Sermonizing

During the heady days of the 1960s following Vatican II, Presbyterian clergy were urged by higher authorities to initiate conversations with Roman Catholic priests. When we did so locally, our newly discovered colleagues were more than willing to discuss anything with us, but especially worship.

The concern we Protestants had was to understand the liturgical elegance of the Romans. What did all that mean? How do you do it? In the years that followed we learned a great deal from our colleagues, locally and world-wide.

On the priests’ minds, however, was a question for us about a different aspect of worship: “How do you manage preaching week after week?” Actually, the issue was larger than that. For it also raised the issue of defining preaching for them, and for us. What is it that we do when we go to the pulpit and speak forth?

I like to think that fifty-plus years out of seminary I’ve learned how to preach, but every sermon is a challenge and an opportunity to do it better. It is during my retirement, however, that I’ve discovered new insights on a way of describing preaching, if not exactly defining it. The “view from the pew” has been very informative.

When I was a preaching pastor, I rarely had the opportunity to hear other preachers. Looking back on that lack of experience, I’d now recommend strongly that every pastor regularly (say, four times a year at least) be sent off to other churches to worship. Then they’d listen to sermons in a very different way—as pew-sitters rather than as preachers.

So far, I’ve found that sermons I hear fall roughly into four “categories.” These are not rigid groupings, but sorts of Sunday preachments that I’ve heard, not just from Presbyterians, but from other Protestants, Roman Catholics and Orthodox. Often a sermon would reflect more than one type, yet usually one would dominate.

The Lecture

One preacher I know was especially good at this. He came out of a ministry focused on social issues, and his sermons were loaded with illustrations of the implications of the Gospel in the world around us.

Mind you, these were informative lectures. He could have included an extra insert in the morning bulletin offering footnotes and citations of resources—instead he spoke them, which lengthened the lectures.

From my position in the pew, however, I did not find his lectures relevant in any personal way. Perhaps some were caught up and inspired by his words. My reaction as I left was that it was a good lecture, but it was all about something “out there,” distant and beyond my reach.

The Lesson

Sometimes I’ve been treated to a Bible-study lesson in place of a sermon. The congregation was instructed to grab a Bible from the pew rack, or look at the screen to have the text at hand. Then we went through it verse by verse with homiletical bits thrown out along the way.

On a couple of occasions, a separate sheet has been provided with an outline of the text, and spaces in which to scrawl your notes.

While there were times when this was very informative, and the interpretation of the preacher/teacher was fascinating, this also was a distancing experience. The connection between the speaker and the pew-sitters was not made; on the contrary, it was blocked by the intrusion of printed materials.

The Essay

There are those preachers who offer a theological essay. They may be sharply reasoned, clearly stated, and theologically profound. The diligence of the speaker’s study and depth of wisdom is often impressive. It can be the kind of speech you’d like to have in print to take home and ponder at length.

And therein lies the problem. The distance from the listener is because of the complexity of the thought processes. The theological essay is often too much for most people to absorb in one sitting. To many, it will come off as abstract and remote, maybe making the speaker seem arrogant and aloof.

The Sermon

So if those are the problems, what might the solution be? Someone* once said, “Sermons are intimate conversations with people you love.”

What I welcome as a worshipper is the sense that the preacher is speaking to me, and to everyone else in the room. This means that the preacher really cares about us, has a pastoral attitude, and wants to share something very personal, something of life-and-death importance. What is more, the person in the pulpit speaks from personal experience and is human like the rest of us.

The bridges between preacher and people are crossed and the barriers are broken down in a good sermon. The Gospel is shared, passed along by word of mouth, to be carried out the door and lived.

In the interest of candor, I will admit that I’ve delivered my share of what I’d hoped would pass as sermons, but included some of the stuff of Lectures, Lessons and Essays. When I let the Gospel speak to me, when I heard the Word in my heart, and then boldly let it speak through me to others, then a real sermon was given.

What kind of sermons do you hear where you are? What kind do you preach?

*This was attributed to Frederick Buechner, although he did not own it when I interviewed him for the Reformed Liturgy & Music journal in 1994. If you’d like to have a copy of the interview, drop me an email at dwstake@aol.com.

Christmas Is Personal

Canticle of Simeon
Nunc Dimittis; Luke 2:29-32

Now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace:
your word has been fulfilled.
My own eyes have seen the salvation
which you have prepared in the sight of every people:
a light to reveal you to the nations
and the glory of your people Israel.


If there is one person with whom we can identify, especially we older folks, it is the old man Simeon. He just knew in his heart of hearts that he would not leave this life without coming face to face with the Messiah of God.

Sure enough, when Mary and Joseph brought their child Jesus to the temple to fulfill the requirements of dedication, Simeon met them. He recognized the infant as the One he was waiting for. The encounter had an enormous impact on Simeon’s life—in fact, it gave meaning to Simeon’s many years of worshipping God.

The tradition of the church calls us to sing Simeon’s song each night as our day comes to an end. When we give ourselves up to sleep, we surrender our lives into God’s keeping, confident in the promise of new life when morning comes. Like Simeon, we are prompted by the Spirit to recognize the presence of God’s Messiah, remembering how we, too, have prayed and longed for what our Christ will bring us.

Simeon’s Song is a canticle for Christmas, a personal message to each one of us. Christmas is the reminder that God has come to us in Jesus Christ, to each one personally, even in the darkest of times, revealing the brightness of God’s glory.

Sometimes the personal impact of Christmas gets blurred by the busyness of the season. Put Simeon's Song on your list to sing this year. Take Christmas very personally. As Simeon took the child Jesus in his arms, each one of us can embrace God’s gift of grace with joy, and then, wherever God will lead us, we will go in peace.

Why Do We (Not) Sing Psalms?

It’s a double-barreled question.

Way back when, it was the custom of Presbyterians to sing psalms. In fact, in church they sang only psalms. Anything other than the biblical Psalms was unfit for human singing, because the Psalter had divine authorship, or, at the very least, God’s seal of approval.

Songs of mere human composition just didn’t measure up. This was true at least until people like the brothers Wesley and Watts took pen to paper and came up with psalm-like hymns that were seductively singable. Their success provoked the true-blue Psalm-singers to recast the Psalms into hymn-like metrical settings. Sometimes it must have been difficult to tell the difference between biblical songs and songs crafted by humans.

As hymnody increased in popularity for Sunday morning singing, the use of Psalms waned. Why bother with the old when you could have the new?

This very sketchy historical review helps us understand how we Presbyterians (and some other Protestants as well) got to the situation we’re in. The Psalter has been neglected if not abandoned. A Psalm is too rarely sung in worship in some churches, unless it sneaks in masquerading as a hymn. That’s the answer to the question, “Why do we not sing the Psalms?”

If it weren’t for the monastics persisting in singing the Psalms day and night, and the resurgence in local congregations and individual Christians to pray the Liturgy of the Hours, we might have forgotten about Psalms on Sunday morning altogether.

So, now we ask the question, “Why do we sing the Psalms?”

The Psalms are part of our spiritual history. They were collected to be the song/prayer book of Judaism, the anthology Jesus knew, used and quoted. They continued to be the source of prayer and praise for the early Christians.

The Psalms are candid, honest prayers. They cover the full range of human needs, express emotions from one end to the other, and have an intimate and personal quality that touches people in the depths.

The Psalms (at least many of them) are used as responses to the Old Testament reading in Sunday Christian worship. Yet they have also been recognized to speak of Jesus Christ, and in this usage, they show the continuity of God’s revelation throughout the Scripture. In this role, the Psalms serve as a historical and theological bridge between the Old and New Testaments in the pilgrimage of Lord’s Day worship.

When the Psalms are sung on Sunday mornings, the congregation has the opportunity to be the “true choir” as the Reformers thought they should be.

I’m sure there are many other reasons to be cited, but you get the idea. We don’t use the Psalms in worship as well as we could and should.

In my travels in retirement, I’ve confronted this delinquency in various forms. In many churches there simply is no Psalm. Others might include the Psalm, but they will read it (not sing it) responsively. Some will sing a Psalm, but in place of a hymn. Rarely will the Psalm be sung following the Old Testament reading. Even more rare is the chanted Psalm.

Congregational singing of the Psalms can be intimidating, of course, yet with proper training and leadership of church musicians, it can also be tremendously inspiring. I remember well the occasion decades ago when I had the chance to attend a large Lutheran church in Minneapolis. The Psalm that morning was to be chanted, according to the tones recorded in the hymnal. The people had been taught well. The music was uplifting, stirring, even exhilarating as the tones of prayer rose heavenward.

The objections are likely to come quickly when psalm-singing is suggested. “How can we expect the people in the pews to sing anything more demanding than simple hymns?” That’s a good place to start, and move on to chants with congregational responses and refrains, or specially composed pieces, to everyone chanting the full psalm text.

Of course, this does not happen without some exertion on part of worship leaders, clergy and musicians. It requires their liturgical and musical education in order to educate and train the congregation to praise God with sung Psalms.

Psalms are available in many modern settings (and some ancient ones) that lend themselves to congregational usage. Two resources are highly recommended for your perusal: The Psalter: Psalms and Canticles for Singing, Westminster/John Knox Press, Louisville, Kentucky, 1993; and Psalms for All Seasons, Calvin Institute of Christian Worship, Faith Alive Christian Resources, Brazos Press, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 2012.

A Lesson from the East

I’m probably as touchy as the next person when it comes to criticism about worship services I’ve planned or led. On the other hand, I like to think I’m smart enough to learn from the critic’s viewpoint.

That’s why I’ve taken seriously the critique fired off by Russian Orthodox Bishop Hilarion Alfeyev at the beginning of a long lecture on “Orthodox Worship as a School of Theology.”

Setting up a contrast to Orthodox worship, the Bishop has this to say about non-Orthodox services he’d attended over the years: “Protestant [and Catholic] services as a rule are comprised of a series of isolated, incoherent prayerful actions…. The services are interspersed with explanations by the clergy, who tell their congregation in which hymnal and on which page a certain hymn is to be found, and whether they should sing it while standing or remaining seated….”

The hardest part of hearing evaluations like this is having to agree with them. On this one, the Bishop has got us in the spotlight.

I’ve attended my share of worship events that have followed what is rashly called an “order” that I suspect was determined by throwing the items down a flight of stairs. Logic of procedure, not to mention a “theo-logic” of content, is difficult to perceive.

Even when there is some semblance of sensible order, even when the sequence defined in the Book of Common Worship is followed, worship often seems to follow an agenda. “Prayerful actions” are scattered like items on a list, all to be completed by the end of the hour.

With such a mindset, it is easy for the presider to start behaving like an emcee.

For example, before the Call to Worship we might hear, “Let us join in the call to worship.”

Or, announcing the Prayer of Confession before scriptural introductions, something like “Let us come before God with our confessions.”

Before reading Scripture some readers insert non-scriptural summaries of the text.

“Let us stand and affirm our faith,” might precede the Creed.

Announcing the offering could be done without “Let us worship God with our offering.” Just an appropriate biblical text will do.

The Greeting of Peace is too often an interruption of a far greater magnitude, but makes the point.

Instructions given in the midst of the Eucharist fracture the solemnity of the sacrament.

All of these words, and many others, spoken by a worship leader are essentially rubrics (= “written in red”), instructions that could just as easily be printed in a bulletin, and left unspoken. What would that be like, I wonder, if we did just that?

Well, the Bishop has an answer for us, as he goes on to describe what worship should be: “Orthodox divine services…are a totally different matter. From the priest’s exclamation at the very beginning of the service we are immersed in an atmosphere of uninterrupted prayer, in which psalms, litanies,...prayers and the celebrating priest’s invocations follow one another in a continuous stream. The entire service is conducted as if in one breath, in one rhythm, like an ever unfolding mystery in which nothing distracts from prayer.”

Not that we’re all going to do a seismic shift from the Reformed to the Orthodox tradition next Sunday. Yet it is possible for us to look at what we do from another perspective.

What if everyone started to worship God the instant they entered the room? Perhaps leaders as well as people in the pews would find more focus on their purpose for being there.

If there were no stops and starts to break up the flow of worship, all would begin to see the interrelatedness of the various parts, a wholeness to the service. We would, over a period of time discover that all that transpires in a given service is worship, praise and thanksgiving to God.

Getting rid of the instructive distractions would allow worshippers to contemplate the mystery of God’s grace that calls the likes of us sinners to come, forgives us, feeds us with Word and Sacrament, and sends is into the world to follow the Risen Lord.

What we learn from the Orthodox Bishop is that we Protestants are Westerners—we tend to think in a linear fashion, with lists and agendas and orders of worship. Yet we can learn to experience fullness in our worship, a unity of form and expression as we praise God.

What are the distractions or interruptions to services in your church? How might you minimize them?

"Blended" Worship?

Over coffee one afternoon, a new pastor to our area confided to me that the worship service he inherited was, in a word, “chaotic.”

I offered to pay him a Sunday morning visit and, if he wished, give him my critique. Please note that a “critique” is not necessarily negative, but in this case it was difficult to get out of the minus column.

To start with the positive: The young man’s sermon was strong and meaningful. The church organist led the congregation in the singing of one wonderful hymn. Communion by intinction was reverently accomplished. The end.

Otherwise, the pastor was right: It was chaotic.

The “praise” singers arrived late, scattered their guitar cases and coats around the platform, and grabbed mikes to sing and sway. The music they sang was old, and vapid, in the 7-11 category (seven words sung over eleven times), with totally forgettable melodies, the shelf life of which ended before anyone arrived in the parking lot. The “children’s sermon” was spoken over a mike by a person invisible to the congregation except those small people before whom she knelt. During the sermon, the singers left the room. For most of the service the organist did nothing. The order was random, except in its broadest outline. And so forth.

The pastor and I had a chance to debrief some weeks later. It became clear that there was no truce in the Worship War for this congregation. It was the generation gap—the geriatric section wanted the “traditional” style, while the younger people clamored for the “contemporary.”

What the pastor hoped to accomplish was a “blended” worship experience, drawing from the best of both generations. It was, at least for him, an uphill climb.

As I listened to him describe what the two groups wanted, it occurred to me that they were both searching past each other, and not likely either the old folks or the youngsters would get what they wanted.

The gray-haired generation was looking back to the “good old days.” The familiar hymns brought the chills of nostalgia. Some liturgical formality, in vestments and language, gave authority to the proceedings. Quiet and peaceful worship was healing and spiritually soothing.

The younger people were looking forward to more lively worship, less formality, new more entertaining music, and some real challenges that “rock.” They want it to look like it belongs in the 21st century, not the 19th.

What people who advocate for either of these positions do not seem to know is that Christian worship is a living, growing experience.

You cannot recreate the past, because it’s gone.

Neither can you replace what we have now with liturgy that is completely new.

In both instances people fail to realize that what we have is a living experience, ever changing, constantly growing or needing repair. The Protestant Reformation was not a one-time experience. When it comes to Christian worship, the need for reformation is perpetual.

But reforming and renewing worship now does not happen without knowledge of where we’ve been and what the world looks like down the road ahead of us.

So, the only hope for my friend, and many of the rest of us, is to learn about the liturgical heritage our ancestors left us, build on it, and reshape next Sunday’s experience accordingly. There is desperate need these days for liturgical education—not just among pew-sitters, but for musicians, church leaders, and even for the clergy. Chaotic worship happens when nobody’s paying attention, and what we do is perfunctory and thoughtless.

If there is such a thing as “blended worship,” we don’t get there by sticking two things together that have nothing to do with right now. Rather we grow into it, letting the Spirit work to bring to life what is fresh and new.

How does your worship get evaluated and reviewed to see what needs to be better understood by the people, by musicians, by leaders and clergy?

Shelf Life of Sermons

After the service a couple of Sundays ago, at which I was the featured guest preacher and presider, a kind gentleman came up to me and said to me something like, “That was a good one. You ought to give it again.”

Coincidentally, a few minutes later someone else tugged at my sleeve with a smiling suggestion that the sermon should be printed up and distributed.

In spite of the fact that flattery will get anyone farther than criticism, I balked at both notions because I’ve learned better.

There was a time, back in my young and foolish days, that I did actually try to pass off a used sermon on a different congregation. After all, they hadn’t heard it before, so for all they knew in their pious innocence, it was the latest and greatest.

The problem was, I’d heard it before, and spoken it before. Even though I preach from a written text in semi-outline form that allows leeway for adlibbing, it had all the freshness to me of yesterday’s mashed potatoes served with last week’s steamed broccoli.

Old sermons, even if they are only as old as yesterday, have a very short shelf life. They go stale quickly, losing zest like a Coke with the cap off. That loss of flavor and sharpness for the preacher inevitably leads to an insipid sermon for the people who hear it.

The rule that I learned, a few times the hard way, is, Don’t bother trying to resurrect an old sermon.

The corollary is, Don’t bother to print them up either, especially if you’ve taped it and want to print a transcript.

Printed sermons are read out-of-context—away from the sacred space, the gathered community of faith, and the sounds, sights and smells of Christian worship. Rather they are likely to be scanned in a setting with none of the supporting atmosphere, all of which makes the sermon less sermonic and more distant.

Besides that, if one is to print a delivered sermon, it needs a complete rewriting. A sermon to be read from ink on paper is very different from the conversationally spoken one. The labor invested in editing and re-writing is almost as much as crafting a fresh homily.

Not that sermons printed up are without value. They can be. I like to read sermons—by other people. It’s educational to see how someone else is touched by a passage, how the Spirit works in that person’s mind, soul and spirit, and how the Word speaks in that particular time and place.

Perhaps my sermons could be educational, even challenging to another person. In which case, some may be of sufficient value to reprint. Printed sermons, however, are clearly out-of-date, not current, and not local. All of that must be considered whenever you read sermons in print.

All of this brings me back to the main point: preaching happens in the here and now. Sermons are not to be written for publishing in books or preserved for the ages—they belong to a particular time of worship and the folks then gathered. There is a mighty arrogance to assume that a sermon prepared for this congregation on a particular date will “work” for anyone and everyone, wherever and whenever. If a sermon is aimed in that direction, it’ll fall flat in front of the pulpit.

In this sense, sermons are disposable items. They are good for one use and then should be discarded. To use a sermon more than once is to borrow trouble.

Given the rule (Don’t resurrect an old sermon) and its corollary (Don’t print a transcript of a sermon without editing), there is another rule: Don’t go back to read your old sermons on the same text you’re working on for next Sunday.

Should you go dig out parts of old sermons for the current one, you’ll likely start thinking like you did last time, and not be as open to the Spirit as you should be. What the “Good Word” was a year or three ago probably doesn’t sound quite right today.

Recycling preaching is a short-cut leading to a dead end street.

The preacher’s task is to listen before speaking, to “listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches,” and then, only then, speak promptly and plainly.

Liturgical Ecumenism

There’s a very old joke about the young seminarian who was reporting to one of the elders of his home church about courses he was taking. “One of the most interesting,” the seminarian said, “is the course on ‘ecumenics’.” “That’s wonderful,” replied the oldster. “Ministers ought to know how to handle money.”

That joke dates from the days when ecumenism was a new concept in some circles, and there was a learning curve in local churches. Although you’d think we’d know better now, if you look around you’ll discover ecumenical relations among Christians and inter-faith relations between Christians and Jews and Moslems could stand considerable improvement.

On the Christian scene, it seems as though many congregations have climbed into their congregational boxes and folded over the tops. We’re clutching our own traditions, running dangerously into the mire of stagnation. Worship too often is static and stale, without passion or enthusiasm. Then, all that follows from worship grinds to a halt.

I was provoked to think about this quandary by a recent address made by John X, Patriarch of the Orthodox Church of Antioch, sent to me by a friend who is an Antiochian Orthodox priest. It contained this challenge to the Patriarch’s Orthodox constituents, just as applicable to all Christians:

“We should acknowledge that schism today is not only between the Churches, but also within... each of them. While we are called to learn from each other, each of us is searching for Christ in our own way and sings for Him with our own particular words and rituals. We have to love the face of Christ as He is seen by the other. Only then will our experiences complement each other; and we shall discover that the wall of enmity and schism does not grow so high as to reach the heavens.”

This, of course, confronts my Reformed sensibilities. It’s so easy for the likes of me, born and bred Presbyterian, steeped in the American “Book of Common Worship” tradition, to consider what I know to be all there is to know. We take our worship seriously, and build it on learning from our ancestors and education about our current practices. Yet that kind of wisdom and knowledge can become a box with the lid on tight.

Taking the above counsel of the Patriarch personally, it behooves me and others to at least peek outside the box of our own liturgy, and see what’s going on elsewhere.

Here’s a suggestion—that pastors and sessions (governing boards) need to include in their contracts the following requirement: That quarterly (at least four times a year) the pastor will take a weekend off to attend worship in another church (Protestant, Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Independent) and spend time with the spiritual leader of that congregation to discuss the experience.

Notice, this is a requirement—not an option.

What’s to be gained by such adventures?

Visiting other Protestant churches might possibly open one to the discovery of common threads of tradition. Lutherans will teach us that non-Reformed Protestants know how to worship as profoundly as we do, maybe more so. Southern Baptists reveal another more informal style reflecting other American customs. Episcopalians show that formality is not to be feared. There is even something to be learned from those in our own denomination.

Roman Catholics have struggled the past fifty years in “reforming” their worship. The actions of Vatican II have prompted many changes in the liturgy to restore the active role of the people. The ascendancy of Pope Benedict XVI, however, has introduced an era of undoing what Vatican II accomplished. Still, Roman Catholics struggle to understand their past and renew their worship.

On the Orthodox side, there is much to be learned. For a thousand years or so, the West has drifted from the East, and vice versa. Nevertheless, many Protestant and Catholic individuals have found their spiritual pilgrimages taking them in the Orthodox direction. Curiously, Presbyterians sometimes find a real attraction to Orthodox liturgy. It’s been suggested that this is because Calvin based his understanding of worshipping God on the early church theologians, who are also cited by the Orthodox liturgists. The full participation of the people and the awareness of transcendence in worship are among the commonalities.

(While we’re on the subject, even non-Christian people have something to contribute to our understanding of our own worship. A visit at the local synagogue, obviously, might also be included. How else is one to understand that the first Christians were Jews just as Jesus was, and our worship from the beginning was shaped by the traditions continuing in Sabbath worship? And Muslim worship can also be informative, even if commonalities are not so obvious. The devout piety and praise of God is clear, and conversation with the imam or other Muslim could reveal insights and understanding.}

Shared worship experiences can only be broadening for the pastor, and through him or her, enriching to the worship of the people.

Do you or your pastor ever visit other churches to learn about different worship experiences?