I had just finished my sermon. The homiletics professor came to the front of the class to get feedback from the other students.
"Before we begin, Ken," he smirked, "I have just one question for you: What on earth are these?"
He held out his two hands, cupped. One of my buddies shouted, "Koala nuts!"
"No," said another, "I've seen them before. I'm certain he's holding grapefruits!"
Everyone had a good laugh, and I laughed too—outwardly. The humiliation hurt like the dickens.
But then I viewed the videotape; I looked like a dweeb! What kind of preaching motion was that? I had held out my hands during most of the sermon. No wonder no one heard what I had to say.
As a bored lad in the pew, I remember counting the number of times the pastor pushed his glasses up his nose—one Sunday more than fifty, averaging one every thirty seconds. I also remember the young pastor who said "God" as though the word had three syllables, ...1