what he says has power over his audience out of all comparison with a
far more eloquent man whom his hearers know to be speaking
perfunctorily.
No matter how much the latter kind of speaker polishes his periods, no
matter how fruitful in thought his address, no matter how perfect the
art of his delivery, he fails in the ultimate effect wrought by a much
inferior speaker whose words are charged with conviction.
He is like the chemist's grain of wheat, perfect in all its
constituent elements except the mysterious spark of life, without
which the wheat grain will not grow.
If then you do not believe what you say and believe it with all your
soul, believe it in your heart of hearts, do not try to get other men
to believe it. You will not be honest if you do. The world expects you
to be sure of yourself. How do you expect to make other people sure of
themselves if you are not sure of yourself?
"And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye,
but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
"Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, let me pull out the mote
out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?
"Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye;
and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of
thy brother's eye."
The world is hungry for faith. Do not doubt this for a moment. More
men and women to-day would rather believe in the few fundamentals of
the Christian religion than have any other gift that lavish fortune
could bestow upon them.
But these millions want to _believe_; they do not want to argue or be
argued at.
They want to believe so utterly that their faith amounts to knowledge.
Doubtings are disquieting; pros and cons are monotonous. We want
certainty, we laymen.
For years I have made it a point to get the opinion of the ablest and
most widely experienced men and women I met on the subject of
immortality. In all cases I found that the subject in which they were
more deeply interested than in all other subjects put together.
"I would rather be sure that when a man dies he will live again with
his conscious identity, than to have all the wealth of the United
States, or to occupy any position of honor or power the world could
possibly give," said a man whose name is known to the railroad world
as one of the ablest transportation men in the United States.
"Do you know when I am by myself I think about a lot of strange
things. Is the soul immortal and what is the soul anyhow?" It is a
politician who is talking now, and a ward politician at that, a man
whom few would suspect of thinking upon these subjects at all.
So you see, young man, you who are being measured for the Cloth, that
all manner and conditions of men are thinking about the great problems
of which you are the expounder, and longing for the answer to those
problems which it is your business to give them. That is the condition
of the mind of the millions.
Very well! What is the condition of the mind of the young minister? A
few years ago a certain man, with good opportunities for the
investigation and a probability of sincere answers, asked every young
preacher whom he met during a summer vacation these questions:
"First, Yes or no, do you believe in God, the Father; God a person,
God a definite and tangible intelligence--not a congeries of laws
floating like a fog through the universe; but God a person in whose
image you were made? Don't argue; don't explain; but is your mind in a
condition where you can answer yes or no?"
Not a man answered "Yes." Each man wanted to explain that the Deity
might be a definite intelligence or might not; that the "latest
thought" was much confused upon the matter, and so forth and so on.
"Second, Yes or no, do you believe that Christ was the son of the
living God, sent by Him to save the world? I am not asking whether you
believe that He was inspired in the sense that the great moral
teachers are inspired--nobody has any difficulty about that. But do
you believe that Christ was God's very Son, with a divinely appointed
and definite mission, dying on the cross and raised from the dead--yes
or no?"
Again not a single answer with an unequivocal, earnest "Yes." But
again explanations were offered and in at least half the instances the
sum of most of the answers was that Christ was the most perfect man
that the world had seen and humanity's greatest moral teacher.
"Third, Do you believe that when you die you will live again as a
conscious intelligence, knowing who you are and who other people are?"
Again, not one answer was unconditionally affirmative. "Of course they
were not sure as a matter of knowledge." "Of course that could not be
_known_ positively." "On the whole, they were inclined to think so,
but there were very stubborn, objections," and so forth and so on.
The men to whom these questions were put were particularly high-grade
ministers. One of them had already won a distinguished reputation in
New York and the New England states for his eloquence and piety. Every
one of them had had unusual successes with fashionable congregations.
But every one of them had noted an absence of real influence upon the
_hearts_ of their hearers and all thought that this same condition is
spreading throughout the modern pulpit.
Yet not one of them suspected that the profound cause of what they
called "the decay of faith" was, not in the world of men and women,
but in themselves. How could such priests of ice warm the souls of
men? How could such apostles of interrogation convert a world?
These were not examples, however; they were exceptions. Most preachers
believe that they actually know the truths they teach. By and large,
the twentieth century Christian ministry is sound and sure. The
missionary fire still burns in consecrated breasts.
And that is a lucky thing for the Christian world. We Westerners--we
of America and Europe--would go all to pieces otherwise. You see we
Occidentals have not eons of fatalistic paganism to fall back on as
have the sons of the East. They endure without our religion. But
we--what would happen to us if Christianity did not unite, purify, and
exalt us.
From the view-point of the layman then, yes and even far more from
your own view-point, be sure of your faith, preparer for the pulpit.
Faith is only another word for power.
We see it in the small things of life. Note the influence on his
fellow citizens of a man who asserts something positively and heartily
believes what he asserts, even though that thing be untrue and unwise.
We see it in the great things of history. Witness the inferior
mentality but the burning ardor of a Peter the Hermit, moving all
Europe to the most extraordinary war the world has seen. Consider
Napoleon crossing the Alps--an achievement all men said was
impossible. Impossible! That word is found only in the dictionary of
superstition.
But your faith, young man, you who are about to go into the Pulpit,
does not deal with little things. It is not interested even in the
large affairs of statesmanship, as such. Yet it embraces all matters.
It involves concerns more important than all history.
Limitless eternity is its field. Everlasting life is its subject. The
Ancient of Days is its awful familiar. It has to do with the righteous
conduct of individual men and women here on earth and of their eternal
felicity in the world to come. The Ineffable One whose crucifixion has
made the cross a symbol of all good and the emblem of our highest hope
is its divine and inspiring author.
How noble the attitude of that intellect which is uplifted by a belief
so glorious. No wonder that he who possesses this faith works miracles
in human character more astounding than the dazzling wonders which
science wrings from reluctant matter. No, not he who _possesses_ this
faith, but him whom this _faith_ POSSESSES. The faith is the
reality--you are but the instrument through which that faith works out
the winning of the world. Look to your faith then, you who seek to
save the souls of men.
For now as ever mankind awaits the magic voice of him whose faith in
God the Father, in Christ His son and in the life eternal is strong as
knowledge itself. Think of John Wesley, think of Ignatius Loyola,
think of the inspired young man who this very year has lifted all
Wales to spiritual heights as elevated as those to which Savonarola
led beautiful and dissolute Florence, and the fire of whose revival
promises to spread over the United Kingdom, purifying all it touches.
What said they of the Master? "For He spake as one having authority
and the common people heard Him gladly." It was true of Him, too. And
it has been true of each of those princes of faith who, during two
thousand years, have followed the directions of their thorn-crowned
Lord.
He declared to his disciples: "If ye have faith as a grain of mustard
seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place;
and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you."
If you have not an undoubting belief, you may carve out your sentences
as curiously as you will; deliver them with the voice of music, and
yet be nothing but an entertainer. Speaking as one of the "men of the
street," as one of the millions, I think that the best thing for you
to attend to is this question of faith.
I have no respect for a lawyer who does not know certain fundamental
definitions by heart; and I have less respect for the preacher who
cannot repeat the eleventh chapter of Hebrews offhand.
_Get your faith into your blood_; the brain is the place for your
reasonings and argumentations.
You say that you are a soldier of heaven, battling with the
world--meaning that you represent righteousness as opposed to evil.
That is your attitude--your conception of your mission. Very well, the
secret of your strength has never been so well stated as in the words
of the Apostle, "_This_ is the victory that _overcometh the world_,
even our _faith_."
Four of the most extraordinary doers of God's work in the world were
Luther, Loyola, Wesley, and Savonarola. Each of this company of
practical and militant Christianity has life instruction for you. But
in the art of preaching, as such, Savonarola has more than either of
the others, although Wesley is nearly his equal, and, as an organizer,
vastly his superior. He perfectly illustrates the miraculous power of
conviction in mere oratory.
I would advise every young man who intends to enter the pulpit to read
carefully the best life of this wonderful preacher, reformer, and
statesman. And supplement your study of him and his methods by
reading George Eliot's historical novel, "Romola."
The great Dominican was a Lombard, of harsh accent and strange face,
come to live in the most cultured city in the world. Florence was then
in the full flowering of literature and art; and in her overripe
perfections the poison was distilling of greed and cruelty and
lubricity and all loathsomeness.
Over this capital of learning, genius, and sin ruled "The Magnificent"
Medici, sitting with easy power on his splendid throne and wielding
his scepter with the accurate skill of a perfect craft and the strong
decision of a fearless heart.
But you know the story. It was not an inviting field for a preacher
who burned to utter the Word and at the same time hoped to enjoy the
smiles and favors of the great. It was not an encouraging prospect for
any one who wanted to restore the reign of righteousness, even though
he were willing to pay the price of martyrdom.
But Savonarola accomplished all this and more; for he crowned the
renaissance of letters and art with the renaissance of Christian
morals and religion whose pure and beautiful influence reaches even
unto our day.
And he did it by faith more than by all other things put together--a
faith so rapt that, to our less passionate natures, it seems to have
been the very insanity of fanaticism. But it did the work; and that is
the thing after all.
His sermons do not seem to be more remarkable when you read them than
those of many another pulpiteer, although they are full of thought. We
are told, however, that his voice had in it a terrible earnestness,
and his manner was so impassioned that he sometimes seemed to forget
himself.
But all agree that the magic with which he wrought his wonders from
the pulpit was the feeling that everybody had that Fra Girolamo
_believed what he said_, _knew_ what he said, _meant_ what he said.
The immediate effect was astonishing--(the after effect still thrills
the world). Mrs. Oliphant quotes Burlamacchi's description of
Savonarola's influence over the people thus: "The people got up in the
middle of the night to get places for the sermon. They came to the
door of the cathedral waiting outside until it should be opened,
making no account of the inconvenience, neither of the cold nor the
wind nor the standing in winter with their feet on the marble."
I emphasize the point that this effect was not exclusively oratorical,
nor merely magnetic. Chiefly it was what the world has always seen and
always will see when it beholds a strong man in deadly earnest for a
righteous cause.
We know that this is so because "The Magnificent" induced the most
cultivated pulpiteer in all Italy to preach sermons in Florence so as
to divert attention from Savonarola; and this master of the pulpit,
whom Lorenzo won to his purpose, was better liked and more greatly
admired by the people of Florence than any other orator.
His name was Fra Mariano, and it was admitted that he was a far better
speaker than Savonarola. Yet he failed utterly, unaccountably. He had
better elocution, a richer voice, more "magnetism," more attractive
qualities every way than Savonarola, and as much learning; _but he did
not have as much faith_.
I am dwelling upon this because I am quite sure that the people are
more interested in acquiring faith than they are in all your
oratoricals; and because, too, I am quite sure that it is the only
certain method of your effectiveness.
Faith is infectious. James Whitcomb Riley, whose sweetness of
character and upliftedness of soul equal his genius, gave me the best
recipe for faith in God, Christ, and Immortality I have ever heard:
"Just believe," said he; "don't argue about it; don't question it;
simply say, 'I believe.' Next day you will find yourself believing a
little less feebly, and finally your faith will be absolute, certain,
and established."
And why not--you of the schools who split hairs and dispute and come
to nothing in the end, and whose knowledge, after all, as Savonarola
so well said, comes to nothing--why not? For if you cannot _prove_ God
and Christ and Immortality, it is very sure you cannot _disprove_
them; and it is safe--yes, and splendid--to believe in these three
marvelous realities; or conceptions, if you like that word better.
The doctrine of _noblesse oblige_ was one of the most beautiful of
human conventions. It was based upon the proposition that a man being
noble and the son of a nobleman could not do a mean thing--it was not
good form.
But if a man gets it into his consciousness that he is the child, not
of a nobleman, not of an earthly ruler, not of a great statesman,
warrior, scientist, or financier, _but of the living God_ who
presides over the universe, how large, how generous, how exalted, and
how fine his attitude toward life and all his conduct needs must be.
Savonarola was not alone in the vast crowds he drew by the simple
method he followed. He was not original in that method either. Do we
not read that when "Philip went down to the city of Samaria and
_preached Christ_ unto them, the people ... _gave heed_ unto those
things which Philip spake."
Of course they gave heed, just as they did to Savonarola. Recall the
expression of the old journalist at the beginning of this paper. He
would never have been bored by Philip or by the Lombard priest.
Paul got the attention even of the _blasé_ Athenians, who would not
listen to anybody or anything very long, "because he preached unto
them of Jesus and the resurrection."
And you will remember the Master's experience at Capernaum: "And
straightway many were gathered together, _insomuch that there was no
room to receive them, no, not so much as about the door_: and he
PREACHED THE WORD unto them."
That reads a good deal like the description of Savonarola's
congregations, or of Wesley's, or of the young revivalist in Wales.
No difficulty about _their_ audiences--or congregations, if you insist
on being technical.
Of course, everybody understands that preaching and faith and all that
is not everything that the young minister must do for his fellow man.
"Faith without works is dead." Everybody who has read the Bible
understands that.
But this paper is on "The Young Man and the Pulpit"--an attempt to
give him an idea of how the people he is going to preach to look at
this matter, how they regard him, and, above all else, what the people
to whom his life work is devoted really need and really want above
everything else in this world.
Don't preach woe, punishment, and all mournfulness to the people all
the time. Where you find sin, go ahead and denounce it mercilessly;
but do it crisply, cuttingly, not dully and innocuously. Speak to
kill. Do not forget that the Master told the people of His day that
they "were a generation of vipers."
But that was not the burden of His appeal. He knew that there were
other things in the world and human nature besides sin. Mostly He
spoke of "things lovely and of good report." Remember that His coming
was announced as a bringing of "good tidings of great joy."
The Sermon on the Mount is the perfection of thought, feeling, and
expression. Make it your example. You will recall that it begins:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit." It is full of "blessed" and
blessings, of consolations and encouragements and loving promises of
beautiful certainties. "Ye are the light of the world," He said. The
Sermon on the Mount radiates sense and kindness and prayer.
The One understood that most glorious truth of all truths--that there
is some good in each of us, and that if that good only could be
recognized and encouraged it would overcome the bad in us. You will
remember the saying: "A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump."
So don't be an orator of melancholy. There is enough sadness in the
world without your adding to it by either visage, conduct, or sermon.
Besides, it is not what you are directed to do. The people would be
very glad if you could say with Isaiah that
"The Lord hath anointed me to preach _good tidings_ unto the meek; ...
he hath sent me _to proclaim liberty_ to the captives, and the
opening of the prison to them that are bound; to proclaim _the
acceptable year_ of the Lord ... to _comfort_ all that mourn ... to
give unto them _beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the
garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness_."
That is the kind of talk that will cheer the people, and it is the
kind of talk that will do the people good. There is nothing "blue"
about that. And it is what the Book bids you tell the people. The
people want it, too, and need it--they _need_ "beauty for ashes, the
oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of
heaviness."
Ah! yes, indeed, that is worth while. Your pews will never be empty if
such be the fruit of your lips and the ripeness of your spirit. The
people want to hear about something better than they know or have
known.
"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth
good tidings."
Nobody likes a scold. Of course, when it is necessary to scold, go
ahead and scold. But don't make scolding a practise. Your congregation
will not stand being abused; they will not stand it unless they
actually need it, and then they will stand it. Unconsciously they will
know that the stripes you lay upon them are medicine after all, and
for their healing.
But ordinarily everybody has such a hard time that they would like to
hear about "a good time coming." Ordinarily everybody is so tired that
they would like to hear something like this: "Come unto me all ye that
labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."
The religion which you preach owes its vitality to the glorious
hopefulness of it. The people want to know that if they do well here
joy awaits them hereafter, and here, too, if possible. They want to
hear about the "Father's house" that has "many mansions," and about
Him who has "gone to prepare a place" for them.
They demand happiness in some form, if only in talk. If they do not
get it in the assurances of religion, who can blame them if they say:
"Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die." For sure
enough they _do_ die to-morrow, so far as their world goes.
If you do not believe that religion means happiness, quit the pulpit
and raise potatoes. Potatoes feed the body at least. But unfaithful
words or speech of needless despair feed nothing at all. It is "east
wind." Put beauty, hope, joy, into your preaching, therefore. Make
your listeners thrill with gladness that they are Christians. Even the
men of the world have wisdom enough to make things profane as
attractive as possible.
Note, for example, that most successful books are hopeful books that
tell of the beautiful things of human life and character. Especially
is this true of novels, the most widely read of all books of transient
modern literature. The hero always wins--virtue always triumphs. There
are remarkable exceptions no doubt--but they are exceptions. Now and
then there are remarkable novels which scourge with the whips of the
Furies, as indeed most of Savonarola's sermons flagellated.
With all your faith and the fervor of it, be full of thought. Merely
to believe burningly is not enough. Nobody will listen to you declaim
the confession and then declaim it over and over again and nothing
more. Even pious monotony palls. Bread is the staff of life; and yet
too much bread eaten at one time will kill. Food, taken in excess,
becomes poison.
I have emphasized the necessity for faith because it will always be
the very soul of your influence over your audience. It is the power
behind your ideas. Faith is the dynamics of truth. But do not forget
that you have got to _have_ ideas. You have got to _have_ truth.
In every word you utter you must be a teacher.
After all, teaching is the only oratory. Luke says of the Master that
"he _taught_ the people." In reporting the Sermon on the Mount,
Matthew says that "he opened his mouth and _taught_ them." Time and
again I have heard hard-headed business men and sturdy farmers say of
a particularly instructive sermon: "I like to hear that preacher; I
always _learn_ something from him."
And let your discourse be full of "sweet reasonableness." Peter tells
you "to be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you
a reason for the hope that is within you," although Peter himself
seldom gave a reason for anything.
You cannot do this without study. "After you have shot off a gun you
have got to load it before you can shoot it off again," said a wise
old preacher who retained the hold of his youth upon his
congregations. Never cease to renew yourself from every possible
source of thought and knowledge.
Books, society, solitude, the woods, the crowded streets--all things
in this varied universe have in them replenishings for your mind.
Don't become burnt powder. Keep young. That is your problem and
life's. For mind and soul that is no hard problem, after all.
Don't repeat your sermons if you can help it. That is hard advice, I
know; but to repeat your sermons is a phase of arrested development
and a method of bringing it about. It is unfortunate for you that
things are so ordered that you must preach a new sermon every Sunday.
The Saviour did not do it, nor did any of his personal followers. They
taught when "the spirit moved them." I think none of the great
preachers ever spoke with machine-like periodicity--certainly
Savonarola did not. He preached only when occasion demanded it.
But that is neither here nor there. Preaching every Sunday is our
custom and therefore preach every Sunday you must. I repeat that it is
hard on you, and we sympathize with you; but, as a practical matter,
it is all the more reason why you should ceaselessly fertilize your
intellect. Your audience will pity you, but they are not going to
listen to any twice-told tales, pity or no pity.