Once in a sermon I made the point that for heaven-bound people, we Christians get too earthly-focused. I suggested stretching a metaphorical reminder across the front of our venerable sanctuary that would read, Lighten Up.
That went over real well in our historic, New England congregation. Older congregants labeled my suggestion as “flippant,” “disrespectful,” and “irreverent.” The younger members, however, applauded when I said it (in demure Congregational style, of course).
Our church is unusual in that we’re young. More than 80 percent who attend are in their twenties and thirties. In Boston, young people in church is an anomaly; young people in church on purpose is nothing short of miraculous.
Naturally, my preaching has developed a distinctive style. Much has been said and written about the importance of authenticity and narrative in preaching to younger people. I try to be authentic, and I do tell stories, but what preacher doesn’t, regardless of congregational make-up?
Honesty and stories do not of themselves make preaching appealing to Generation X. What does are four characteristics.
Sarcasm
An older member chastened me last spring: “Your problem is that you come across as a fraternity guy.” On the other hand, a young woman said, “What I love about you is that you come across as a fraternity guy.”
Okay, I was in a fraternity, but so what? Evidently it means I’m sarcastic. A young man named Rick told me: “You really speak to my generation, man. I love your sarcasm.”
Though sarcasm typically intends to tear down and destroy, if used properly, it can have a positive place in preaching. Sarcasm connects with the young listener; it is the language of a generation in which everybody plays the cynic. If you avoid sarcasm, you can get pigeon-holed as an unrealistic Pollyanna.
Sarcasm also can be pretty funny. Every preacher recognizes humor as an invaluable homiletic tool. Humor penetrates where arguments get clogged. It disarms resistance and snags attention.
Finally, and most importantly, sarcasm serves to uncover truth. Sermonic sarcasm can dismantle illusions and idols, leaving sacred truth firmly and clearly in place. Holy ridicule does not mock the serious things of life, only those who take themselves too seriously.
Recently in a sermon on money, I said, “These days Christian bookstores are sated with manuals for believers and their assets. You find them in the sections marked ‘Successful Christian living,’ which translated, usually means, ‘How to achieve guilt-free prosperity’ or ‘Making peace between God and mammon.’
Xers like to feel the intrinsic tension and the discomfort Jesus brings to everyday life.
“I picked up a recent volume by a well-respected author in this field of Christian finance. In it he gleaned biblical parameters for long-range planning, insurance purchasing, retirement strategies, investments, stock options, and when to give inheritances (Is that not obvious?).
“In the midst of all of this, the author observes, ‘It’s interesting that Jesus lived among a generation of people who had very little money. Yet, in his teaching, Jesus consistently developed his parables around the handling of money. Jesus chose money because it is a common denominator among all people, regardless of age, sex, or race.’
“Actually, I’d like to suggest another reason. Did you know that out of the 450-plus references to evil in the Bible, none speaks to its origin, save one? That one is 1 Timothy 6:10—’The love of money is the root of all evil.’ I imagine this to be why Jesus chose to speak so often on the topic of money.”
Later, a friend told me that his small group furiously debated my sermon and subsequently resolved to hold each other accountable in things financial. Another woman went home, cleaned out her closet, and gave her excess to the Salvation Army. A young mom told me she returned a toy cash register she had bought her son for Christmas so as not to expose him unduly to a culture of consumption.
Sarcasm is tough to advocate because in the wrong hands (sometimes my own), it can prove more damaging than helpful. Consequently, I employ this rule of thumb: If I have any qualms about saying something sarcastic, I don’t.
Ambiguity
Another young woman once said, “I finally figured out what I like about your preaching. You make no points.”
Great, I’m a pointless preacher.
“What I mean,” she said, “is that you don’t make point 1, 2, 3, but just let the Bible speak for itself.”
I once heard a preacher admonish the men in his congregation: “Jesus died for your sins; you can at least take out the trash.” The mystery of the atonement reduced to household hygiene. Please.
Ambiguity runs rampant throughout Scripture. Rather than force clarity where it is not evident, I prefer to allow the congregation to wrestle with the ambiguity. I often conclude a sermon with a question rather than a final point of application.
On one such occasion, John wanted to know how he was supposed to take away what I had just preached. “I need to know what to do,” he said. Concerned, and thinking he spoke for the majority, I began inserting how-to points.
“What’s the matter with you?” another man and his wife eventually asked. “Don’t you like us thinking for ourselves anymore?”
Many times, however, Scripture can seem too clear, and some preachers attempt an end-around on lucid passages to get past their implications. In those passages we must be blunt and to the point.
For example, in the Acts 5 story of Ananias and Sapphira, the ambiguity lies not in the text but in applying the text to life. So I was blunt about the text and left the application to the listener:
“Two people sold a piece of property with the intention of laying the proceeds at the apostles’ feet. Unlike others before them, Ananias and Sapphira conspired to keep back a portion of what they had pledged to the community. They said one thing but did another. They lied.
“Their lie was a trespass against God himself. Peter confronts Ananias, and then later Sapphira: ‘How could you dare to put the Holy Spirit of God to the test?’ Of course, neither was given the opportunity to respond before each collapsed dead at the apostles’ feet, at that same place they deceptively had placed the hypocritical proceeds from their property sale. They lied, they died. Discomforting little story, isn’t it?”
I just left it at that. Afterward, a woman named Shana walked up and said, “That hurt. Thanks.”
One man mentioned that I never let him off the hook. “I need my butt kicked,” he said. I think he meant he preferred his Christianity straight.
Discomfort
Xers like to feel the intrinsic tension and the discomfort Jesus brings to everyday life: sell your stuff, love your enemies, don’t sleep with each other outside of marriage (though several stormed out of the service when I preached that one), be thankful always, don’t worry ever. These are fundamental and radical expressions of the faith-life which are tough, if not impossible, to heed.
God presents radical challenges throughout Scripture. Why not leave them radical?
In a sermon on the body as a temple of the Holy Spirit, I mentioned, “I stepped into a party a friend from church was throwing. The problem with being a minister is that no matter how cool a minister you think you are, you’re still a minister, and showing up at a party—well, it can have its pooping effects. As I mingled about the apartment, bottles of various brews made their way behind various backs, and conversations shifted to things, well, more appropriate, given the presumed company now in attendance.
“I get a kick out of how a pastor’s presence can so quickly redefine a gathering. The host told me he snickered as he witnessed the panic that raced across the faces of the embarrassed. What’s funny, of course, is that a minister (and definitely this minister) is no more holy in the eyes of God than any regular party-goer.
“But what’s not funny is that a follower of Jesus would need to transform his or her behavior when a minister walks in the room. What were you doing that you would be ashamed for a minister to see? And if you’re ashamed for a minister to see it, why are you not ashamed if other Christians see it? What, is God around only when a preacher is present? Is your integrity contingent upon your not getting caught? Are you merely playing some role? Are you the hypocrite that those outside the church assume all who follow Jesus to be? Who are you when nobody is watching?
“The emphatic, concerted warnings of Jeremiah and Paul ring out: Do you covet, hate, commit adultery, fornicate, lie, and go after other gods, and then come and stand before me in my house, which is called by my name, and say, ‘I am saved!’ only to go on doing all these abominations? Has my house, which is called by my name, become a den of thieves in your eyes? Don’t you know that you yourself are God’s house and that God’s Spirit lives in you?”
An unfortunate stereotype of busters is that they are unwilling to commit. But I’ve seen many busters in our congregation move into downtown Boston, shunning job promotions and transfers, so they could stay near our church. Xers are not unwilling to commit. They simply don’t want to commit to something unworthy of their commitment. What can be more worthy than a radical life in Christ?
Dialogue
Younger listeners want a sense of dialogue. One woman told me that my sermons were “creating space” for her to hear and respond. I think she meant that I come across as open to her input should she desire to give it.
Part of that is being the same person in person that I am in the pulpit. I make it a point not to point or use needless grand gestures. While there is a cadence to my preaching (I am a Southerner, after all), I avoid wide inflection swings and exaggerated theatrics. I talk to the congregation like I would talk to one person in my study. I stick my hands in my pockets, I think out loud, I pause and allow for quiet, I scratch my head, shrug my shoulders, and roll my eyes.
This is not to say I ignore the dynamics of public speaking or articulation or stage presence; I fit them into a style that reflects who I am on and off the platform. I don’t try to be hip or cool—I couldn’t pull it off.
So I pray that God will grant me weekly insight, conviction, passion, attitude, and the words to inspire Xers and anyone else who will listen.
A few good illustrations wouldn’t hurt, either.
Danny Harrell is associate pastor at Park Street Churchin Boston, Massachusetts.
1998 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. For reprint information call 630-260-6200 or contact us.
