The previous posts on this topic can be found here and here.
The third shift in my writing and preaching in the past several years can be summed up simply: more courage. I’m accessing deeper truths in myself and speaking about the things that I see as most important to me. When the writing gets scary–when it’s leading me to question things I’ve taken for granted, or to say things that might be hard to hear, or to feel scary emotions–instead of backing off, I keep going. On my best weeks, I’m giving people the most important things I’ve discovered.
This is not to be confused with self-revelation, which can be a trap for preachers. It’s easy to think that simply by talking about incidents from our own lives, we’re being brave, when sometimes we are just dumping stuff on the congregation that would be better aired to our therapists or best friends. (Sensing the distinction is one topic in the seminary course I outlined but haven’t taught, “Preaching on the Edge.”) You can’t preach well week after week without revealing a great deal about yourself, but it’s not necessarily about anything you’ve done or said. It’s about depth of soul and being willing to dig deep to that treasure and share it with others. For me, courage comes into it because I’m afraid they’ll reject my offering, or sneer “That’s all? That’s what’s in the treasure chest?” or one way or another, find my gifts inadequate. But I think the best sermons come out of that risk, because when I don’t risk it, I’m hiding what is most valuable.
I learned a lesson from Allen Ginsberg back in the mid-90s, though it took a good many years to filter into my preaching. Recordings of fifty of his poems and songs had just been released (Holy Soul Jelly Roll, Rhino), and I went to hear him read. This was an era of nudity. Madonna was breaking barriers by strutting onstage in her lingerie. Yet she never seemed very raw or vulnerable to me; on the contrary, her act felt like an act, the skimpy clothes a kind of emotional armor. Ginsberg was just the opposite. He kept all his clothes on, a 60-something-year-old man standing on a modest stage in thick glasses, a button-up shirt and khaki pants; for the most part his content was PG-rated; despite the ego required to recite one’s poetry to a crowd, he didn’t give the sense of putting himself forward in any way; and for all that, he was utterly naked. He peeled away all pretense and allowed us to see his soul. Watching him, listening to him, I realized a person can share the most intimate thoughts and feelings in a way that says not “Look at me!” but “Here, let me help you take a look inside yourself.”
True vulnerability invites vulnerability from others. That takes courage. I don’t know how others develop it; for me it’s been by doing things that scare me.
7 comments
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May 28, 2015 at 7:59 am
Jenny Robertson
Showing your vulnerability is a way of forgiving yourself. And, forgiveness is a way to touch the divine.
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May 28, 2015 at 3:19 pm
Andrew Hidas
Oh, this is good. Wish I had time for a more fitting/thoughtful response, but I don’t, so this will have to do for now. Really, really good.
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May 28, 2015 at 6:36 pm
Amy Zucker Morgenstern
Jenny: “Showing your vulnerability is a way of forgiving yourself.” I am going to be sitting with that piece of wisdom for a long time.
Andrew, that means a lot coming from a writer I admire. Thanks. I do look forward to your own thoughts about what makes for powerful writing/preaching, if you put them down.
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May 31, 2015 at 4:55 pm
sorrygnat
Nice piece; vulnerability and authenticity are good soul tools; squaring the back, and walking into wind and grit with courage and fortitude good too; it’s the looking back at it is when I pause and think, and I was afraid. Ah! that’s an important insight. I’m afraid right up front. 😉 –AZM
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June 6, 2015 at 2:12 am
Andrew Hidas
Amy, it seems to me there’s a distinction and tension between courage, self-revelation and self-aggrandizement, but it is difficult to keep them from glopping over each other and easy to fool ourselves that we are engaged in one while actually indulging in another. It’s also easy—and usually highly encouraged—for pulpit speakers and writers to have strong convictions, which can masquerade as courage but can just as readily reflect the opposite—not having the courage to share our uncertainty, our confusion, our (gasp!) “moderation” on charged issues that aren’t always quite as clear and emphatic as we and those rooting us on from the grandstands would like.
What I’ve also noticed from the pulpit on my occasional lay preaching forays is how easy—and highly encouraged—it tends to be to share personal stories that reinforce the topic du jour. Ditto for blogging. Human beings are made to tell and soak up stories, after all, and we don’t know any stories better or more intimately than we do our own. But as you suggest, this can also amount to a dump, or a personal preening whose main purpose isn’t so much to inspire others as it is to bathe oneself in a carefully crafted light. Not “Look at this!” but “Look at me!”, all with the self-delusion that one is being “authentic” and revealing.
I have asked this question of ministers more than once: How many times should the pronoun “I” appear in a sermon? The responses tend toward, “It depends,” but I think everyone agrees it is good to keep the question in mind throughout the sermon (or blog!) construction process.
Back when I was writing newspaper editorials it was notable to me how much more strong and positive response I got from readers when I took an emphatic, unvarnished position, even if the matter was perhaps more complex than I was letting on. Reinforcement theory being what it is, those “Attaboy, love it!” declarations from the choir I was preaching to were difficult to resist, so I had to fight the gravitational pull to become a person of “positions,” even though my true core position was and mostly continues to be, “Most everything is very likely more nuanced than a 700-word argument can quite encapsulate.” And in order to truly stand behind my position, I ought to be able to understand and clearly articulate the opposite position without impugning its very foundation (hate-filled positions of vitriol excepted).
A final note bringing this closer to home: Those of us in the UU world have a lot of strongly principled “positions” that have much to commend them, but sometimes our scorn toward those with whom we disagree reflects not so much the courage of conviction as it does the closing of minds, the rejection of any possibility that we may be if not wrong then at least half-baked, or that there is any legitimacy whatsoever in positions we oppose. We are not always as truly “liberal”—open-minded, willing to listen and to evaluate people and their perspectives on their own merits—as we profess to be. This too represents a failure of the courage you reference. Sometimes, absolutely the most courageous thing we can do, whether minister, blogger or justice advocate, is to wander around a bit in our desert of confusion and uncertainty, hearkening back to our ancestral Christian values of humility and self-abnegation while struggling to grow something from it that is whole and true and devoid of smug certainty and cant. Coming out of that struggle with strong convictions is what I want from any preacher I listen to. I wish you well in that battle you have obviously joined.
Sorry for the length here. There was a lot to your post!
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June 6, 2015 at 8:35 am
Amy Zucker Morgenstern
Amen, amen, amen.
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June 10, 2015 at 5:58 am
A writing evolution (2) | Sermons in Stones
[…] Next time: Doing the thing we think we cannot do […]
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