But This." Clearly this sermon will have one main point; the preacher has half of it from the beginning, since obviously the theme sentence will serve to summarize "But This." If we must have a three-part movement, how about "Thesis/Antithesis/Synthesis"? At least the three parts will be linked. Unity is essential to the sermon -- particularly for those who would preach without a net. One thing is more memorable than many, for both preacher and hearer.

We have already seen that considering the theme sentence as the goal of our sermon will help create anticipation. Anticipation is mostly a matter of structure, however. The sermon must have that quality of the meal being prepared within smelling distance. We know where we are going -- we're going to get to eat. But we don't get there all at once; we take some time to savor the preparation. The sermon must have a goal, or it will have no anticipation. But we must give them some hints along the way, or it is not anticipation but merely surprise. A proper choice of structure can help create anticipation, because it can build it into the very fabric of a sermon. If I choose as my structure, "Not This/Nor This/Nor This/But At Last This," I will have a hard time not creating anticipation! The same could be said for sermon structures that have a built-in twist, such as Lowry's "homiletical plot," or the "inductive" form that is designed specifically to lead to a certain conclusion. If you really wish to profit with delight, try to create anticipation, which means, pay attention to structure.

For the one who would preach without a net, there is another reason to look at structure before we leap. Our ability to preach in spontaneous fashion is going to depend on saying something memorable -- and that begins with saying something we ourselves can remember. Often when preachers look at their draft manuscripts and say to themselves, "I could never remember all this," the fault is in the structure. The sermon form has unsightly bulges, tears in the fabric, signs of clumsy repair. A tight and well-considered sermon form is a memory aid. It not only makes the sermon more memorable for the hearers, but also for the preacher. "Today my sermon follows the Not This/But This form," we think as we step into the pulpit -- how could we forget? Next week we will say, "This sermon takes six logical steps from beginning to end." Attention to structural form is attention to memory, and thus essential to preaching without a net.

When considering structure, the preacher has three choices: we can take our forms from the text of Scripture itself, we can use a prefab form, or we can invent our own. I'll consider each one in order.

Sometimes the ideal structure for a particular sermon is sitting right before us, in the text of Scripture itself. Augustine long ago suggested that we can learn to speak eloquently by observing the form of Scripture, and that applies to arrangement as well as style. Verse-by-verse preaching, as practiced by Augustine and many since, is but one example of using the form of Scripture to structure the sermon. Modern preachers who find the verse-by-verse procedure too much like a micro-manager may instead choose a paragraph-by-paragraph or section-by-section approach to the same advantage. Preachers who choose to retell a scriptural story in modern guise and have the story stand alone as the sermon are using the biblical form to structure their own in a very direct way. There can be more subtle ways of making use of the biblical structure; for example, an outline of the biblical form found in a commentary may suggest the steps the sermon might take. When we studied the biblical text, we took a special look at the structural form, and we summed up the formal attributes when we asked what the text does. It may well be that our sermon can do in the same way -- the how of the text may tell us the how of the sermon.

The preacher may also choose a prefab structure. These are forms that have been widely used over the years for many kinds of speeches and other communication. Depending on the content of Sunday's sermon, one of the following might prove to be the perfect vehicle:

Identify/Evaluate/Offer

Explore/Explain/Apply

Exposition/Application/Exhortation

Appeal to Mind/To Emotion/To Will

Argument: Major Premise/Minor Premise/Conclusion

Outline: A/B/C/Conclusion

Inductive Outline (from the specific to the general)

Thesis/Antithesis/Synthesis

Problem/Solution

What It Is Not/What It Is

Not This/But This (Or Not This/Nor This/Nor This... But This)

Rebuttal: Common View/Truth

Either/Or

Both/And

What It Meant/What It Means

Lesser/Greater

Promise/Fulfillment

Ambiguity/Clarity

Facets: This Is True/And This/And This ...

Monologue: Questions/Answers

Dialogue

Chiasm (a/b/c/b'/a')

Story

Story/Reflection

Letter

Roman rhetorical form: Introduction/Statement of Case/Division of Headings/Constructive Arguments/Refutation of Opponents/Conclusion and Final Appeal.

There are also prefab structures that are sermon-specific. Some of these have been in use for years, others have been proposed recently by homileticians. Here are some of them; in the case of modern forms, I've noted the particular homileticians who have proposed them (see their books, listed in the appendix, for more specific information):

Traditional verse-by-verse form (ancient Greek homily)

Medieval "University Sermon" (similar to Roman rhetoric): Introduction/Prayer/Theme/Citation of Scripture Chapter and Verse/Division of Verse/Declaration (justifies the division)/ Grouping (illustrates the division)/Application

Law/Gospel (traditional Lutheran)

Puritan "Plain Style": Statement of Direction/Exposition/ Theological Analysis/Application

Traditional Topical Sermon: Description/Evaluation/Application

Quadrilateral Sermon: Scripture/Tradition/Experience/ Reason

Inductive Sermon: Awareness/Discovery/Exploration/Resolution (early Fred Craddock)

Biblical Text/Modern Story in mutual interpretation (Charles Rice)

Homiletical Plot or Narrative Form: Upsetting the Equilibrium/Analyzing the Discrepancy/Anticipating the Consequences/ Disclosing the Key to Resolution/Experiencing the Gospel (Eugene Lowry, who concisely summarizes the form as Oops/Ugh/Aha/Whee/Yeah!)

Plot made up of Moves: Creating an image in congregational consciousness through a series of highly structured episodes (David Buttrick)

Four Pages: Trouble in the Bible/Trouble in the Word/Grace in the Bible/Grace in the World (Paul Scott Wilson)

Black Preaching: Text, Exposition and/or Narrative culminating in Celebration (African-American preaching, as exemplified by Henry Mitchell)

Sermon as Collection of Images (Thomas Troeger)

First Naiveté, Criticial Reflection, Second Naiveté (Ronald Allen, following philosopher Paul Ricoeur)

There is, however, something to be said for do-it-yourself sermon structure. Nothing prevents the preacher from creating his or her own structure for the sermon, and the advantage for one who would preach without a net is obvious: the structure is that much more memorable, because we created it ourselves! Many preachers do-it-themselves instinctively week after week, composing the sermon structure by intuition. For those who have never tried it, a simple procedure would be this: First of all, decide where you want to go. In other words, what is the conclusion of the sermon? (Hint: you've already written a theme sentence.) Second, once you've found your goal, pick a starting place. Where is the sensible place to begin if you are going to such-and-such a place? Ideally, the preacher will pick a starting point that easily relates to the congregation, on the theory that it is better to move from the familiar to the unfamiliar. Sum up your starting place in a sentence, much as you did with your theme sentence. Finally, decide what steps the sermon needs to take to get from here to there. Given that you're starting here, and ending up there, what are the spots in-between that you must pass through? Pick a manageable number of intermediary stops, and write a sentence summing up each one. Now, look at your sentences, see if they hold together as a whole, rearrange if necessary, and voila! you have a sermon structure. Now you can flesh out the various steps into a full-fledged sermon.

No matter how one chooses the structure for Sunday's sermon, the preacher should use a variety of structures. Listeners may say, "Wow!" when they hear a particularly innovative or unusual sermon form, but if they hear it again next week, they may well say, "Oh, no, not again!" Besides, no one form will work for every sermon idea, so it makes sense to look at different possibilities, and choose the one that best fits what we have to say this week. We need to look no further than Scripture itself to justify a diverse approach to sermon form -- the biblical authors chose structures that were suited to what they had to say. As I have already noted, if we always use the same form, we may be heard as saying the same thing every time. This is a particular pitfall for those who routinely create their own structures -- we may unconsciously be recreating the same form, over and over again.

Language


In our search for the most memorable sermon -- we want to be able to remember it ourselves, in order to preach without a net, and such memory is aided when we say things that others will readily recall -- the most important tool at our disposal is our use of language, what Cicero called style. If you think about memorable lines in the English language -- ranging from Yogi Berra, "It ain't over 'til it's over," to Roosevelt's, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," to Groucho Marx's, "I don't care to belong to any club that will accept me as a member," to Lincoln's, "Fourscore and seven years ago," to Jefferson's, "We hold these truths to be self-evident," to Milton's, "Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n," to Shakespeare's, "To be, or not to be, that is the question" -- these lines are memorable not so much for what they say as how they say it -- in other words, for their style. We remember them because they are pithy, clear, well-structured, to the point, and they sound good. While undoubtedly we preachers will not be composing lines fit for Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, we can seek to make each and every one of our own lines as memorable as possible by paying close attention to style.

Our quest to create memorable sentences begins with the study of those lines that are fit for Bartlett's -- the memorable sentences written by others. We learn not only by doing but by observing, and for a writer, the best teacher is a book. Reading great writing is an essential part of the preacher's continuing education. This is why I have often assigned fiction -- short story collections -- to beginning preaching classes, not to give them sources to mine for sermon illustrations, but as examples of the work of classic authors, the great communicators. As an ongoing practice, the preacher need not be limited to short stories, since superior style can be found in many forms: essays, novels, journalism, poetry. Even listening to talk radio can be a source of stylistic insight: how do people communicate when they have only their words to get the point across? The trick here is to choose the best possible models for our study; it will do us no good to go to a second- or third-rate writer to learn how best to put words together. Similarly, AM call-in radio may yield fewer insights about communication than the polished journalism of public radio. As with the selection of biblical commentaries and resources, the preacher will want to find reviews and exercise discernment. We wish to learn, whatever the source, but we learn best from the greats.

Attention to style will lend to our sermons two essential qualities: recognition and identification. These qualities are closely related. Recognition evokes the response, "I know that!" while identification evokes, "That's me!" Another way of saying this is that identification is personal recognition. Both are essential to the sermon, and both are created primarily by how we use language. We create recognition and identification by being specific; if I describe in detail a creature with pointy ears, fur, whiskers, and a purr, you will recognize a cat. If I describe your life to you -- the kids are banging pots and pans in the kitchen, the Tylenol has yet to kick in, and your spouse is on the phone saying, "Honey, I'll be home late" again -- then I will create identification. Recognition is talking about real things; identification is talking about real people. In both cases, we use language in order to create points of contact with our hearers. Recognition makes the sermon manageable for the hearer; the material presented is familiar, part of our daily life. Identification makes the material personal -- "The preacher is talking to me!" Without recognition and identification, our sermons are mere abstract presentations of timeless truths, accurate enough but not life-changing -- preaching that evokes a nod of the head, if we bother to think about it at all, but certainly not a transformed life. Without a style that invokes recognition and identification, we will never interest our hearers long enough for them to discover whether we have anything important to say.

The Oral Clock


The secret to style in the sermon -- style that does create recognition and identification, that is generally memorable and interesting to listen to -- is to write orally. To "write orally" should be recognized for the paradox it is -- writing is not by nature oral, nor is speech writing. Yet we need to hold these opposites together for the sake of the sermon. The sermon itself is speech. Yet we will use writing in order to enable our speech. To accomplish that goal successfully, we must recognize that the conventions of writing are not the conventions of speech, and in order to make writing useful to our speaking, we must ignore or modify much of what we have learned about conventional writing, which is geared to looking good on the page, not sounding good when spoken. Paragraphs, for example, are for looking, not for hearing; we need them in written language, in order to group our material properly. In speaking, however, no one will see the paragraph breaks, so we will have to offer other cues to help our hearers arrange what they hear. We are going to write before we speak -- writing is a necessary tool for most preachers, who need the focus and control that writing lends to the process of preparing a sermon (and if you can speak eloquently without writing anything down, you don't need this book!). Yet we are never going to write a word without the final product in view, which is not words on the page, but words spoken to our congregation. We will write in oral style, our words not to be seen, but heard.

The main difference between writing meant to be looked at and that meant to be heard has to do with time. Writing and speech work by different clocks -- they live in different time zones. In written language, time is controlled by the reader. You can take as long as you want to read the words of this book. You can go back over the previous sentence and read it again. You can pause to think about something else, then skip over the next few paragraphs. If I make a mistake or compose a sentence poorly, you can spend extra time trying to figure out what looks wrong about it, or give up and put the book on a shelf. Time is under your control; I don't have any say about it, once I have put the words down on paper. You could read them now, next week, next year, or never, and there's nothing that I, the author, can do about it.

In a speech, however, we are in a different time zone entirely. The author, not the listener, controls the time. The listener has no control over time at all. The speech is delivered in the speaker's time, and at the speaker's rate. Am I speaking too fast for you to follow? Apart from jumping up and yelling at me to slow down, you have no control over time and pace. You cannot jump ahead to see the conclusion, because there is no conclusion to see -- I will get to it when I get to it. If you pause to think about what I have said, you will miss the next thing. If you stare out the window and think about other things, a part of the speech will pass you by completely -- you may never find your way back in. Time is totally in my control, and there is nothing that you, the hearer, can do about it, except go with the flow or tune out.

It follows that one of the key skills to develop in composing for oral delivery is the careful handling of time. This is a matter of style as much as delivery -- we can and should, to some extent, vary our time of delivery according to the content of the sermon. But we need to compose our sermons with an eye to time, keeping in mind that we are controlling the time, not the hearer. Our main concern will be to provide the listeners with enough time to swallow what we have to say, but without giving them so much time that they end up looking out the window. We will have to exercise what I call a "controlled verbosity," a way of saying things that gives people time to get on board without making them bored. The more important the idea, the more unfamiliar the thought, the more time they will need. This is particularly true of transitions, when we are moving from one thought to another. We cannot expect people to adjust to a new thought quickly; they cannot see the paragraph break, nor the header. So we need to slow down at the point of transition. Where one sentence would do the trick in written language, the sermon must take two or three, all saying more or less the same thing. This redundancy, this "controlled verbosity," signals the transition, and gives the congregation time to make the mental adjustment to the new thought.

Thus, when I am writing something, I may make the following transition:

But speech does not function in the same way as written language.

The "But," along with the paragraph indentation, is your cue as a reader that I have made a contrasting transition. You can go back and reread the paragraph before, in order to refresh your mind about what I was saying before. If you're not clear about my new point, you can reread the sentence itself.

But if I am composing for oral presentation, none of those options will be present to you as the hearer. Time is entirely in my control now, and I will want to write accordingly, giving you a clear transition and time for your thought processes to adjust. I will write three sentences rather than one:

But we can't rely on visual cues when we write for speaking. Speech does not function in the same way as written language. There's nothing to see in a speech, only the speaker.

I have been redundant; I have said the same thing in three different ways. I have also given the hearer enough time to follow me into the next section. The use of "controlled verbosity" is an important tool for those who must write in order to speak.

But how do we know how it will sound to our hearers on Sunday morning? Quite simply, we can learn by creating their experience for ourselves beforehand. We can listen to the sermon in process with our ears, in order to anticipate what will happen to their ears. One of the most important things we can do in order to learn to write in oral style is to incorporate speaking into the composition from the beginning. The simple rule is, write the way you talk, not the way you write. I recommend composing aloud -- speaking the words as you write them. It is when we actually hear words spoken that we notice the subtle differences between written and oral language. Certain things that we take for granted in writing sound stiff and unconvincing when spoken aloud. We will learn to ignore many of the "rules" pounded into us by our fourth-grade grammar teachers. We will split infinitives, if it sounds better that way ("To boldly go where no one has gone before"). We will not create clumsy sentences in order to avoid putting the preposition at the end of the sentence (a rule, said Winston Churchill, "up with which I will not put!"). We will use contractions, where we would use them in ordinary speech. We may even use "incorrect" grammar and colorful, slangy vocabulary, if that is what the speech calls for (or we won't, if it ain't!). The only criterion we are going to apply is the oral one: does it sound good?

Our oral writing will cut to the bone. Short words, short sentences. Why? Short words and short sentences are easier to listen to. Also, the common vocabulary we all share tends to be made up of short words. If you have a choice, you will say, "telephone," instead of "wired communications," "dog," instead of "household pet." Seek an "A+ in school" not "excellence in learning objectives." Use the shortest word you can think of to describe something; this is not the time to impress people with your vocabulary, it is time to put things in their ears in such a way that they may be heard. Say "truth," not "veracity" or "verity." Say "love," not "amity" or "affection." Don't use a longer word where a shorter word will do, unless the longer word has just the needed nuance that the shorter one lacks; if you want to describe a transient sort of love, by all means say "infatuation" -- if it is the shortest word with that precise meaning. Similarly, understand the differences in meaning between "aspiration" and "craving," "expectation" and "hankering," "yearning" and "anticipation" -- but don't use any of the above when a simple "hope" will do. Above all, avoid jargon, especially the technical vocabulary of theology and biblical studies. The sermon is not the time to indoctrinate a congregation into TheoSpeak. The goal is to help people hear good news. Our vocabulary will match our purpose; it will be the common vocabulary that we use every day to communicate with everyone we meet. All the words we need for the sermon may be found in the daily newspaper.

As with our words, so with our sentences: oral sentences are to be short and sweet. Don't compose with quasi-Germanic grammar, making your hearers wade through qualification and subordinate clauses before they get to the main verb at the end -- by that time, they may have forgotten what you were talking about! Long, convoluted sentences are to be broken into their component parts. Never leave the subject dangling far from the verb. Thus, the sentence below, while (marginally) acceptable for a written essay, will die a slow and torturous death in the ears of listeners:

The hearer -- who is not accustomed to using theological vocabulary in the normal course of events, which for most people involves getting out of bed in the morning, eating breakfast, going to a job where a completely different technical vocabulary is used, one geared to the needs of the employer, not the employee, and certainly not the general public, where one can posit only an eighth-grade vocabulary level at best, due to the declining nature of public education -- may not be able to understand, let alone appreciate, let alone remember, a complex verbal construction.

Put away your red pencil; this example isn't even worth editing. Cross it out and write this instead:

Hearers hear short best. The shorter, the better. They certainly won't understand jargon. Keep it short, sweet, and plain, using everyday words.


Another key to oral style -- and another reason to speak aloud as we compose the sermon -- is rhythm. When composing for oral presentation, we need to take into account the rhythm of the words and sentences we will use, both for ourselves and those we speak to. Words that trip lightly off our lips, teeth, and tongue will be easier for us to remember. They will also probably be memorable for the hearers. One can go into practically any church, order everyone to put the hymnals in the rack, and begin singing, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me," and everyone will begin to sing with you. It is not just the content that makes this hymn so memorable; the words fit perfectly with the simple yet striking melody. The rhythm of the sentence is a perfect match, and perfectly memorable. Try singing the words to a different tune, with a different rhythm -- how long before you trip up on the words? (It so happens that the words can be sung to the tune of "Gilligan's Island" -- I defy anyone to get through all the verses!). Some lines are memorable precisely because of their rhythm; in the example I used before, "To boldly go where no one has gone before," rendered without the split infinitive, would not be nearly so memorable, because the change would wreck the rhythm. We preachers are not primarily poets, nor are we writing for posterity (who knows what posterity will value, anyway?), but we can use rhythm to our advantage. If a sentence isn't working, is difficult to say or remember, or somehow doesn't quite sound right, try changing a few words around. The resulting rhythm may make all the difference.

The Rules


While we will be ignoring many of the conventional "rules" for written grammar (as it turns out, these are many of the same rules that good writers themselves ignore), we will be creating new rules of oral style for ourselves. Some of these rules also make for good written language. For example, in composing for oral presentation we will use active voice verbs, not passive. Active voice speaks directly and to the point. Passive voice evades and hides. Consider which you would rather hear:

Speak directly to be heard.

Or:

Speech that will be heard is to be put in active construction.

Active voice has the added virtue of being short and sweet, and thus doubly useful in oral composition. Count the words in:

The preacher read the manuscript poorly.

Compared to:

The sermon was delivered through a reading process by the preacher, who was ill-prepared.

Which will be easier to remember, when you rise to speak without a net on Sunday morning?

Perhaps the most important rule for oral style is to make maximum use of vivid verbs and concrete nouns. The words that are most memorable -- and thus the easiest to speak and hear -- are words that can evoke the senses, words that you can see, touch, taste, smell. They conjure something in the minds of those who hear them. The more vivid the verb, the more concrete the noun, the more likely a listener will create a picture, or smell a smell, or feel a texture. This is particularly important for oral style, precisely because the listeners cannot look at the page and see the words -- they have nothing to grasp, unless the speaker gives it to them. Concrete nouns and vivid verbs are hooks for the listeners to hang on to.

Thus, preachers should take special care in the words they select. Here is another reason to avoid theological and religious jargon, most of which is abstract and uninspired. Instead, choose words that sing, that smell, that reach out and touch someone. Why simply "run," when you could "dart," "dash," "sprint," "trot," "scamper," or "skip"? You could walk into a "house," but the same street holds a "cottage," "duplex," or "brownstone," not to mention a "garage," a "barn," and a "shack." Don't just "look"; if necessary, "eye," "gaze," "stare," "gape," "peep," "scan," or even "scrutinize." Always choose the shortest and most appropriate word, yes -- but make sure that the word you choose lives and breathes.

For example, think about how would you fill in the following sentence:

She ________ her farewell.

The uninspired choice would be "spoke," or perhaps, "waved." But what meanings could be conveyed simply by changing the verb, making it as vivid as possible: "She sang her farewell" or "She lilted her farewell" would mean something completely different from "She drooped her farewell" or even, "She spat her farewell." As an exercise, the preacher might want to take a simple sentence from last week's sermon, and see what range of meaning might result from the substitution of that tired old verb with something sparkling.

In the same way, preachers choose nouns that sparkle when they choose nouns that refer to real things and not abstractions. This is a prime factor in whether a sermon is able to hold and sustain the listeners' interest -- does it talk about real life, or does it deal only in generalities? To talk about real life is to use concrete nouns, words that describe real things. It is to talk about "my dog Snoopy" instead of "our family pet," to speak of "plates and dishes and knives and forks" instead of "eating utensils," to talk about "Joe and Judy," real teenagers, instead of "kids these days." The sermon that invokes "love" will always get a nod if not a smile, but a sermon that speaks of "Romeo and Juliet" will get more. You can talk about "the power of prayer" all you want, but people will sit up and listen when you say, "We prayed with Joe at his bedside, the night he died." The difference is, where once you were speaking in abstract generalities, now you are talking about concrete and specific people and things. Evaluate every sentence of your sermon by this standard: have I used an abstract noun where a concrete one will do the same job? Make every sentence touch, taste, see, smell, hear. Do not write:

Politics is not the answer to our problem.

But instead:

The ballot box is not the answer to our problem.

Instead of:

Christianity is about compassion.

Try:

Christianity is one human hand reaching out to another.

The concrete noun is better than the abstraction, because it is easier to listen to, and easier to remember.

Making regular use of concrete nouns and vivid verbs helps us follow the next rule, which is to use adverbs and adjectives sparingly. Adverbs and adjectives, which modify nouns and verbs, also tend to weaken them. The way to make a noun stronger is not to modify it, but to change it to a strong, concrete noun that stands on its own. If our verb is colorless, we do not do it a favor by attaching an adverb to it; we actually make it worse. This is one of those rules that applies to written as well as oral communication, and a study of the great sentences of history bears it out. Shakespeare did not write, "To be, or not to be, that is the essential question." "Essential" would have been redundant, ruined the rhythm, and weakened the noun as well as the whole sentence. Roosevelt did not describe Pearl Harbor Day as "a day that will live forever in abject infamy," but simply as "a day that will live in infamy"; he did not need the adverb or the adjective. Similarly, the preacher may speak of "the grass," but need not speak of "the green grass," because we normally expect the grass to be green; if, however, we speak of "the brown grass," we are saying something else entirely. The test of an adverb or adjective is whether it is essential to the meaning of the sentence; if not, chances are it may be dispensed with. If we choose concrete nouns and vivid verbs to begin with, we will not feel the need to spice the sentence with modifiers.

In using concrete nouns in particular, we will unavoidably be moving into the realm of metaphor and image. This is well and good, because able use of imagery can be a valuable skill for the preacher. Images are both concrete and memorable. In the example above, "the ballot box" is used as an image for "politics"; not only is it easily remembered, it has the advantage of being concrete, thus creating a picture in our minds. Often we preachers can substitute images for abstractions in our preaching; we do it quite naturally when, for example, we say "the cross" instead of "redemption" -- thereby using short words, avoiding jargon, and creating a memorable picture. Similarly, we can speak of "a kiss" instead of "love," or "chains and padlocks" instead of "slavery." Generally speaking, any time you can substitute an image for an abstraction in a sermon, you should do it (or balance the abstraction with an image, so that one clearly interprets the other). The dangers of imagery and metaphor are two: that we overdo and mix the images, or that we fall into cliché. Mixed metaphors -- where two or more images are placed in awkward conjunction -- are common enough, even among good writers (the Apostle Paul was a notorious metaphor mixer), and usually result from an over-elaborated image. It is fine to take people over the bridge from the ancient world to the modern one, but I would avoid stopping off at too many islands along the way, lest your hearers miss the boat (!). Clichés are often images that have been burned so deeply into our ears that they have lost their power and seem trite. Preachers had best avoid them (like the plague!). Another way to deal with a cliché is to transform it, as in the description of the Middle-Eastern man who "knew which side his pita bread was buttered." A little creativity goes a long way.

Write specifically and directly, without unnecessary qualification, and without apology. Good style, written or oral, is direct and straightforward. Simply say what you think; don't say "maybe" or "probably" or "possibly" unless you have to -- unless you mean it. Don't be afraid to use first person (singular or plural) where you mean it. Say "I" if you're talking about yourself; say "we" if you mean to include your hearers. Use "you" if you are talking about your audience but not yourself. A little honesty here will go a long way in the pulpit, because it will help us weed out our own preoccupations. Much of the "we" language in the pulpit is thinly-veiled "I" or "you" language -- and the reason it has to be veiled is that it doesn't belong! "We" are not usually concerned with the season of the church year, or the difficulty of talking about a certain passage of Scripture; these are preacherly concerns, to which the congregation has given little or no thought before the preacher mentioned it. This sort of language is best left unspoken. Similarly, if the preacher says "we" are guilty of such-and-such a transgression, "we" had better be well-sure that "we" share that fault, and are not just sugarcoating a "you," because the congregation will easily see through such self-serving manipulation.

One way for preachers to increase the directness and specificity of their language is to avoid and/or replace pronouns, especially pronouns such as "this" and "that," "these" and "those." This is a consideration for oral as opposed to written style. Written language can make great use of pronouns, because the reader can always look back to see who "she" is, or what "that" refers to. In fact, written language is leaden without pronouns. But in spoken language, with time controlled not by the hearer but by the speaker, pronouns are often a liability. If the hearer misses the name in the first place, the identity of "she" will become an enigma. Better to repeat the name "Sue" once or twice than to have hearers wondering who "she" is. Demonstrative pronouns can be even more trouble, because in writing we often use "this" or "that" to refer back not to a specific thing but an entire sentence or complex of ideas: "We can conclude, because of this...." Here is an obvious instance where the speaker must substitute the idea, perhaps in concise form, in order to move the hearer along: "We can conclude, because of the nature of oral language...." In spoken language, "this" and "that," "these" and "those" are best used as pointing words -- "this chair," "those apples" -- rather than as stand-alone stand-ins for thoughts and ideas that the hearers may or may not have had time to catch.

Another way to increase the directness and specificity of our sermons is to avoid theological terms, or if we cannot avoid them, define them. We have already seen how theological jargon can hamper clear communication from the pulpit; our listeners have not been to seminary, and have probably not read any books on "process theology," "womanist ethics," or even "heilsgeschichte." Even familiar terms taken from Scripture may raise red flags. "Parousia" is Greek for "coming," and is often used as theological jargon for Christ's Second Coming -- but how many people know that? The preacher should simply speak of "the Second Coming." Ditto for "Torah" instead of "Law," or "agape" instead of "love." Sermons should be in English, not Greek or Hebrew (or more accurately, sermons should be in the vernacular, the language of the people). Even words that are common enough in English and widely used in the churches may be unfamiliar or vague; how many people really understand the distinction between "justification" and "sanctification"? A word like "sin" is common enough, but most people do not use it in the Pauline sense of "the state of alienation from God" -- otherwise it would make no sense to call chocolate cake a "sin." If we want to use the word "sin" to convey the Pauline sense, we are going to have to define it carefully. Such theological jargon is best left out of the pulpit and preserved for the classroom; this is advanced Christianity, not necessary for hearing the good news. Those who have taken the classes already know what you're talking about, and can appreciate the straightforward explanation in common language as much as the person who came in accidentally off the street.

The preacher will write according to purpose. Every sentence is to do clearly and concisely what it needs to do at that point in the sermon. Cicero and Augustine recognized this long ago when they spoke of "plain, middle, and grand" styles -- intended respectively to inform, delight, and persuade. If we merely intend to convey information, we need to do that as clearly and concisely as possible, "Just the facts, ma'am." When we call directory assistance, we expect mere information, "The number is...." We don't want elaboration or verbal gymnastics; we have not called in search of a poem or a koan. Those portions of sermons that are meant to convey information should do exactly that and no more. But the sermon is more than just information, and so we will use other styles as appropriate. Sometimes we will wish to appeal to the emotions, to create a mood. Perhaps we will describe the rain dripping from a windowpane on a cold day, the drops almost but not quite freezing as they hit the glass. This is an appeal to the listener's sensibilities rather than an attempt to convey mere facts -- we are trying to get under the skin. Once we do, we will then be able to convey those aspects of the gospel that have to do with feelings as much as facts -- delight rather than information. Language intended to persuade will capitalize on the power of description. "People are starving in Africa" may get a nod of the head, but it won't compel your hearers to reach for their wallets. "Give generously" won't either. To compel their wills, you will have to touch their hearts, and this is what descriptive language is for: commercial appeals for famine relief on television show the babies with extended stomachs and spindly legs in order to touch us, and thus touch our wallets. We preachers, unless we wish to drag in a video screen, will have to accomplish our objective with nouns and verbs. The preacher has no pictures but those drawn with words.

This leads us to a fundamental rule of good style, oral or written: show, don't tell. Many of our previous observations fall under this one basic rule; for example, when we are using concrete nouns in place of abstractions, we are showing rather than telling. But the axiom does not apply just to images and stories -- all parts of our composition need to show rather than simply tell. An argument is not made by simply stating the conclusion; that is telling. To show the argument is to spell out all the steps one-by-one, giving examples, so that our hearers will follow along and agree with our conclusion. Our sermons will not touch the mind, heart, and will if we merely state such-and-such to be the case, but only if we actually make it the case. Our words have to create the reality we describe. Showing, not telling, will make our sermons memorable. We wish to say something that is easily heard as well as easily recalled. So we do not merely tell; we show.

A significant rule for one who would show not tell is this: talk about real people. This is often the difference between a sermon that evokes merely a nod of the head and one that reaches the hearts and wills of the listeners. Many preachers speak of everything but real people -- perhaps we talk about the biblical characters a bit, and maybe if we're lucky we'll have a personal reference or two -- but the rest of the sermon is filled with that vague "we" who is everyone and no one, an ideal construct that applies to no real person, a shadow who is constantly struggling with and affirming the abstractions of the Christian faith, but never actually gets down to the reality of Christian life. The sermon swims in a sea of abstractions, because it never bothers to ask what difference this abstract content might make to a flesh-and-blood human being. Subjected to a lifetime diet of such sermons, one might be tempted to agree with Homer Simpson: "Christianity? Oh, yeah, that religion with the nice rules that don't work."

Tell Me A Story


If we are going to show, not tell about, real people in the sermon, we are going to tell stories. Story is a topic that often sheds as much smoke as light on the preaching process. Some homileticians swear by story, going so far as to insist that the sermon must be structured like a story, or must contain nothing but stories. Some even contend that the Bible or Christianity itself is little more than a story. Other homileticians decry the story-sermon and even the use of stories in sermons, holding that they distract from the communication of the gospel. While we have neither the time nor the place to examine the issue in full -- our purpose is to learn to compose in a memorable oral style, not to solve an academic debate -- it is safe to say that neither extreme holds exclusive claim to the truth. Stories are indeed one of the most powerful tools in the preacher's arsenal. And it is precisely because they are so powerful that they can be so dangerous.

Stories to be used in sermons must be carefully prepared; this is not the time to ad-lib, even for one who would preach without a net. This is because we want the story to serve our ultimate purpose, which is the proclamation of the good news. Stories can help us do that, but because they are so powerful, they can sometimes take over the sermon in ways we did not intend. Because they are so memorable, we preachers may be tempted to ride them further than our intended stopping point, and thus let the story take over the sermon rather than be its servant.

Careful trimming of our stories is essential to making them serve our purposes. For each story, ask, "What is the purpose here?" Is this story an illustration of a point? If so, what point? Or is the story itself the point? Once we have determined the purpose of the story, we can trim it accordingly. Many stories in sermons are overelaborated; they contain material that does not serve the purpose of the story. If your story is about a sign on the side of a barn in Tennessee, your congregation does not need to know why you were in Tennessee, what kind of car you were driving, or who was with you. Such personal items will be more of a distraction than a help to the story. Your congregation will end up thinking about you, not your point. But, you say, the personal details are what make the story come alive! Think about it: if the story isn't very interesting without the personal material, that should tell you something. And even non-personal material is sometimes superfluous. If the point is what the sign said, it may not make any difference that it was in Tennessee. The story in this case should begin, "I once saw a sign on the side of a barn...."

Stories should also be told from a single point of view. If it is about what you saw on the side of the barn, stick to your point of view. If it makes a difference what your kids saw on the barn, that's another story. Rarely can a story make a successful shift from one point of view to another; if you begin describing Zacchaeus' view from the top of the tree, it won't do to switch to Jesus' perspective later. This is because as the preacher, you are one character, not many. Excepting the skilled actor, one person cannot play several roles at once, or even in succession. Be Jesus, or be Zacchaeus, but don't try to move back and forth.

The beginner may wonder where all these sermon stories are going to come from. How could I possibly come up with even one story per week, let alone two or three? There is no magic here. The sources of stories for the sermon are many. We have already mentioned a prime source, Scripture itself. We may lament biblical illiteracy in the congregation, but how will they know the stories we never tell them? Our outside reading will often provide us with stories for sermons; literature is a prime source of stories that are already memorable and well-told. Nonfiction memoir and biography can also provide stories. The preacher's personal experience can be a prime source of stories for the sermon, if used discretely (see below). Television and film are also important sources for stories that will create recognition and identification in our hearers. While some may wonder whether so-called "pop" culture is appropriate sermon material (if culture represents the most common facets and trends of a people, is there any culture other than "pop" culture?). The answer is quite simply that if you want to reach the majority of modern human beings, you will have to speak in a familiar language. Pretending that your congregation does not watch television or read the funny pages simply will not do. This is particularly true for those younger folks we church people so often claim to worry about. In an age that values resistance to authority and skepticism about truth claims, we cannot expect to speak in a theological ghetto and gain a hearing from those who live on Main Street. Perhaps in the hands of preachers of questionable taste, modern culture can be made to trivialize faith (as Deacon Dolson complained in the play Mass Appeal, "I grew up thinking Snoopy was one of the twelve apostles"). But one can be relevant without being trivial. If we ignore the modern media, we run the risk not only be being irrelevant, but of missing some bitingly useful stuff. Some of the most piercing social and theological commentary in the last decade has come not from any preacher or essayist or social critic, but from the animated characters of The Simpsons.

Our use of stories is governed not only by their fit in the sermon, but by a sense of ethics. We will not, for example, pretend that fictional stories actually happened to us (unless we offer some clues that they are in fact fictional). This is especially true for stories we gain from common sources, like newspapers or preaching aids. Nothing is more embarrassing than hearing a preacher tell of his dramatic rescue from a cave, then hearing the same story in the same words from some other preacher. Even if our story comes from our own lives, we will want to exercise a certain caution. We will never divulge pastoral confidences, even from past churches (what, you want to signal everyone in the pews that anything they tell you may be blurted out in some future parish?). We will be very careful about telling personal stories about our friends and families without their permission. And we will be very, very careful lest we become the implicit subject of our own stories, so that rather than helping proclaim the gospel, the story ends up proclaiming ourselves. The congregation may perk up its ears when you talk about yourself, but often the result is that they hear more about you personally than the gospel. When in doubt, personal stories can be cast in the third person, so they offer less of a distraction: "I know someone who once...."

Beginning preachers often wonder whether they should cite the sources of their stories or other quoted material. While it is essential that you acknowledge someone else's material (especially a direct quote), usually less is more. In normal conversation we do not say things like, "Walker Percy, a great southern novelist, once said...." And it seems awkward to spend a whole sentence footnoting your source: "Walker Percy was a great southern novelist. He once said...." Unless it makes a difference that Walker Percy said it, or that he was southern, or that he was a novelist, the preacher can probably get by with a more generic attribution: "Someone once said...." This has the merit of being concise, unobtrusive, and not telling more than was needed. If there is some reason we need to know about Walker Percy, however, by all means put him in there. The same could be said for both famous people and famous sayings; most people will recognize the sailor John Paul Jones as the one who said, "I have not yet begun to fight," so it would be silly to say that "someone" once said it. Likewise, most people know who the Pope is, or who the President is, or who Bill Gates is. One might only note that fame is fleeting, and our assumptions about fame may show our age; while many people know who Howard Cosell was, not many of them are under thirty.

Paper


Our process has brought us to the actual point of sermon composition. We have studied Life, we have studied the Scriptures. We have brainstormed the connections between Life and Scripture. We have summed up our thinking in a theme sentence. We have chosen a structure, and we probably have a good idea of some of the language that will appear in the sermon itself. Or quite honestly, perhaps we do not. We sit down with a prayer and hope that the Spirit will inspire us once we get going. At any rate, we are now ready to write something.

As I have already noted, we will use paper and ink (or the computer keyboard, as the case may be) in several different ways during the entire process of creating a sermon. We take notes on our study, we scribble during brainstorming, and now we write a preliminary draft of what we will say on Sunday (our next step, covered in the following chapter, is revision/rehearsal -- we revise the draft sermon while we rehearse its delivery). We do a lot of writing as we prepare for Sunday. Our goal, however, is to speak, so what we write now must serve our eventual speaking. If we are able, we will speak the words aloud as we compose them. Some preachers find this too laborious a process, as the words do not come out of the fingers at the same rate they come out of the mouth. If you do not speak aloud as you compose, the process of refining the words orally can wait for later -- but it may well add an extra step to your work.

Why write at all, if we are going to speak in the end? The issue for one who would preach without a net is control versus freedom. Having a written draft of the sermon offers us maximum control -- we can put this word precisely there, we can move this section before that, we can tell the story this way or that way, at the beginning, middle, or end. We can go through our manuscript and ruthlessly slice the jargon, the convoluted sentences, the passive voice verbs, the lifeless abstractions, and the ambiguous pronouns. Writing gives us maximum control over the composition process in a way that, for example, speaking into a tape recorder does not. As we will see, writing also gives the preacher visual cues -- something to hang on to, to look at, as we go through the process of revision/rehearsal. In the end, however, we are going to free ourselves from the need for this much control. The process of revision/rehearsal will loosen us from the original manuscript, and give us the freedom to sound spontaneous. In the end, the manuscript will be a guideline that we have internalized, a route drawn on a map and drilled into our brains. When we're actually on the highway, we're free to drive, but we know where we're going and all the stops along the way. Beginning sermon composition with a written manuscript offers us maximum control; learning to leave the manuscript behind us allows us the freedom to sound spontaneous.

It is important to recognize that what we are writing here is only the first draft. It is not the sermon, but only a starting point for the process of revision/rehearsal, which will eventually lead to delivery. Our writing is always in service of the end product, which is our speaking. We sit down to write the first draft, but our minds put us in the pulpit as we write. We see ourselves speaking the words, clearly, comfortably, with confidence and without hesitation. The first draft is actually the first step of the process of revision/rehearsal.

While there is much to keep in mind as you compose your first draft -- everything we have covered so far in this chapter, to be precise -- there is one thing to keep in the foreground: be memorable. I cannot repeat it too often: the key to preaching without a net is to compose something memorable. If we are going to say it without notes or manuscript, we must write memorably. We will have to remember it ourselves, in order to preach it, and it will be easier for us to remember in the end if we begin by writing something worth remembering. The first step in our own memory process is simply to write the best sermon we are capable of, week after week. As I've said before, this means taking the time to get it right. To preach without a net is no shortcut process. It is hard work. But it is worth it, not only because we will develop in our own preaching abilities, but because we will be offering to God and to our congregations something memorable.

Since we will be writing with our final goal, speaking, in view, I suggest an approach to writing that keeps that goal in sight. I put my first drafts in what I call an "oral manuscript form" (see Fig. 3). I do not use the paragraphs of conventional writing -- remember, no one can see the paragraphs of speech, they are strictly written conventions. Instead, I group my writing according to "thought-units," consisting of indented thoughts and sub-thoughts, listed line-by-line. Every sentence, or group of closely-related sentences, goes on a separate line. The sentences are given hanging indentation, to show their relationship to what comes before and after. When I have finished a thought-unit, I double space and go to the margin to start a new one. The advantage of the oral manuscript form over conventional paragraphs is clear. Every sentence begins on a new line, with the white space indicating its relationship to the entire thought-unit. I can tell at a glance how this sentence fits into the whole. It is also clear whether the sentence is the short, sweet oral writing I prefer -- if it takes more than a line or two, it's not! The manuscript form as a whole gives me visual cues that I will make use of in the revision/rehearsal process -- this sermon has six thought units, I see from looking over the manuscript, and the first one has seven lines. The form also has advantages for those who would like to learn to preach more spontaneously, but are not quite ready to do entirely without a net. Put your oral manuscript in a suitably large typeface, and take it into the pulpit with you -- you'll never lose your place, because each sentence starts on a line of its own, with clear indication of what comes before and after. Once you've tried an oral manuscript form, you'll never go back to paragraphs.

When we have composed the first draft of the sermon, we have already taken a step into the next stage of the sermon process -- we have begun the process of revision/rehearsal, which will take us to Sunday and delivery without a net. We are not quite ready to walk the tightrope, since our training is not yet complete -- but Sunday is coming, soon and very soon. We are only a day or two away.