Can guilty people count on God’s help? John Piper opens Exodus 17:1–7 to show that Christ bought the help sinners need.

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Rigorous exposition isn’t at odds with engaging preaching. Pastor John encourages pastors to work for creativity when technical, abstract sermons feel easier.

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Parents, let’s ask ourselves a searching question: If our children had to say what God is like based on how we act toward them, what might they say?

Note that the question concerns not “what we teach them” but “how we act toward them” — our typical moods and demeanors, our everyday ways and words, our knee-jerk reflexes and responses. As our children think about ordinary moments in relationship with us, what might they say God is like?

Would they come close to saying, “God is happy”?

“God’s glory consists much in the fact that he is happy beyond our wildest imaginations,” John Piper writes (The Pleasures of God, 26). And this God has placed you and me in the closest relationship to the most impressionable people in order that they might catch a glimmer of his immense joy. God intends every parent to be a portrait of his happiness.

At times, I imagine my own children would be more likely to say, “God is well-organized” or “God is hard-working” than “God is happy.” At worse times, they may say, “God is distracted” or “God is busy.” So how do parents like me give our kids a clearer glimpse of God’s pleasure?

For the dad or mom who delights in Christ, the happiness of God spills out everywhere, from car rides to mealtimes to bedsides. But one activity offers an especially apt opportunity to embody God’s joy: play.

Playful God, Playful World

Some Christians may balk at the suggestion that the God of Scripture is not only happy but playful. And, granted, in a world of sin and death, the Bible shows God’s seriousness far more than his playfulness. But if we conceive of play as an “imaginative, non-compulsory, non-utilitarian activity” filled with creativity and laughter, then, yes, the living God is a playful God.

What else accounts for the world we live in, even on this side of the curse? If the Creator of the world were always serious, never playful, he may have made a universe of order and logic, but would he have made one of endless variety and beauty, filled with unnecessary delights? Would he have made not just tongues but honey, not just ears but harmonies, not just eyes but wildflowers? Genesis 1–2, Psalm 104, the divine speeches in Job, and the exuberance all around us declare the glory of a happy and playful God.

So too do the children in our homes. I sometimes stop to marvel that God, who could have created children any way he wanted, created them like this. He created them silly and squirrelly. He created them ready to be tossed and tickled. He created them breathless with excitement to tell you something new. He created them unable to speak fluently and therefore liable to the most ridiculous sayings. He created them tireless in simple delights (“Again! Again!”). He created them endlessly imaginative. He created them playful.

Our kids’ playful qualities can be tainted by sin, of course, but the qualities themselves are not sinful, any more than a smile is sinful. If Eve had borne children in Eden, surely they would have giggled as much as any two-year-old — in fact, having no cause for sorrow, surely they would have giggled more.

If God created kids’ playful tendencies, then he delights in them (Genesis 1:31). And if he delights in them, then we reflect his joy when we delight in them too.

The Medicine of a Parent’s Laughter

If he had wanted, God could have created kids with the seriousness of a businessman. Instead, he created them in a way that makes businessmen silly again.

At work, a man may make spreadsheets or manage employees or design building plans. But at home, he slays dragons and builds castles and shoots arrows. At work, he is “project manager” or “software engineer.” But at home, he is by turns David and Goliath, Batman and Robin, the gallant knight and the knight’s gallant horse. At work, he labors. At home, he laughs.

Of course, home has its many serious moments as well, and a faithful father or mother knows when to be silly and when to be stern. But perhaps many of us need to remember how powerful the medicine of parents’ laughter is.

Our sighs and slumped shoulders communicate something true to a child, especially when we take time to explain them: The world is broken; evil is everywhere; Christ has not yet come back. And in an age as flippant and frivolous as ours, children need to feel just how badly sin has fractured human souls and societies. Through warnings and somber reminders, our own Father tells us the same (Romans 6:23; 1 John 2:15–17).

But he also tells us more. He tells us Christ rose and reigns. He tells us the darkness is already passing away, and our sins are forgiven, and a new world is coming. He gives us promise after promise that answers our sighs, lifts our shoulders, and makes us laugh. And just as “a joyful heart is good medicine” to the soul (Proverbs 17:22), so a joyful parent is good medicine to a child. And more than that, God is glorified in parents when their joy in him and their delight in his promises overflows in play.

In Zechariah, God illustrates his coming kingdom by saying, “The streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing” (Zechariah 8:5). Alongside seriousness, then, play also tells something true to a child: The happy God still lives and rules. And when he returns, “sorrow and sighing shall flee away” (Isaiah 35:10) — but laughter and play will remain.

Let Kids Be Kids

With a few young boys at home, my wife and I sometimes look at each other across a room filled with flailing limbs and shouts. We widen our eyes as if to say, “This is nuts” — and, at least in our better moments, “This is just as it should be.”

Of course, we sometimes need to tell our children that now is not the time for play. Or we need to say that, no, they cannot put marbles down the vents or use their brother’s belly as a skateboard. And we certainly need to pause play to right wrongs, discipline rebellion, and reconcile hearts. Play, like all of God’s gifts, needs wise limits. Play without boundaries brings pain.

But we would be wise to be wary of drawing those boundaries too tightly. In the Gospels, many adults try to dampen the liveliness of kids; our Lord never does. The disciples shooed the kids, the Pharisees shushed them, but Jesus drew them near and let them sing (Matthew 19:13–15; 21:15–16). He did not despise the childlike spirits he created.

At times, I shut down my kids’ play or refuse to join them not because they’re acting inappropriately but because I’m feeling annoyed. And what I need most is a fresh vision of my happy God, my happy Christ, who loves to let kids be kids.

Fellow parents, isn’t that what we need to help our kids see that God is happy? We need something beyond willpower or a resolve to laugh more or planned times of play. We need a sight of God’s smile — the infinite joy that flowed between Father and Son before the world began and then overflowed to us in Christ. God is magnified in our play when that play overflows from parents who have seen his smile.

Yes, the world is broken, evil is everywhere, and Christ has not yet come back. But God is happy, Christ is risen, and unending joy will soon roll through the universe. So tell your kids the good news, and then show it by taking your seat at a tea party, wrestling on the bed, making forts in the basement, or racing across the backyard. Play.

How do we respond when the curse encroaches on our lives? In Psalm 108, David guides us to groan, praise, ask, trust, and tread.

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Why should we refuse to get sucked in by the empty promises of this world? Because this age is passing away; nothing it offers will eternally satisfy.

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In a world bent on immediate gratification, the life of a missionary just doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would anyone give up the security of a job, the comforts of home, and the familiarity of friends, family, and culture to proclaim the gospel among another people in a different place?

The decision to give up a “normal” or “secure” life in exchange for one of missionary service seems brash, foolhardy, or thoughtless to many. In terms of worldly logic, it is. It’s like that reckless decision by a few fishermen some years ago when a former carpenter (whom some proclaimed to be the Messiah) beckoned them to drop their nets and leave the sea. “Immediately they left their nets and followed him” (Matthew 4:20). Careless. Hasty. Imprudent.

But is it really? Or is there something more? Might there be something we could, perhaps, call a “deeper logic” beneath those supposedly foolhardy decisions to leave behind a sure thing and risk all to obey the Carpenter’s call? While folly to the world, might the life of a missionary actually make sense?

Deeper Logic of Faith

A deep and profound logic, simple yet rich in its implications, undergirds the Christian faith. Set aside an earthly life — all that you might hope for and pursue in the interest of personal gain, fulfillment, and pleasure — in response to the call of the living God, and you will gain much more than you could hope for, both in the fleeting present and even more so in the eternal age to come (Mark 8:34–35; 10:29–30).

This logic is on full display in Hebrews 11. Writing to Christians who were considering a return to “safer” pastures, the author recounts the faith of patriarchs and poets and princes and prostitutes and prophets — men and women who by faith “conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, were made strong out of weakness, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight” (verses 33–34). They suffered significantly because they sought “a homeland” — “a better country, that is, a heavenly one” (verses 14, 16). They heeded God’s call. They forsook homes; they despised earthly wisdom and wealth; they faced hardship and heartache, hailing from afar “the things promised” them by God (verse 13).

Why risk so much? Assured that God, the one who made all things from nothing, keeps his promises — convinced that he whom we cannot see, the King of kings and Lord of lords, prepares for his people an eternal home in which righteousness dwells, a kingdom that cannot be shaken, a city that is to come — all those named and anonymous saints of old gladly obeyed their Lord’s command and faced significant suffering. They knew that all they could gain in the present age was mere dust and ashes in comparison to the reward he offered.

And so, recognizing that to which God in his grace called them, they obediently turned away from the assurance and visible benefit of their natural homelands — the rich lands of Mesopotamia, the wealthy palace of Pharaoh, the uncomplicated pastures in the hills of Bethlehem — to walk in hope through unknown lands. Dwelling among enemies, unsure of what the next steps might bring, they remained confident that the God who called them to a life of sojourning would accomplish his good purposes in and through them, and that he would finally bring them to the fatherland for which they truly longed.

Sure Promises

This same logic applies to the missionary call, which brings us back to where we started: Might following Christ’s call into a life of missionary service actually make sense?

When missionaries leave home — sent out by their local church to cross cultures, proclaim the gospel, and build up the church — they do so with tear-stained cheeks. Great loss accompanies missionary service. But that does not make the decision to go foolhardy. Laying aside the comforts of familiarity and embracing all the hardship of overseas life is, paradoxically, gain. No, that gain is not the worldly wager of measurable profits. Missionaries don’t chase such middling rewards. Instead, they embrace by faith the promise that God rewards his obedient and faithful servants with nothing less than eternal life in his presence.

In the bright light of the promises of God, the loss and hardship associated with missions appear, dare I say, paltry. It certainly doesn’t always feel that way in the midst of suffering. But when the eyes of faith look to the eternal city, when the ears of faith hear the song of the reigning King, when the heart of faith holds fast to what is promised, then saints, with feet of faith, boldly step into uncharted territory, counting their losses insignificant if they might pour out their lives in service to Christ. It is not a mistake to give up the fool’s gold of Egypt for the assured, pure wealth of eternity.

Missionary, your life does make sense. Yes, you will suffer. Yes, the tears are real. But the Carpenter’s promise remains sure. Don’t be afraid to leave the nets, for he who promises is faithful.

The heart of man is a fortress without a drawbridge. It is so hard and impregnable that it takes divine weapons and skilled soldiers to regularly invade it with the truth. Weekly, men equipped by the Spirit of God urge the dead to live and the sorely tempted to flee to Christ, to cling to Christ, firing God’s very words at their souls to save them. Men are dying; the saints are tempted and weary; has God spoken or not? He has indeed, and men preach sermons proclaiming those words.

These sermon arrows should be burning, precise, and piercing. So I contend that we need fewer lectures from the pulpit — and more sermons, impassioned, agonistic, flaming. We must not content ourselves merely to educate our hearers; we must aim (and strategize) to persuade, move, thrust them into the bright light of reality, where God reigns supreme and his gospel remains the urgent need of every soul.

Sermontaries

Some Reformed preaching has taken on a professorial character. In a landscape of fog machines, casual services, stool-chats, and religious entertainment, we are the Bible guys who really take Scripture seriously. We practice exegesis, not eisegesis. We enjoy original languages and commentaries. We love to study Scripture (and should) but tend to package what we have learned rather hastily into the weekly sermon. Too often, we default to bundling our observations by a title, a few summary headings, extrapolation on points that excite us, honorable mentions to pieces that didn’t, all appended by a few applications.

I’ve come across this so often that, like Adam, I felt compelled to name the creature. A sermontary is a multipoint sermon-commentary, preached sequentially through a section of Scripture. The good versions of sermontaries are true and even insightful expositions — that is, worthy teaching, just not often a great sermon. It teaches us what is there in the text — glorious — but does not rally those points under one main banner or reality. It differs from a Bible study in that only one person talks, and he has done more studying than the rest of us.

Where Arrows Land

As I see it, though the sermontary and the sermon share similar aims, they differ in their means.

Ask the sermontator, and he will answer that his aim is the glory of God and the good of souls. How? By feeding people God’s word through weekly instruction.

Ask a preacher of an older generation, and he will answer that his aim is the glory of God and the good of souls. How? By urging men to be reconciled to God and live for him.

The difference is emphasis. In the sermontary, the Bible is explained; in the sermon, applied. The former places the emphasis on enlightenment; the latter on persuasion. The sermontary sheds light; the sermon brings heat. The sermontary leaves the arrow in the mind; the sermon sends the arrow through the mind into the heart and will. The former teaches the faith; the latter urges the obedience of faith. The first is egalitarian with equally weighted points; the second is complementarian and has a head with supporting ideas. The first proceeds as a scattershot of biblical truths; the second, a sustained, targeted assault at the heart.

The sermontary has virtues. You teach the Bible. You trace thought to thought, word to word. Each part gets its due, and the preacher briefly explains each nugget of truth. The lessons end where the section ends, and if time remains, a thought of how this applies is offered. Again, this holds more value than much so-called “preaching,” but it misses many of the chief virtues of a sermon (which former generations championed) — namely, the sheer force, the laser focus, the aim to fashion the truth into a battle-ram pressing upon the heart and life of the hearer.

We witness the difference in the very anatomy of older sermons.

Truth in Battle Array

Hearing some preaching today gives me the same disorientation I have had watching my children play in the front yard — one moment they are in the sprinkler, the next playing with toys, the next chasing a butterfly, then playing with the toy while climbing a tree to catch the butterfly. Children dash to and fro; a well-crafted sermon should not.

Many of us know in principle that we should send forth troops of thought, imagery, and argumentation with more precision and organization than military generals. We know that untactile directions and scattered soldiers here and there firing at random targets will not win the war. Yet the sermontary often (accidentally) lacks strategic structure. It can feel more like reading through the Proverbs than through Paul — golden truths scattered on the floor rather than a sustained, building argument. The sermontator does not rearrange truths in battle formation; he leans more on the sequence of original verses than the thrust of the present message.

Yet the arrangement of a sermon should be based upon unity. The sermon should (usually) build around a main idea, and the divisions unveil aspects of that idea, progressing to a climax. The unity allows the truth to pick up momentum as it flies from the sling toward the target. Stuart Olyott captures the dynamic:

A sermon should gather strength as it proceeds, and this gathering strength should be expressed in its headings. It should be plain to all that the argument is moving along and that it is gathering force. . . . Each division should make the hearers more and more keyed up about the coming climax. (Preaching Pure and Simple, 94)

He uses just three words to define a good sermon: unity, order, proportion.

Unity means every sermon should bring a troop to assault one wall, accomplish one objective, plant the flag on one hill. It is not several discourses tied together by one long passage read before the sermon, nor a bunch of different flowers thrown haphazardly together by the rubber band of some mnemonic device. It is a bouquet. Baptist brothers, even our alliteration is a poor substitute for conceptual unity. Toads, Tigers, and Toddlers should not be caged together, though each begins with “T.”

Order means that the path through the sermon is not a few pavers dropped at random on someone’s lawn but steps dug into the side of a hill that lead to the scenic view atop. Too many sermons jump from one conceptual paver to the next. “What was the sermon about?” one asks, after hopping for thirty minutes from stone to stone. Because the sermon refused to rally around a main point, the saint is left with a random collection of his or her favorite points. Only the most personally appealing pavers stick in the mind. But if each point follows from the one before, if it ascends somewhere, keeping subordinate points as the steps and the main point as the peak, every hearer will say something like, “Oh, that sermon called us to remember our adoption!”

Proportion means we consider how long each point stands in comparison to the other points and how much energy each truth deserves. Hearers can feel how much weight each point holds. Disproportion is felt. Right?

Unity. Order. Proportion. Olyott concludes, “The worst preacher on earth will improve immediately if he remembers these three words” (85).

Prince of Organizers

Charles Spurgeon, labeled the “Prince of Preachers,” known for his eloquent and energetic sermons, knew these principles and reigned as a very royal organizer.

I confess that I frequently sit hour after hour praying and waiting for a subject, and that this is the main part of my study; much hard labor have I spent in manipulating topics, ruminating upon points of doctrine, making skeletons out of verses, and then burying every bone of them in the catacombs of oblivion, drifting on and on over leagues of broken water, till I see the red lights, and make sail direct to the desired haven. I believe that, almost any Saturday in my life, I prepare enough outlines of Sermons, if I felt at liberty to preach them, to last me for a month, but I no more dare to use them than an honest mariner would run to shore a cargo of contraband goods. (Spurgeon, Autobiography)

We can learn from him. Because he preached from an outline, the main part (though not the only part) of his sermon prep consisted, not in laboring over poetic phrases or crafting pristine manuscripts, but in “making skeletons” — each week, constructing a month’s worth of outlines to find the best one for that one sermon. He painstakingly organized his exegesis and thoughts into a coherent message. This labor enabled the sermon to communicate one main thing — one stunning reality that ought to transform his hearers. (And he came to do this outlining for fun in his spare time, as his son recalled.)

Spurgeon loved to hone his battle tactics. So should today’s pastor. Go and do likewise. Practice making sermon outlines that have unity, order, and proportion. Listen to other sermons, try to reproduce their outlines, and analyze how they did.

Place for Structure

Let’s conclude by examining one of Spurgeon’s sermon outlines, noticing beforehand how he felt about sermontaries.

Spurgeon’s teaching during the service expressed itself in two distinct moments. First came the exposition of the text, which was a reading of the larger context with brief, warm remarks on the verses. And after came the sermon, which may have drawn from the whole context, and certainly contained true exposition under the sermon’s divisions, but focused specifically on one verse which represented one idea of that larger section to be preached. Today, sermontators regard the exposition as the sermon.

What was a sermon to Spurgeon? Let’s look, for an example, at sermon 2584, “Place for the Word.” Spurgeon preached this evening sermon on John 8:37: “My word hath no place in you.”

He began with the exposition, walking verse by verse through John 8:28–59. For example, Spurgeon commented on Jesus saying in verse 29, “For I do always those things that please him.”

Let us labor earnestly to be able to say that. If there is anything which would not please God, let us have nothing to do with it; if it would not please God, it ought not to please us. Blessed shall that servant of the Lord be, who can sincerely say, “I do always those things that please him.”

He did likewise for the entire text. But then came the sermon on John 8:37, which he preached under the following heads:

I. What place ought the Word of God to have in men’s hearts?
II. Why has that Word no place in many hearts?
III. If you have not the Word of Christ in you, what will come of it?

Notice how the sermon is unified around the main point of what place God’s word ought to have in our hearts. Each part serves the whole. It wasn’t a potluck of observations on all the truths in John 8:28–59; Spurgeon covered that in the exposition. The sermon, on the other hand, has a main idea with subordinate points. From the outline alone, we can discern the unity, see how it progresses, and watch it land at the door of the hearer’s heart in application — If you have not the word of Christ in you, what will come of it?

What was the sermon about? We weren’t there to hear it, and yet we know. We haven’t even read the sermon, and we can answer — all because of the unified and logical structure. The point is not to preach exactly as Spurgeon did; we need not confine ourselves to one verse at a time, for example. But we can strive to imitate his unity, his order, and his simplicity. For the glory of God and the good of our hearers, preach sermons, not sermontaries.

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