1.I 08. Points Guarded in Extempore Preaching

Points to be Guarded in Extempore Preaching. In considering the relative merits of written and unwritten sermons, we ought not to make ourselves partisans, and select all the good points of one sys tem and put them over against all the weak points of the other. It should be admitted that some men of a given temperament will do better by writing, although better yet might have been done by the unwritten sermon if they had, or had trained in themselves, the ability to execute it. Written sermons undoubtedly tend to repress the power of many native speakers. Most men can be trained to think upon their feet, but by disuse many lose the power God has given them. And for such, or for those who in any way miss the right education, the written sermon will be the best. The temptation to slovenliness in workmanship, to careless and inaccurate statements, to repetition, to violation of good taste, in unwritten sermons, are only arguments for a more conscientious preparation beforehand. No man can preach well, except out of an abundance of well- wrought material. Some sermons seem to start up suddenly, soul and body, but in fact they are the product of years of experience. Sermons may flash upon men who are called in great emergencies to utter testimony, and the word may grow in their hand, and, their hearts kindling, their imagination taking lire, the product may be something that shall create wonder and amazement among all that hear.

It is only the form, like the occasion, that is extemporaneous. No man preaches except out of the stores that have been gathered in him. As it is possible for a written sermon to be utterly unstudied, unscholarly, repetitious, and inane; so, on the other hand, it is possible for an unwritten sermon to be ripe, condensed, methodical, logical, swift-moving from premise to conclusion, and entirely consonant with good taste. But such sermons never proceed from raw, unthinking men; they are never born of ignorance. And let me say here, that, while nothing is more admirable than what may be called intuitions, nothing more effective than sudden outbursts of impassioned oratory, these can never be expected from mere nature. Though a man be born to genius, a natural orator and a natural reasoner, these endowments give him but the outlines of himself. The filling up demands incessant, painstaking, steady work.

Natural genius is but the soil, which, let alone, runs to weeds. If it is to bear fruit and harvests worth the reaping, no matter how good the soil is, it must be ploughed and tilled with incessant care.

All must work. To some it is laborious and dull like an ox’s tread; to others it is life, like the winged passage of the bird through the air; but each, in his way, must labour. The life of a successful minister may be cheerful, yea, buoyant. His work may seem the highest exercise of liberty. It may be impassioned, facile, and fruitful, remunerating him as it goes on; nevertheless, there must be incessant work. That is not alone work which brings sweat to the brow. Work may be light, unburdensome, as full of song as the merry brook that turns the miller’s wheel; but no wheel is ever turned without the rush and the weight of the stream upon it.