Calling quits on the guilties – on not being a multitasking preacher

There’s an expectation that I have felt placed on my shoulders, and to which I have consistently failed to rise.  Consequently, I have consistently felt guilty-ish abut it, whenever I preach.

Now, when you feel consistently guilty (even guilty-ish) about something, that’s a warning signal.

Because, it could well be the Holy Spirit nudging you, prompting you.  You know the signs of his work: every bible passage you read seems to mention the issue, conversations about other things turn in that direction, coincidences (providences) happen.  The Holy Spirit is not vague, and you probably know what it’s like when he wants to get your attention. 

On the other hand, a vague, undefined sense of guilt or failure  is probably not his work. Because if it’s vague, it’s not something we can repent of, and confess.  So reframing it as a possible failure is a useful exercise, because it helps you to identify what is going on. 

In my case, it’s a consequence of the famous ‘curse of knowledge’.

In order to teach, you need to know stuff.  And in order to teach at seminary level, which I did, you have to know a lot of stuff.  Or at least, let’s be realistic here, to have access to that knowledge.  To know where to look things up.

Teaching homiletics, the subject of preaching, therefore meant I read a lot – a lot – about the process of how preachers preach.  I watched many of them online, and worked through a magnificent multi-volume history of preaching, with examples. I attended many, many how-to conferences.

Which means I was exposed to how a great number of famous preachers past and present prepare, and preach.  It was humbling and inspiring, and I’m grateful for it.  But it’s also a pain.  

Because two truths become obvious: (1) Every famous preacher thinks that the way that they do it not just a good way, but the best way, and probably the biblically mandated way (in some cases, the only biblically mandated way); and (2) No two famous preachers do it the same way.

Now, you can cause just a little bit of brain fog by trying to follow any two of them.  Remember, each of them is equipped by God for a task other than yours, and he has gifted them in a unique way, and then blessed them extraordinarily.  Even if you only studied Lloyd Jones, you could never preach like Lloyd Jones.  You could never reach a target of one.

But put, say John Stott into the mix, and it becomes impossible.  Because you now add to a towering intellect of the history of Puritanism, a towering intellect of contemporary relevance.  I don’t know if Stott had read his way through John Owen.  I don’t know if Lloyd Jones engaged with contemporary fiction or movies.  But to do both as well as either of them managed?

Throw a third model into the mix and you will become so distracted that you will lose your nerve.

That is a general truth, and one I’m sure we all experience. At least, I hope I’m not alone. I’m a sucker for silly expectations.

But the particular expectation I struggled with from several of these geniuses (not Stott or MLJ; others) is that I ought to be praying as I preach.  Not simply praying as I prepare. Nor simply praying as I land the sermon.  Not simply praying afterwards, that God will water the seed.  But pray as I preach. Before, during and after. Not to do that is to fail as a preacher.

One of the most helpful insights from contemporary lay-level psychology, is that we humans are really bad at multitasking. Of course we’re doing lots of things at the same time.  You’re reading, breathing, scrolling, scratching yourself; your heart is beating, you’re blinking, and your hair is growing.  

But in terms of our conscious awareness, our attention – we can only do one thing at a time.  We can’t read email and answer the phone, and have a conversation.  Not without cost.  We can’t even back the car out with the radio on. We’ve all learnt the price of distraction. It’s called context-switching, and our brains pay a small price every time we do it.  So we lose focus and we get tired.

And for me, praying as I preach requires constant context-switching. 

I might be unusual. I don’t know. Maybe I’m dysfunctional, or maybe you’re superhuman – but I simply cannot preach and pray in the same moment.  I can focus on the message (words) and look at the people (sight) because those are different parts of my brain engaged, but I can’t pray (words) and speak (words) simultaneously.  

Now, they (‘they’ meaning my guilt-inducing mentors) might mean something a little more chilled.  I’ve said something, and take a pause before I say something else – the evangelistic appeal, the hard-hitting truth.  And in that pause, as I breathe in, I can pray. If that’s what they mean, if that’s all they mean, I’m there.

But if they mean that right the way through they’re praying as they preach, then it’s like watching an Olympic athlete – I’ll applaud, and admire, and then get back to my inadequate normal.  Because just like I’m never going to jump, run, swim like an Olympian, I’m never going to preach like this or that hero.

The Olympian trap – which I’ve just lead you to fall into – is to think that the extraordinary is the proper standard, and therefore ’average’ is ‘inadequate’, and that ‘normal’ is ‘subnormal.’

Which is silly, but surprisingly common.  Speaking personally. 

So I’ve had to learn, once again, and in the very hard and humbling way, that the pattern from some of my heroes is simply not one I can follow.  

The reason it’s hard, of course, is this one seems to be a marker of spiritual seriousness.  I mean, I know I don’t have the brainpower of a Keller or a Carson, and so I can cut myself some slack about my reading, but surely praying is pretty basic isn’t it?  That’s within the reach of every pastor? Every Christian?

Well, yes.  Before.  After.  I can do that.  But not during. Not while I preach.  Maybe you can.  I can’t

Pastor, be kind to yourself. I mean, challenge yourself, discipline yourself, stretch yourself, of course.  But it’s OK to admit that some things are beyond the way God has made you.

And don’t let it make you feel guilty.