I'm often asked about preaching.  Some ask about the mechanics of preparing and delivering a sermon.  Others ask about the experiences of preaching regularly before a congregation.  Still others ask personal questions--my opinion on preaching styles, sermon content, or my personal preferences in hearing other preachers.  I've decided to offer up some answers in a series of posts.

Exegetical, expository, narrative, topical or biblical preaching?

Yes. But I suppose I could elaborate on that answer a little more.  First of all, I don't think biblical belongs in that list as a genre of preaching--any kind of preaching better be biblical or otherwise what's the point?  The bible makes it clear that it is God's word that is powerful and effectual, not the clever or eloquent words of man, so I'll assume whether the preacher's style is to exegete or tell stories, he (or she) better do it from the bible.

Back to my 'yes' answer.  I have known preachers to excel--and by exceling I mean fantastically nurture and nourish the body of Christ with their teaching--who employ each of those different approaches.  Better still, I find that you can point to Jesus as having employed those different means of communicating with folks during his time on earth.  He would parse words and meanings (exegetical) with the teachers of the law, the Pharisees and, on occasion, members of his disciples.  He would often refer to the words of the law and the prophets, bring those teachings into a new light verse by verse, and sometimes word by word (expository).  Jesus was the consummate story teller.  I think an honest appraisal--though it may rub some of our more conservative homiletics friends wrong--would conclude that Jesus taught more in story than through any other means (narrative).  Yet, Jesus was also called upon often to survey a certain issue from the standpoint of truth (topical) and he never shied away.  So I enjoy preaching no matter the genre if it's biblical, clear and from the heart.

As for a preference regarding 'my style', I'll let you into the inner workings of my mind.  I struggle to categorize my preaching.  I am most comfortable staying very close to the biblical text.  Most of the messages I share are literally a verse by verse walk through a passage.  For me it's a comfort zone.  I marvel at those guys who can grab a topic and weave a coherent tapestry of bible passages together to bring clarity to the point.  I'm personally more comfortable working through a passage and coming to conclusions drawn naturally from within the text and context.  But I also like a good story.  I love to try to tie in things that I can relate to--and hopefully others can relate to--that will add a bit of clarity or even brevity. 

I'd suggest that we all hear differently, too.  I have four daughters.  Each of them seem to listen, hear and learn a little differently.  As a dad I need to vary my approach to teaching and directing them.  It's not one size fits all.  If I attempt it in that manner, while I'm driving a lesson home for one I'll no doubt be exasperating and alienating another.  In conclusion, I suppose close to the text but with an occasional side order of each of the other genres would best define my preaching endeavors.

Next time: Preaching with or without notes, using or not using visual media, hows and whys.

A note specifically for those involved in my reading/discussion group of the best-seller The Shack: This coming Sunday be prepared for a conversation over Chapters Five and Six.

Chapters Three and Four served to unveil the Great Sadness in Mack's life for us.  One moment a camping trip with his children--everything as good as it gets.  The next moment chaos and then horror at the realization that his daughter had been abducted, and likely at the hands of a seriel killer.

Our group spent time discussing some of that back-story.  We related to the family's camping get-away and the way they drew close to their new found friends.  We relished with Mack the opportunity to count his blessings (before Missy's disappearance) and we pondered the depths of his despair, and the speed at which everything changed.

We also spoke a bit about the how and why questions we're all tempted to ask when tragedy stikes, as well as the dreadful "what if" and "if only" regrets.  Finally, we wrapped up discussing what it might be like to have been one of Mack's friends or family members--what would sympathy and compassion look like?  How might we minister loving care in such dire circumstances?

Any other impressions you may have had over the opening sections?  Feel free to drop a comment here or pick it up in conversation with someone in the group.  See you Sunday! 

A couple of evenings ago a few friends and I were swapping stories.  You know how it goes, someone recounts a story, someone else chimes in with one of their own, on and on.  A friend recalled his family's anxiety over a mouse that appeared in their bathtub.  Creature encounters?  Bathtub?  I've got one for you.

It was the mid 1990's.  Early one Tuesday morning, Shari and our two oldest girls were seated at the dining room table eating breakfast.  I entered the bathroom (in a hallway adjacent to the dining area, so literally just a few feet from where they sat) to take a shower.

The ritual of preparing for a shower becomes automatic--you don't think about the different steps, you just do them.  I reached in and turned on the water without looking.  I got undressed, and I stepped into the tub.  In the tub, I continued on auto-pilot--I slid the shower curtain closed.  At once, I was aware that something dropped at my feet.

Have you ever had an experience where you seemingly process many moments worth of thoughts in a single instant?  Aware that something dropped at my feet, a list of possibile explanations flashed through my mind--the wife had left something on the side of the tub, a towel had been hung on the bar, a toy from one of the girls' baths, and so on. 

I looked down--I think I even began to bend down to remove the object--when I realized it was a snake coiled up on the bathtub drain.

With Ninja-like quickness, I tell you, I sprang out of the tub... taking the shower curtain, rod and rings clean off the wall as I went.  I spun to eye the intruder--he was now attempting to slither out of the bathtub, so I reached for a weapon--a large back-scrubbing luffa and attempted to... reason with the snake.

No doubt hearing the commotion, my wife Shari knocked on the bathroom door, "Honey, you okay?"

I don't recall how I answered her.  How would you have answered her?

Now here's the thing: I wish I could tell you that my first thought was a spiritual one.  I wish I could tell you I rebuked that snake in the name of Jesus.  I wish I could tell you that I stopped and offered an effectual prayer.  But before I gave the situation any thought at all I had commenced to swinging my luffa at the snake, the tub, the wall, the floor--I yelled and jumped and leaped.  For his part the snake responded by coiling up on the drain and rattling his tail.  Yes, I said rattling his tail.

THINK!  Then came a moment of composure.  'Okay, there's a rattlesnake in my bathtub.  I'm holding a luffa.  And I'm naked.' 

I confess, my first reasonable thought was that, were I to get bit, I didn't want the paramedics to come and find me naked.  Underwear!  Without taking my eyes of the snake or setting down the luffa, I managed to put on my underwear.  Strange, I actually felt much better at that moment. 

I spied a wastebasket under the sink.  Perfect.  I have a luffa.  I have a trash can.  How hard can this be?

Next I called to Shari.  Something like, "Uh, Sweetheart..."  How do you tell your wife that you're about to pick up a rattlesnake and carry him through the house?

In what I would describe as less than "kindness to reptiles" fashion, I swooped the snake into the can with the luffa, screamed for Shari to open the door and began across the house at breakneck speed.  My two young daughters thought this was funny--look at Daddy!  "Open the front door!" I demanded.  Sensing this wasn't a game, Shari quickly opened the door.

As I hit the doorway, I had another of those moments where thoughts race: There was my neighbor, Mrs. Hudson, across the street walking her dog.  There was the city sanitation truck--garbage men collecting my trash at the curb.  There were my daughters staring at me and wondering what kind of game Dad was playing.  And there I was, now standing in the doorway--in my underwear--wastebasket in one hand and luffa in the other.

"Close the door!" I yelled.  Shari did.  But now what?  Now I am in the middle of the house, pressing a venomous snake into a trash can with a back-scrubbing sponge, while my daughters sit nearby eating Cheerios.  This wouldn't do.

"Open the door!"  All eyes upon me, I ran straight out into the yard, turned right and threw wastebasket, the luffa and serpent in the general direction of a wooded corner of our lot.  Just as quickly, I turned and sprinted back into the house.  "Close the door!"

It's been several years.  I've told the story many times.  My wife and kids enjoy telling the story from their point of view. 

I'll have you know, the experience forever changed me.  I never reach into a shower without looking.  Most of the time, I shake the shower curtain before I step into a tub.  When I enter an unfamiliar bathroom, I take a mental inventory of the items I would reach for first should I have to duel with a serpent. 

AND I always know exactly where to find my underwear!