I still tremble a bit as I climb the steps leading to the pulpit. Just behind the knees, a shake that the robe--thank God--hides from the people of the pews. It is a feeling far beyond the fear of public speaking that others talk about. I'm used to standing in front of a crowd, reading a carefully studied passage or telling a practiced story. I've done it many a time as lector. But preaching is different. When preaching, I'm presenting a shard of my own faith, full of its mistakes and holes and weaknesses. And there they sit, spread out among the pews, the Church Expectant. While I babble, the congregation stares forward with expressions that run the gambit from "Go ahead: impress me" to "Aw, he's trying so hard".
While in the pulpit, my internal editor (we'll call him Ed) chugs along, reviewing the text, evaluating and discarding changes on the spot. Ed, mind you, has been doing this work for the whole week preceding and he has kept me up late Saturday night to make me rewrite a line, a paragraph, a page--ten or fifteen times. The text of the sermon never
actually sits on the page, but in my mind, and the page, even a completed manuscript, is really just
notes. The internal editor wants the final text, the one that comes out of my mouth, to be perfect, but the internal publisher (Pub?) keeps fighting it, reminding me to lift my head, to speak to
the congregation, to explore this latest draft out in the open so everyone can hear it. Theirs is an argument that rages on during the fifteen to twenty minutes of preaching.
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