PRELIMINARIES—FEAR—VIGOR—OPENING EXERCISES.
It is an anxious moment when, after having completed his preparation,
the preacher awaits the time for beginning his intellectual battle. Men
who are physically brave often tremble in this emergency. The shame of
failure appears worse than death itself, and as the soldier feels more
of cold and shrinking terror while listening for the peal of the first
gun, than when the conflict deepens into blood around him, so the
speaker suffers more in this moment of expectancy than in any that comes
after. He sees the danger in its full magnitude without the inspiration
that attends it. Yet he must remain calm and collected, for unless he is
master of himself, he cannot expect to rule the multitude before him. He
must keep his material well in hand, that it may be used at the proper
time, although it is not best to be continually conning over what he has
to say. The latter would destroy the freshness of his matter, and bring
him to the decisive test weary and jaded. He only needs to be assured
that his thoughts are within reach.
It is very seldom possible to banish all fear, and it is to the
speaker’s advantage that he cannot. His timidity arises from several
causes, which differ widely in the effects they produce. A conscious
want of preparation is one of the most distressing of these. When this
proceeds from willful neglect no pity need be felt, although the penalty
should be severe. If the speaker’s object is only to win reputation—to
pander to his own vanity—he will feel more terrified than if his motive
were worthy. Such is often the position of the uncalled minister. He can
have no help from on high, and all his prayers for divine assistance are
a mere mockery. But if we speak because we dare not refrain, a mighty
point is gained, for then failure is no reproach. And the less of
earthly pride or ambition mingles with our motives, the more completely
can we rely on the help of the Spirit.
Another cause of fear is less unworthy. The glorious work in which we
are engaged may suffer from our insufficiency; for, while God will bless
the truth when given in its own beauty and power, there is still scope
enough for all the vigor of intellect, and the strongest preacher feels
the responsibility of rightly using his powers resting heavily upon him.
A general dread, that cannot be analyzed or accounted for, is perhaps
more keenly felt than any other. Persons who have never spoken sometimes
make light of it, but no one will ever do so who has experienced it. The
soldier, who has never witnessed a battle, or felt the air throb with
the explosion of cannon, or heard the awful cries of the wounded, is
often a great braggart, while “the scarred veteran of a hundred fights”
never speaks of the carnival of blood without shuddering, and would be
the last, but for the call of duty, to brave the danger he knows so
well. A few speakers never feel such fear, but it is because they do not
know what true speaking is. They have never felt the full tide of
inspiration that sometimes lifts the orator far above his ordinary
conceptions. They only come forward to relieve themselves of the
interminable stream of twaddle that wells spontaneously to their lips,
and can well be spared the pangs that precede the birth of a profound
and living discourse.
This kind of fear belongs to oratory of any character, but especially to
that which deals with sacred themes. It resembles the awe felt on the
eve of all great enterprises, and when excessive, as it is in some
highly gifted and sensitive minds, it constitutes an absolute bar to
public speech. But in most cases it is a source of inspiration rather
than of repression.
There is a strange sensation often experienced in the presence of an
audience before speaking. It may proceed from the united electric
influence of the many eyes that are turned upon the speaker, especially
if he catches their gaze. It may enchain him and leave him powerless,
unless he rises superior to it, and, throwing it backward to its source,
makes it the medium of his most subtile conquests. Most speakers have
felt this in a nameless thrill, a real something, pervading the
atmosphere, tangible, evanescent, indescribable. All writers have borne
testimony to the effect of a speaker’s glance in impressing an audience.
Why should not their eyes have a reciprocal power?
By dwelling on the object for which we speak, and endeavoring to realize
its full importance, we will in a measure lose sight of the danger to be
incurred, and our minds be more likely to remain in a calm and tranquil
state. But no resource is equal to the sovereign one of prayer. The Lord
will remember his servants when they are laboring in his cause, and
grant a divine influence to prepare them for the work.
No change in the plan should be made just before speaking, for it will
almost inevitably produce confusion. Yet this error is very difficult to
avoid. The mind has a natural tendency to be going over the same ground,
revising and testing every point, and is liable to make changes, the
consequences of which cannot at once be foreseen. After all necessary
preparation has been made, we should wait the result quietly and
hopefully. Over-study is possible, and when accompanied by great
solicitude, is a sure means of driving away all interest from the
subject. If the eye be fixed too long upon one object, with a steadfast
gaze, it will be unable to see at all. So the mind, if confined to one
point for a great period, will lose its vivacity, and grow weary.
Nothing can compensate for the want of elasticity and vigor in the act
of delivery. It is not enough to enumerate a dry list of particulars,
but we must enter into their spirit with the deepest interest. This
cannot be counterfeited. To clearly arrange, and weigh every thought
that belongs to the subject, lay it aside until the time for speech, and
then enter upon it with only such a momentary glance as will assure us
that all is right, is doubtless the method to make our strength fully
available. To await the decisive moment with calm self-confidence, is
very difficult, especially for beginners, but the ability to do it may
be acquired by judicious practice and firm resolution. M. Bautain, whose
experience was very extensive, says that he has sometimes felt so
confident of his preparation, as to fall asleep while waiting to be
summoned to the pulpit!
But those who misimprove the last moments by too much thought, form the
smallest class. Many, through mere indolence, permit the finer lines of
the future discourse, that have been traced with so much care, to fade
out. This not unfrequently happens to those who preach a second or third
time on the same subject. Because they have succeeded once, they imagine
that the same success is always at command. This is a hurtful, though
natural error. It is not enough to have the material for a sermon where
it may be collected by a conscious and prolonged effort, but it must be
in the foreground. There is no time, in the moment of delivery, for
reviving half obliterated lines of memory.
We once witnessed an instance of most unexpected failure from this
cause. The speaker was much engrossed with other duties until the
appointed hour, and then, having no leisure for preparation, he selected
a sermon he had preached shortly before, and with the general course of
which he was no doubt familiar. Yet when he endeavored to produce his
thoughts they were not ready. He became embarrassed, and was finally
compelled to take his seat in the midst of his intended discourse.
It is well, during the last interval, to care for the strength of the
body, for its condition will influence all the manifestations of mind.
It is said that the pearl-diver, before venturing into the depths of the
sea, always spends a few moments in deep breathing, and other bodily
preparation. In the excitement of speech, the whirl and hurricane of
emotion, it is necessary that our physical condition should be such as
to bear all the tension put upon it. Mental excitement wears down the
body faster than muscular labor. To meet all its demands we must reserve
our strength for the time it is needed; for any illness will operate as
a direct reduction of the orator’s power, and he must not hope, under
its influence, to realize full success.
Holyoake makes the following pertinent observations in reference to this
point:
“Perhaps the lowest quality of the art of oratory, but one on many
occasions of the _first importance_, is a certain robust and radiant
physical health; great volumes of animal heat. In the cold thinness of a
morning audience, mere energy and mellowness is inestimable; wisdom and
learning would be harsh and unwelcome compared with a substantial man,
who is quite a house-warming.”
The picture painted in romances of a speaker with attenuated form, and
trembling step, scarcely able to sustain his own weight as he ascends
the platform, but who, the moment he opens his lips, becomes
transfigured in the blaze of eloquence, is more poetical than natural.
Let the instrument be in perfect tune, and then can the hand of genius
evoke from it sweet and thrilling music.
As the time for speaking approaches every fatiguing exertion should be
avoided.
In the “Rudiments of Public Speaking,” Holyoake gives a passage from his
own experience which well illustrates this:
“One Saturday I walked from Sheffield to Huddersfield to deliver on the
Sunday two anniversary lectures. It was my first appearance there, and I
was ambitious to acquit myself well. But in the morning I was utterly
unable to do more than talk half inaudibly and quite incoherently. In
the evening I was tolerable, but my voice was weak. My annoyance was
excessive. I was a paradox to myself. My power seemed to come and go by
some eccentric law of its own. I did not find out till years after that
the utter exhaustion of my strength had exhausted the powers of speech
and thought, and that entire repose instead of entire fatigue should
have been the preparation for public speaking.”
Absolute rest is not generally advisable, for then the preacher would
enter the pulpit with languid mind and slowly beating pulse, and would
require some time to overcome this state. A brisk walk, when the health
is good, will invigorate and refresh all his faculties, and in part
prevent the feebleness and faintness of a listless introduction, by
enabling him to grasp the whole subject at once, and launch right into
the heart of it. Should any one doubt the power of exercise to produce
this effect, let him, when perplexed with difficult questions in his
study, start out over fields and hills, and review the matter in the
open air. If the minister cannot secure this kind of exercise he may
easily find a substitute. If alone, he can pace back and forth, and
swing his arms, until the circulation becomes brisk, and pours a stream
of arterial blood to the brain that will supply all its demands.
Another simple exercise will often prove of great advantage. It is well
known that many ministers injure themselves by speaking too much from
the throat. This results from improper breathing—from elevating the
upper part of the chest instead of pressing the abdomen downward and
outward, causing the air to pass through the whole length of the lungs.
To breathe properly is always important, and does much to prevent chest
and throat diseases. But it is worthy of the most careful attention on
the part of the speaker, for by it alone can he attain full compass and
range of voice. But in animated extempore speech there is no time to
think of the voice at all, and the only method possible is to make the
right way so habitual that it will be adopted instinctively. This will
be greatly promoted if, just before beginning to speak, we will breathe
deeply a number of times, inflating the lungs completely to their
extremities.
At this last hour, the speaker must not dwell upon the dangers he is
about to encounter, or picture the desirability of escape from them. He
has taken every precaution and made every preparation. Nothing remains
for him but to put his trust in God, and bravely do his duty.
The order of opening services is different in the different churches,
but in all they are of great advantage to the minister by overcoming
excessive timidity, and giving an easy introduction to the audience. The
hymn, or psalm, is to be read, which is not a very embarrassing task,
and in doing it he becomes familiar with the sound of his own voice. Yet
it requires many rare qualities to read well. Good sense and modesty are
essential. The theatric method, sometimes admired, exaggerating every
tone, and performing strange acrobatic feats of sound, tends to dispel
the solemn awe and reverence that should gather around the sanctuary.
Let the hymn be read quietly, with room for rise as well as fall, and
all be perfectly natural and unaffected. The sentiment expressed by the
voice should correspond with the meaning of the words. Even in this
preliminary exercise, it is possible to strike a chord that will vibrate
in unison through the hearts of preacher and people.
Prayer is still more important. When it is read, the same remarks apply
as to the reading of the hymns. Each word should be made the echo of an
inward feeling. But in most American churches prayer is extempore. The
minister addresses heaven in his own words, on behalf of himself and
congregation. The golden rule here is to pray really to God. That
minister had no reason to feel flattered, whose prayer was commended as
the most eloquent ever offered to a Boston congregation! The mass of
humanity before us should only be thought of, in order to express their
wants, and to intercede for them at a throne of grace. The simpler our
language the better it is fitted for this purpose. Gaudy rhetoric, and
even the charm of melodious words, if in the slightest degree sought
for, is out of place. The only praise that should be desired from a
congregation, in regard to their pastor’s prayers, is the acknowledgment
that their holy yearnings and aspirations, as well as their needs, have
been clearly expressed. All beyond this is disgusting.
Neither should fervid utterance be strained after. If deep emotions
arise, and express themselves in the voice, it is well. But without
these, mere loudness of tone will be empty noise; the prayer will be the
hardest part of the service; and complex metaphors and profuse poetical
quotations will afford very inadequate relief. But if the heart be full
it is easy to pray, and this renders all the remainder of the service
easier. A bond of true spiritual sympathy unites the preacher with all
the good in his congregation, and as he rises to speak, their prayers
are given for his success.