Conversation Five
GG: It strikes me that this talk about poetry and recognition offers us a place where we can make a connection with preaching, which is something we both take seriously. This past Sunday in Paris, the sermon I preached was essentially what you just said: âThis is how it seems to me. Is this how it seems to you?â And of course, weâre also saying, âHereâs what the tradition has to offer us.â But I know that both of us think of preaching as a very particular moment for a particular audience, and a big part of it is that thing we were talking about in poetry: I see where you are. We think of that in terms of the needs of a particular congregation on a particular Sunday or whatever day the preaching experience takes place. And I think another thing that translates is language: the well-chosen word, the well-chosen sound. Other things might translate for us as well.
RW: Itâs exactly as you describe, I think. Youâre trying to propose something recognizable and offer something recognizable. And as you know, one of the most moving things you can ever hear at the church door is âYou might have been speaking to me.â You can only think, I hope I was. But if I was, itâs not because I calculated it. And that is one of the differences between poetry and preaching. Preaching is an event in the body of Christ. I want to give a great deal of weight to that. In some mysterious way, what is there is given in the communityâs life, especially but not exclusively in the sacramental gathering. Iâm not expressing a set of ideas to be imposed on an audience, but in some very elusive way, connections are being made. The Spirit links up, if allâs going well, with what people need to hear. You can tell when itâs happening. And when itâs not happening. I donât know if youâve had the experience I occasionally have of preaching a sermon where you might as well have a glass shield around the pulpit, the sense the words are bouncing off and falling into a heap. How does that happen?
GG: I was talking with your wife, Jane [Williams, theologian and author]. Who you know well.
It seems that in this conversation we are often violating one of the most essential rules of dramatic writing. I always tell my students that their characters shouldnât talk to each other about things they already know. So any line of dialogue that begins âAs you well knowâ is a bad line of dialogue. But there are some tiny bits of context that might be of value for our larger audience.
I was telling Jane last night about how often as a preacher I feel rescued by the Holy Spirit. There are those times for whatever reason when in my own attempt to gauge what a community needs, perhaps they donât need what I thought they did. There does feel to me, unlike other kinds of writingâalthough even there, I have a practice of prayer. As I was working on this last novel, every time I went out to my friend Terry Nathanâs lake house to write I would begin sacramentally, some passages from the Psalms, and a very real prayer that the Spirit would be present and that my work might be usefulâbut the sacramental quality of what we do in the pulpit makes it that much more important to recognize. I long ago removed myself from any vanity that my being a good writer makes a difference necessarily to my preaching. The fact that I can move words around and find a striking image and tell a good story is an important set of tools. But if the Spirit is not present, all is in vain.
Our friend Greg Rickel [Episcopal Bishop of Olympia in Seattle, Washington] has an invocation with which he precedes every sermon, and Iâve taken to using it as well: âHoly Spirit, speak to us. And may we have ears to hear.â Because it seems to me that that is the central thing. I can think of some sermons where I thought, I donât know if I have found the core, and if Iâm going to be of use today, if these words are going to be of use, then Spirit is going to have to step in and move underneath them like water.
RW: Yes. Thatâs right. Thatâs why it isnât about style or skill of composition. Itâs very nice when you hear a sermon thatâs well-composed and well-delivered, but thatâs not it. You and I have both heard sermons which are formally not particularly impressive. But they get there. They get there. Which I suppose is what people like Saint Augustine are reflecting about when he talks about sermo humilis, the simple, the unadorned voice that preaching needs. [Augustine teaches about unadorned style in On Christian Doctrine 4, and about the power of simple sermons in Instruction 4.56; Erich Auerbachâs seminal essays about sermo humilis are collected in his Literary Language and Its Public in Late Latin Antiquity and in the Middle Ages, 1965.]
I wonder how some of the really great preaching stylists of the past managed, a [John Henry] Newman or [Lancelot] Andrewes, or [John] Donne for that matter. Or Archbishop [Thomas] Tenison. [John] Tillotson. The great eighteenth-century preachers. It must have felt a bit different, and yet, looking at classical sermons, something about Donne does strike you. Heâs a stylist, heâs a performer, heâs a rock star.
GG: Heâs a rock star.
RW: Yet. Read that stuff aloud and it connects, because something in him is connecting.
GG: Something culturally was different. Weâre talking about a time that was preinternet, pretelevision, premovies. It wasânot to diminish those sermons in any wayâbut it was also a form of entertainment. People would drop what they were doing in Oxford and go to hear Newman preach. When youâre talking about Donne as a rock star, there had to be some awareness on their part that they had to keep their audience interested in some way. I think thatâs also true in some respects for us, although of course in our tradition, our sermons and homilies are shorter, and the question of keeping people entertained is less central. In the tradition in which I was raised, a twenty or twenty-five or thirty-minute sermon was not uncommon. If you are an African-American preacher, thereâs a tradition of longer sermons yet.
RW: Indeed. And in the last couple of years I preached once or twice in Afro-Caribbean or African churches, Pentecostalist churches, on behalf of our charity, Christian Aid, and I think the first time I did that in a Nigerian Pentecostal church, I asked how long, and they said, âWell, probably not more than forty-five minutes.â And youâre preaching in both services.
GG: Now we have heard sermons that sounded, to us, as if they were going forty-five minutes.
We were talking earlier about craft, and there is some importance to craft, because sermon writing is a form. As weâve talked about poetry, drama, the novel, the short story, in every form, there are things that, historically, have worked that once you know them, then you can think about perhaps departing from them. Thatâs why itâs fair to say that a sermon can be well-crafted, although what the Spirit does with thatâspirit blows where it will.
I think that may be something for pastors and priests to keep in mind. This is an event, itâs liturgical, itâs Spirit-led, but itâs also a place where you can bring your craft to it. I have heard horror stories about people who didnât prepare to preach. Who relied on the Holy Spirit side of the equation. My homiletics professor [at Seminary of the Southwest], Roger Paynter, once told us about a preaching conference where he got up and talked about how he prepared to preach, and offered a really good, useful set of practices, some of which I use to this day. And then the next speaker got up and said, âWell, I just get up in the pulpit and say what the Spirit wants me to say.â Roger told us, just to reinforce the horrified response that we were evincing, that the next person who followed that speaker, the first thing that speaker said was, âPlease donât ever, EVER do that.â
RW: If preaching is an event within the body of Christ, then itâs an event within the Holy Trinity. In other words, itâs an event in which the Word is born out of silence and activated by the Spirit. That, to me, roots it in the furthest depths in which we could possibly root it. Itâs all a part of that flowering out of silence which is the eternal begetting of the Word or the Son in the Divine Life. But that Word or Son always overflows through the Spirit, and in our context, overflows in this place and this time, where the word comes alive in the relation between those who are gathered as the Body. I think we sometimes sell preaching short by not plugging it into that deepest of contexts, which is the Trinitarian life. So it becomes part of how the Spirit molds a community into the likeness of Jesus Christ. And thatâs all about so much more than what you do with your notebook on Saturday evening.
GG: Who would you say are the people who have been most influential in your preaching life?
RW: Good question. I was very fortunate growing up to have two pastors who were both outstanding preachers, and outstanding holy people too. The first few years, as a little boy going to a Presbyterian chapel in Cardiff, my pastorâs name was Geraint Nantlais Williams, from a very famous non-Conformist dynasty of scholars and preachers. He was someone who brought a very solid theological mind to bear on all this. He was somebody who had a great gift of human accessibility. Then when my family and I had become Anglicans, when I was a teenager, again Canon Eddie Hughes, our parish priest, had in the pulpit a mixture of depth and passion and warmth that absolutely reflected the person he was, the priest he was. Somebody deeply rooted in an Anglo-Catholic spirituality that wasnât in the least bit fussy or sectarian or precious, but conveyed all the time the intensity of divine love. You could warm your hands at his sermons.
I remember coming back from my first term at Cambridge, and going to Mass on a Sunday, and saying to my parents, âIâve been hearing two sermons a week at Cambridge for the last eight weeks, but I havenât heard anything to touch what the vicar does.â
So those two when I was a young man certainly had a big impact. And then, itâs a bit different, but I listened to Archbishop Antony Bloom [also called Anthony of Sourozh], the Russian Orthodox teacher, speaking on many, many occasions, and he had the same warmth and spontaneity and theological depth, and certainly made a very big impact. Though it wasnât conventional Anglican preaching.
I do read sermons, and I do read, again and again, Austin Farrer, Farrer by common consent being one of the great Anglican preachers as well as one of the great Anglican minds of the last century. And Farrerâs sermons are so beautifully crafted; they are, literally, wonders of economy and elegance of expression and theological acuity. I donât think I could preach like that now to save my life. I donât think many people could. But for Farrer, the sermon was a bit like what we were saying about the short story. He clearly thinks, Iâve got twelve to fifteen minutes to say something, and itâs got to be said with every single bar of the music noted.
GG: My teacher Robert Olen Butler used to talk at the University of Iowa about the relationships between the reader and the novelist and the reader and the short story writer. It went sort of like this: If youâre a novel writer, you walk up to the reader, and you take their hand, and sort of swing it, fancifully.
RW: Yes. I like that.
GG: And you tell them, âI have a story to tell you. Letâs go for a walk. This may take a while. We may wander into some brambles, but weâll get out.â But the short story approach is sort of like those scenes from the horror film where you grab somebodyâs hand and run, hand in hand, through the forestâwhy that happens we still do not know; it is not physically possible, I think, to run faster hand in handâbut thatâs the image we have of that urgency. âThis is us; we are in this together; Iâve got a story to tell you; I donât have much time. So stick with me. Every moment matters.â
RW: Thatâs a brilliant analogy, I think.
GG: That sense of urgency. In preaching, because as you were talking about, that person comes to the back door and says, âYou were preaching to me today,â there have been times in my life that I absolutely needed to hear that sermon that day. And it is a hugely important thing to remember. I first walked in the doors of St. James Episcopal Church [Austin, TX] and heard a wonderful sermon by Greg Rickel, and it was precisely the sermon I needed to hear in that dark moment of my life. I am fond of saying that that church and that priest are responsible for my being on the planet today. The notion that preaching is anything other than life and death is a notion we have to resist.
RW: Thatâs right. It certainly isnât just filling...