THE DIVISIONS—INTRODUCTION—DISCUSSION—CONCLUSION.
The sermon is the culmination of ministerial labor. Other duties are
important, but preaching is highest of all. Example, conversation,
private influence, only prepare the way for the great Sabbath work. In
it the minister can speak to the assembled multitude with the freedom
and boldness of truth. The believer receives deeper insight into God’s
ways, and directions for his own walk. The careless listen while he
denounces impending wrath and shows the only means of escape. He wields
tremendous power, and if sincere and unselfish, he cannot fail to win
stars for his heavenly crown.
We will consider the sermon under the three parts of introduction,
discussion and conclusion. It is often divided more minutely, but these
will be sufficient for our purpose.
Nothing is harder to frame than a good introduction. It is
indispensable, for, however we may approach our subject there is a first
moment when silence is broken and our thoughts introduced. The rustle of
closing hymn books and the subsiding murmur of the audience, tell the
speaker that the time has come. If he be sensitive, or has never spoken
before, his pulse beats fast, his face flushes, an indescribable feeling
of faintness and fear thrills every nerve. He advances to the pulpit,
and reads from the Bible the words that are to be the warrant for his
utterances, and breathing a silent prayer for help, opens his lips, and
hears the tremulous echo of his own voice.
There is a vast difference between reciting and extemporizing at first,
and the advantage is all on the side of recitation. Every word is in its
proper place, and the speaker is perfectly calm and self-confident. He
is sure that his memory will not fail in the opening, and will usually
throw his whole power into it, causing his voice to ring clear and loud
over the house. But it is different with the extempore speaker. He is
sure of nothing, and the weight of the whole speech is heavy on his
mind. He is glancing ahead, striving to forecast the coming sentences,
as well as caring for those gliding over the tongue, and his first
expressions may be feeble and ungraceful. Yet this display of modesty
and timidity will conciliate the audience and secure their good will. We
can scarcely fail to distinguish an extemporized discourse from a
recited one, by the difference in the introduction alone.
Some persons commit the opening passages of the sermon, to avoid the
pain and hesitancy of an unstudied beginning. But while this may
accomplish the immediate object, it is apt to be at the expense of the
remaining part of the discourse. The mind cannot pass easily from
recitation to extemporization, and the voice, being too freely used at
first, loses its power. The hearers having listened to highly polished
language, cannot so well relish the plain words that follow, and the
whole sermon, which, like the condor, may have pitched from Alpine
summits, falls fast and far until the lowest level is reached. A written
introduction may be modest and unpretending, but unless it is exactly
like unstudied speech there will be a painful transition.
A favorite method of avoiding these difficulties is to make no formal
introduction, but plunge at once into the heart of the subject.
Occasionally, this can be done to good advantage, and tends to prevent a
monotonous uniformity. But as a rule it is better to prepare the minds
of our hearers by all needed observations, and gradually lead them to
our subject.
The introduction should not be left to the chance of the moment. It
requires more careful study than any other part of the sermon, for the
tide of speech, which may afterward bear us over many barriers, is not
then in full flow. But the preparation should be general, and not extend
to the words. A first sentence may be forecast, but much beyond this
will do harm. For the introduction should not be the part of the
discourse longest remembered. It would be better to omit it, than to
have the attention distracted from the main subject. For this reason
nothing far-fetched or hard to be understood should be admitted. But,
beginning with some familiar thought closely connected with the text, it
should remove difficulties and open the whole subject for discussion.
Much is gained if, at the outset, we can arrest the attention and win
the sympathy of our hearers. They come together from many different
employments, with thoughts fixed on various objects, and it is a
difficult task to remove these distracting influences and cause the
assembly to dwell with intense interest on one subject. Sometimes a
startling proposition will accomplish this end. Earnestness in the
speaker tends powerfully toward it. But sameness must be carefully
avoided. If every sermon is carried through an unvarying number of
always-expressed divisions and subdivisions, the hearer knows what is
coming, and loses all curiosity. We have heard of a minister who made it
a rule to consider the nature, reason and manner of everything he spoke
of. He would ask the questions: “What is it? Why is it? How is it?” The
eloquence of Paul would not many times have redeemed such an
arrangement.
A considerable degree of inattention is to be expected in every audience
at first, and the speaker’s opening words may be unheard by many and
unheeded by all. It is useless to attempt by violent means and loudness
of voice to awaken them from their indifference. The preacher may safely
bide his time. If his words have weight and his manner indicate
confidence, one by one will listen, until that electric thrill of
sympathy, impossible to describe, but which can be felt as easily as an
accord in music, will vibrate through the hearts of all present. Then
the orator’s power is fully developed, and it is delightful to use it.
This silent, pulsating interest is more to be desired than vehement
applause, for it cannot be counterfeited, and indicates that the hearts
of the assemblage have been reached, and fused by the fires of
eloquence, and are ready to be molded into any desired form. Happy the
minister who has this experience, for if his own heart is enlightened by
the Holy Spirit, he can stamp on the awakened multitude the seal of
undying truth.
The introduction should be plain, simple and direct. But its very
simplicity renders it more difficult to construct. Preachers who are
great in almost everything else, often fail by making their
introductions too complicated, thus defeating their own purpose as
surely as the engineer who gives his road such steep grades, that no
train can pass over it. Others deliver a string of platitudes that no
one wishes to hear, and the audience grows restive at the very
beginning.
When from these or other causes, the sermon is misbegun, the
consequences are likely to be serious. The thought is forced home on the
speaker, with icy weight, that he is failing, and this conviction
paralyzes all his faculties. He talks on, but grows more and more
embarrassed. Incoherent sentences drop from him, requiring painful
explanation to prevent them from degenerating into perfect nonsense. The
outline of his plan dissolves into mist. The points he intended to make,
and thought strong and important, now appear very trivial. He blunders
on with little hope ahead. The room may grow dark before him, and in the
excess of his discomfort, he ardently longs for the time when he can
close without absolute disgrace. But, alas! the end seems far off. In
vain he searches for some avenue of escape. There is none. His throat
becomes dry and parched, and the command of his voice is lost. The
audience grow restive, for they are tortured, as well as the speaker,
and if he were malicious he might find some alleviation in this. But he
has no time to think of it, or if he does, it reacts on himself. No one
can help him. At last, in sheer desperation, he cuts the Gordian knot,
and stops—perhaps seizing some swelling sentence, and hurling it as a
farewell volley at the audience—or speaks of the eternal rest, which no
doubt appears very blissful in comparison with his own unrest—then sits
down bathed in sweat, and feeling that he is disgraced forever! If he is
very weak or foolish, he resolves that he will never speak again without
manuscript, or, if wiser, that he will not only understand his
discourse, but how to begin it.
The passage from the introduction to the discussion should be gradual.
To make the transition smoothly, and strike the subject just at the
right point, continuing the interest that may have been previously
excited, is a most important achievement. A strong, definite purpose
materially assists in this, for it dwells equally in all parts of the
sermon. The object is clearly in view, and we go right up to it with no
wasted words, while the people cheerfully submit to our guidance because
they see that we have an aim before us. But if this be absent we may
steer around our subject, and are never quite ready to enter upon it,
even if we are not wrecked at the outset. A careful preparation of the
plan will do much to prevent this, but it is not enough, for the words
and phrases are not to be prepared. With every precaution, the best of
speakers may fail at this point, and the more brilliant the introduction
the more marked will the failure be. When this danger is safely passed,
he is in the open sea, and the triumphs of eloquence are before him.
There is great pleasure in speaking well. An assembly hanging on the
words, and thinking the thoughts of a single man, gives to him the most
subtile kind of flattery, and he needs to beware how he yields to its
influence, or his fall will be speedy and disastrous. The triumphs of
oratory are very fascinating. The ability to sway our fellow men at
will—to bind them with the strong chain of our thought, and make them
willing captives—produces a delirious and intoxicating sense of power.
But this is very transient, and unless taken advantage of at the moment,
to work some enduring result, it fades, like the beautiful cloud-work of
morning, before the rising sun. Even during the continuance of a sermon
it is hard to maintain the influence of a happy moment. Persons not
unfrequently give utterance to some great and noble thought, that echoes
in the hearts of the audience, and the nameless thrill of eloquence is
felt, but some irrelevant phrase, or commonplace sentiment dissolves all
the charm. To avoid this, the whole discourse must be of a piece, and
rise in power until the object is accomplished.
Diffuseness is often supposed to be an essential quality of
extemporaneous speech. It is not such, though many speakers do fall into
it. The reason of this fault is that they are not content to place the
subject in a strong light by one forcible and luminous expression, but
say nearly what they mean, and continue their efforts until they are
satisfied. They furnish no clear view of anything, but give a sort of
twilight intimation of their idea. But serious as this fault is, it may
easily be overcome. Exquisite finish, and elaborate arrangement are not
to be expected in off-hand speech, but we may give force and true
shading to every idea just as well as in writing.
To express exactly what we mean at the first effort, is one of the
greatest beauties of a spoken style. The hearer is filled with grateful
surprise when some new and living idea is placed before him, clothed in
a single word or sentence. But a diffuse speaker gives so many
premonitions of his thought, that the audience comprehend it before he
is half through the discussion, and are forced to await his ending, in
listless weariness. He never receives credit for an original idea,
because his advances toward it call up the same thought in the mind of
his hearers, and when formally presented it has lost all novelty, and
seems to be trite.
The same study that will impart the power of condensation in writing
will do it in speech, for it can only be obtained in either by earnest,
persevering effort. Frequently forecast what to say, and drive it into
the smallest possible number of vivid, expressive words; then, without
memorizing the language, reproduce the same thought briefly as possible
in the hurry of speech. It may be less compact than the studied
production, but if so, let the effort be repeated with the knowledge of
where the defect is, and this continued until it can be cast into bold,
well-defined outlines at a single impulse. This process, often repeated,
will give the ability to condense, but in order to exercise it
successfully another quality is needed. We must be able to resist the
seduction of fine language. No sentence should be introduced because it
glitters or sparkles, for a single unnecessary word that requires others
to explain its use, may damage a whole sermon. Let the best words be
chosen with reference to beauty and impressiveness as well as strict
appropriateness, but the latter must never be sacrificed. The danger of
showy language in speech is greater than in a written composition, for
if the writer be drawn too far away, he can go back and begin again,
while the speaker has only one trial. If beauties lie in his way all the
better, but he must never leave his path to search for them.
Bishop Simpson’s lecture on “The Future of our Country,” was a model of
compactness. Every gaudy ornament was discarded, and short, simple
sentences conveyed ideas that would have furnished a florid speaker with
inexhaustible material. The whole discourse was radiant with true
beauty—the beauty of thought shining through the drapery of words, and
each idea, unweakened by any pause of expectation, struck the mind as
new truth, or the echo of what was felt, but never so well expressed
before.
We have seen directions for “expanding thought,” and have heard young
speakers admire the ease and skill with which it was done. But thoughts
are not like medicines which require dilution in order to be more
certain in their effects, and more readily taken. It is far better to
give the essence of an idea, and go on to something else. If thoughts
are too few, it is more profitable to dig and delve for others, than to
attenuate and stretch what we have. We need deep, burning, throbbing
conceptions that will live without artificial aid.
A similar error exists in regard to the kind of language best adapted to
oratory. High-sounding epithets and latinized words are sometimes
supposed to be the proper dress of eloquence. These might give an
impression of our learning or wisdom to an ignorant audience, but could
not strike the chords of living sympathy that link all hearts together.
Language is only available as a medium, so far as hearer and speaker
understand it in common. If we use a term the congregation have seldom
heard, even if they can arrive at its meaning, it will lose all its
force whilst they are striving to understand it. But one of the homely
Saxon words that dwell on the lips of the people, will unlade its
meaning in the heart as soon as its sound strikes the ear. For while
uncommon words erect a barrier around thought, familiar ones are perhaps
not noticed at all, leaving the feeling to strike directly to its mark.
The only reason why Saxon derivatives are so powerful, is because they
are usually the words of every-day life. But the test of usefulness is
not in etymology. If terms of Latin or French origin have passed into
the life of the people, they will serve the highest purpose of the
orator. Of coarse, all debased and slang words should be rejected. We do
not plead for “the familiarity that breeds contempt.” The two great
requisites in the use of words are, that they should exactly express our
idea, and be familiar to the audience. Melody and association should not
be despised, but they are secondary.
Every sermon should have strong points upon which especial reliance is
placed. A general has his choice battalions reserved to pierce the
enemy’s line at the decisive moment, and win the battle. It is important
to know how to place these reserved thoughts, that all their weight may
be felt.
A crisis occurs in nearly every sermon—a moment when a strong argument
or a fervent appeal will produce the result intended, or when failure
becomes inevitable—just as a vigorous charge, or the arrival of
reinforcements, will turn the scale of battle, when the combatants grow
weary and dispirited. The speaker, knowing what his object is, should so
dispose his forces as to drive steadily toward it, and when within
reach, put forth all his power in one mighty effort, achieving the
result for which the whole speech was intended. If neglected, such
chances seldom return, and an hour’s talk may fail to accomplish as much
as one good burning sentence thrown in at the right time. This should be
foreseen, and the idea, which we know to be the key of our discourse,
carefully prepared—in thought, not word.
Quotations, either in prose or poetry, may be often used to good
advantage, but should be short, appropriate and secondary. The grand
effect of an extempore discourse must not depend on a borrowed passage,
or its character will be changed, and its originality lost.
We have all along taken it for granted that deep thought underlies the
whole discourse. Without this, a sermon or any serious address deserves
no success. Under some circumstances nothing is expected but sound to
tickle the ear. This is play, while the eloquence of the pulpit is
solemn work. The very fact that the speaker has a solid and worthy
foundation, gives him confidence. He knows that if his words are not
ringing music, he will still have a claim on the attention of his
auditors.
It is not necessary that our thoughts should extend far beyond the
depths of the common mind, for the most weighty truths lie nearest to
the surface, and within the reach of all. But most men do not dwell long
enough on one subject to understand even its obvious features, and when
these are fully mastered and presented in striking form, it is like a
new revelation. A good illustration of this is found in the sublimity
that Kitto imparts to the journeyings of the Israelites. Very few new
facts are stated, but all are so arranged and vivified by a thoughtful
mind, that the subject grows into new meaning. Let the preacher, by
speaking extempore, save his time for investigation and study, and his
sermons will soon have a charm beyond any jingling combination of words.
Is the minister, as he stands before a congregation with their eyes
fixed upon him, to expect them to be overwhelmed by his eloquence? Such
a result is possible, but is seldom attained, especially when sought
for. If persons attempt what is beyond their power, the only result will
be to render themselves ridiculous. But good sense and solid usefulness
are within the reach of all. Any man who studies a subject till he knows
more about it than others do, can interest them in a fireside
explanation, if they care for the matter at all. He communicates his
facts in a plain style and they understand him. Many persons will sit
delighted till midnight to hear a man converse, but will go to sleep if
he address them half an hour in public. In the first case he talks, and
is simple and unaffected; in the other he speaks, and uses a style
stiffened up for the occasion. When Henry Clay was asked how he became
so eloquent, he said he knew nothing about it; when he commenced an
address he had only the desire to speak what he had prepared (not
committed), and adhered to this until he was enwrapped in his subject
and carried away, he knew not how. This is a characteristic of the
modern, as opposed to the ancient, school of eloquence. The latter
memorized, while our greatest speakers only arrange, and speak in a
plain, business style, until hurried by the passion of the moment into
bolder flights. If this does not happen, they still give a good and
instructive speech.
These few considerations may be of use when the speaker stands in the
pulpit, but he must rely on his own tact for the management of details.
Closely observing the condition of the audience, taking advantage of
every favoring circumstance, he moves steadily towards his object. With
an unobstructed road before him, which he has traveled in thought until
it is familiar, he will advance with ease and certainty. As he gazes
into the intent faces around, new ideas arise, and, if fitting, are
woven into what was previously prepared, often with thrilling effect.
Each emotion kindled by sympathy will embody itself in words that touch
the heart as nothing prepared could do, and each moment his own
conviction sinks deeper in the hearts of his hearers.
There are three principal ways of concluding a sermon. The first, and
most graceful, is to condense a clear view of the whole argument, and
leave the audience with the comprehensive impression thus made. This is
admirably adapted to discourses the principal object of which is to
convince the understanding. To throw the whole sweep of the argument,
every point of which has been enforced, into a few telling, easily
remembered sentences, will go far to make the impression permanent.
The old plan of closing with an exhortation, is perhaps the most
generally beneficial. An application is the same thing in substance,
only a little less pungent and personal. In it the whole sermon is made
to bear on the duty of the moment. It should be closely connected with
what went before; for a general exhortation, fitting the end of every
sermon, cannot well apply to any. All the sermon should be gathered up,
as it were, and hurled as a solid mass into the hearts and consciences
of those whom we wish to affect, thus making it a real “thrust,” of
which the exhortation is the barbed point. It should be short, and no
new matter introduced at the time the audience are expecting the end.
The third method is to break off when the last item is finished. If the
lines of the argument are few and simple, or so strong that they cannot
fail to be remembered, there is no need to recapitulate them. And if the
exhortation has kept pace with the progress of the sermon, there is no
place for it at the close. If both these coincide, a formal conclusion
would be a superfluity. It is only necessary to finish the development
of the plan, care being taken that the last idea discussed shall be one
of dignity and importance. This is simply stopping when done, and is
certainly an easy method of closing, though, in practice, too often
neglected.