Читать книгу Preaching That Makes the Word Plain - William Clair Turner - Страница 6

The essential nature of Christian preaching cannot be overstated, no matter how many times the articulation is made. It is God’s appointed means to proclaim redemption for the world. It has pleased God through the foolishness of preaching to save those who believe. Faith comes by hearing the word of God, but for there to be hearing, there must be a preacher. By preaching the church has lived; by preaching she is revived. Though archaic in form, no adequate replacement has been found. By now those who would embark upon such a quest should well be weary of their failed effort.

Concerns for understanding, clarity, relevance, and concreteness sound all but tautological in the matter of preaching. It is God’s address to particular human creatures, at a particular time, and under particular circumstances. This is not to say that no factors pertaining to preaching are timeless, or that one generation cannot benefit from the truth deposited in a preceding one. But it is given with the very nature of preaching that it be contemporary, relevant, and pointed accurately at the environment in which it is uttered.

Preaching makes Christ present among the people. The ether in which it thrives is the life of worship within a doxological and obedient community. It is given power by the very breath of God. It is spoken into huddled and fearful masses; it calls men and women from their idols; it encourages the faith of those who have believed; it witnesses to the work of the Father and the completion of all things in the Son that the creation may be a habitation of God in the Spirit. Indeed, one would do well to question an utterance offered as preaching if it is not fresh, relevant, and understood.

Preaching Is to Be Understood

The notion of Preaching to be Understood is probably not articulated better than in a book by James Cleland that bears that name.1 Dean of the chapel at Duke University in the sixties, he had the unenviable task of preaching to college students in a rebellious generation. But, wonder of all wonders, he was one of the few in his era who could pull off that chore—namely, filling the chapel. On the surface was the charm of a man who looked like a leprechaun, and accompanying that pose was a thick Scottish brogue. But below the surface was a notion of preaching that is all but obvious: it is to be understood. The visual image he gave to press that notion into the imagination of the developing preacher is the geometrical shape known as an ellipse.

Rather than having a center like the circle, the ellipse has two foci. One of the foci is the text of scripture, the other is the contemporary situation (or the context).2 Together they portend the circumference of the ellipse, which Cleland called the preached word. It is not to be confused with the “read word”; neither is it to be confused with the word of prophecy that comes by direct revelation. There is interpenetration between the two texts, and it occurs in the person of the preacher, who is one from among the people. By its very nature, preaching is a hermeneutical act: it translates; it makes relevant; it puts truth into context; it makes the word of God concrete.

Cleland introduced the notion of “bifocality” to describe this model. His position is that no matter where one is located along this circumference, what one has is the word. What I want to press here is how the passion to be understood translates into methodological questions in the work of exegesis. That is, how does one exegete both within tension, and with intention? This is the task to which I now want to turn with undivided attention.

Exegeting Within Tension

All reading and exegeting of scripture is within the tension of an utterance that is at once for God and for the people. Gardner Taylor makes much of the audacity of the creature to speak for God, who is everlasting, holy, the creator.3 And yet, with nothing to say for God, the preacher has nothing worth listening to as preaching. Preachers are not isolated selves, mere Cogitos who know their existence through thinking. No, preachers have feet of clay. Preachers are human, frail, and flawed. They dwell among people of unclean lips, and they know it. Preachers eat cornbread and watermelon, navy beans and rice, fried chicken and catfish, sweet potatoes and collard greens. And yet they stand in the divine counsel and tremble as they hear from heaven. Or, they proceed to speak without hearing and tremble at the prospect of their own judgment. They know the blood of the lost is required at their hands if they do not speak; and they know the hearer may well demand their blood when they do utter what God gives.

The first thing that must be said about exegeting within tension is that there is tension within the “spine” of every sermon. In this regard the sermon differs from the mere telling of a biblical story, the narrating of selected verses, or a personal testimony. Because of this tension inherent within the sermon, reflection, analysis, and design are to a sermon what the backbone is to a living creature that is able to stand up and walk. The thesis makes a claim about God from within a tradition of faith that has specific consequences for those who hear. The challenge might be the call to repent. It may be a summons to deepen faith by growing in knowledge or appropriating what is known. It may be a rebuke for disobedience, a clarification of the distinction between the word of the Lord and the word of the land. The claim may be to compel obedience and service, but the consequences are always present. The spine distributes the thought throughout the discourse, making obvious why what is said is more than the opinion of the preacher.

The tension—just as the spine does for the human body—makes the sermon a discourse toward which there cannot be indifference. By means of it a sermon can be reduced to its skeleton—its summary, its points, its moves. Tension is what makes it hold together and stick. Or, tension is what makes it “snap back,” so it can get up, go somewhere, get in the “grill,” the business, in one’s face or space. Preaching done within tension can convict, comfort, and console or it can motivate, enrage, empower, and deliver. But it should not allow for claims of misunderstanding or indifference.

The second thing that must be said about preaching within tension is that Christian preaching, without exception, is grounded in the scriptures. The scriptures are the revealed written word of God. They are given by inspiration of God for doctrine, correction, and reproof. As the writer of 2 Peter puts it, “holy men of God” were moved by the Holy Ghost to make a record of what the Spirit inspired in them (2 Pet 1:19–21). The same Spirit illumines the mind of the preacher, yet the interpretation is not a private affair. It is done within tension: there is a community of interpretation (a koinonia of the Spirit) without which this work cannot be done, and there is a witness in those who are convicted and hear what the Spirit has to say to the church.

The word spoken in preaching is brought out of the scriptures. This work, known as “exegesis,” is not to be confused with “eisigesis,” which means to read into. Eisigesis occurs when we know before we consult the scriptures, or when we know the meaning of a text before taking the time to listen to the text as a subject with integrity. There is value in bringing out all that is given in a text for the sake of knowledge. But a tension is present in the task of preaching. What is brought out of the text for the purpose of preaching has a concrete focus given by the historicity of the text and the community to which it is spoken.

A critical element of tension is to be observed at this point. It occurs at the boundary between exegetical irrelevance and eisigesis. Exegetical irrelevance goes beyond the parameters observed by the written text into detail that has no bearing on the claim being made by God or for the people of God. Eisigesis disregards the claim in favor of the preacher’s interest. The tension is located where the claim of the text confronts and engages the concrete issues and interests of those who hear preaching. In eisigesis the text is tortured to make it say what the preacher has predetermined. This occurs when we already know what we want to say and find “a word” in the text on which to hang it, or when we string together a set of texts to “flip and hop”—sometimes from Genesis to Revelation. The exegetical tension out of which empowered preaching emerges comes from waiting on the word we could not find without the disciplines of consecrated listening.

Such listening can be compared to the “tuning action” required for the old fashion radio and television. Before there was digital capacity, one had to turn a knob to get the true wave. When the tuning was not precise one would get static on the radio, or what looked like snow on the black and white television screen. Even when tuned, the dial would sometimes slip, and the static and snow would return. Consecrated listening is the first step toward encoding the speech of preaching so it strikes the listening ear with digital precision. We preach to a generation that does not desire to do the work of tuning.

The scriptures reveal who God is, who we are, and what we need to know. The tension in which preaching occurs pivots on the axiom that what we are given is what we need. The implication of preaching grounded in the scriptures is that there is a word in the given text—a word those who are present need to hear. The first work of the preacher is “tuning the ear” to hear with clarity. This is an immersion that may be called “synesthesia,” in that there is a total participation in the “ether of the word” that cannot be reduced to a single sense. This is on the order of “tasting to see,” “looking to hear,” or “smelling to be touched.” It is being handled by the word of life to know what to say to particular people.

Exegeting the scriptures for preaching is not to be reduced to the historical and critical methods developed in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. They have their place, but they do not replace nearly twenty centuries of the church’s exegetical work. Nor do these methods guarantee the healthy tension required for twenty-first-century preaching. They are good for what they were designed to do. They identify the sources that feed into the books of the canon, showing parallels with other ancient literature. They identify the form of the literature, so we can distinguish one genre from another. Critical study exposes the institutions within ancient Hebrew culture, comparing it with customs of surrounding peoples. By means of these studies we learn the interconnections between what we now distinguish as religious teaching and practice, from political, economic, and social structures and patterns. Examining how the sources were edited serves to indicate the issues that were pressing for the compiler and help us to know the theology that operates in a given book. Language study is crucial for knowing the meaning of words in their origin, root meaning, and the world of images out of which they emerged. This component of exegesis is crucial, and it must never be set aside or diminished. But it must be kept in tension with other knowledges to serve the purposes of preaching.

If we are to preach within tension, we must also be attentive to the times and seasons in which we preach. Before the departure of the Lord at the end of his earthly ministry, the disciples asked Jesus whether the moment preceding his ascension was the time when he would restore the kingdom to Israel. His answer was that it was not for them to know the times and seasons the Father had reserved for his power. Rather, they would receive power after the Holy Ghost came upon him to be witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and the utmost parts of the earth. The Lord did not say it was not for them to know the times and seasons in which they carried forth the ministry given to them, however. Indeed, the Spirit was given precisely so they might know their times and seasons.

The times and seasons of the text and the context must be exegeted for preaching to be focused and clear. For the text of scripture, the critical methods identified with biblical scholarship are indispensable. Along with them, however, come all of the theological disciplines, as well as the emancipating knowledges coming from the human sciences, and the critical knowledge of the natural sciences.

The manner in which the scriptures have been interpreted in the long history of the church is utterly consequential for preaching in the twenty-first century. Indeed, the dogmatic constructions of the church are the direct consequence of how the scriptures have been read. Doctrine did not fall from the sky. This is true both of the doctrines that unite Christians and those that divide them. To put the matter another way, there are no Christians who concede that their teaching is “unscriptural.” What one finds in both the written and unwritten text of believing communities reflects the efforts of living, believing Christians to make sense of the scriptural deposit that has been received as well as those things believed and taught among them.

Dogmatics operate at the threshold of the faith. They deal with what must be believed and confessed for persons to claim they are Christian. Or they compel an account of how a claim can be made to Christian identity without such a confession. An outline of dogmatics follows the order of the statements of the creeds of the church. No matter what one’s denomination, members do well to be familiar with these boundaries. Otherwise there can be great and costly forfeiture of troves of wisdom. Systematics keep one mindful of what must be said to confess the mystery of godliness in a manner that is consistent and coherent. For example, systematics prevents a statement concerning the Spirit to contradict what must be said concerning the Son. Attention is given by this discipline to how what is said at one point in confession interpenetrates all else that must be said. In addition, systematics seek for coherence between theological knowledge and other fields that do not pretend to be driven by a search for understanding the knowledge of God that comes by faith.

Knowledge of times and seasons also penetrates into the thickness of concrete, historical Christian communities, known as denominational and nondenominational churches. This is theology that presses below the threshold of written texts into oral traditions, patterns, gestures, idioms, and astructural content that are given with the pulse of the people. In this tissue one finds “ersatz” (informal) dogma where claims are staked and given the valence of gospel, and elevated to the status of sin and salvation, life and death. By this knowledge churches grow, or they go the way of defunct institutions that preceded them. These are the sorts of issues one finds addressed directly in the epistles and indirectly in the gospels. It is in this tension between the text and context that issues are disclosed as the impediments to the gospel they really are, or as the false faith that is not recognize as such. In the New Testament church issues such as circumcision and division were viewed in this light.

Preaching cannot occur without knowledge of the times and seasons of those to whom one preaches. Herein lies one of the great challenges for twenty-first-century preachers born before or shortly after the midpoint of the twentieth century. Seismic shifts in knowledge divide the century into two epistemological domains. The explosion of technology and virtual communication creates two worlds within the same families and communities. But similar shifts also occurred in matters of politics, economics, race, gender, and other descriptors by which we categorize our civilization. At the epicenter of this seismic shift are the theological issues of liberation and pneumatology. Preaching without knowledge of times and seasons reduces to the rhetoric and elocution of centuries that are past.

The tension that ties preaching to the seasons of the liturgical year also supplies health. It keeps the people of God focused on salvation history, supplying marvelous occasions for teaching the faith. Around these concrete moments can be found unsurpassed occasions for rehearsing the gospel. As one moves from Advent to Christmas, to Epiphany, to Lent, Easter, Pentecost, and Whitsuntide, opportunities are supplied for declaring the wondrous deeds of God in the thickness of life and the specificity of the human condition.

Holidays, cultural events, and idiomatic practices likewise supply tension. In some cases the opportunity is afforded for saying why a cultural event is not to be confused with Christian celebration at all. Other events beg to be lifted above the sentimentality and narcissism of parochial indulgences. Church Anniversary, for instance, begs for some discussion of ecclesiology and mission. Mother’s Day and Men’s Day are occasions for addressing the vocation of Christians in ordinary time in light of our calling under God. Methodologically speaking, the posture is that of listening to hear what the word might speak to a particular people on a specific occasion. It is asking the text, “What have you to say to the children of God today?”

It is no less than amazing to see what the findings are when one operates within boundaries and tensions. This is an approach to preaching that does not rely on cleverness and innovation. It takes seriously the sense of preaching found in the early church. One delivers in preaching what has been received from the Lord. A dispensation has been given to the preacher; the consequence is woe for not preaching the gospel. Preaching is an act of contending for the faith once delivered to the saints, and in undertaking the task one need not rely on tales artfully spun. When all is said and done, the mandate is to preach the remission of sins. We are sent by the Son, even as the Father has sent the Son, and we are accompanied by the very breath of God.

Bringing the times and seasons to the text is nothing less than the methodological performance of the question asked of Jeremiah by a young king named Zedekiah. What is so interesting in that case is that the young king did not really want to hear what the older prophet (who had been a friend of his father) had to say. Yet the question is on target. Faced with the dilemma of a kingdom under siege, he asked, “Is there any word from the Lord?”

Methodologically speaking, the issue is how to beg for the word needed in the moment, and how to open discursive spaces for its entrance. The opening is a tempus through which the word pierces, penetrates, illumines, and challenges the context and empowers the hearer. The word itself is a manifestation of power (a kratophany). This is where the word comes alive. Some have the wonderful gift for telling stories, or giving illustrations. Others will wear their selves out looking for stories, telling lies, or taking stories of others as their own.

Many more will be helped (and far better) by learning to exegete to the core of the text. This is where words come to life, where one discovers a key lodged in minute details for unlocking the mysteries. Or, we might say that one sees into the mystery. By means of a “lithic imagination,”4 we are invited to look into the dense, opaque stone and see what has been given. Such keys open both the text and the context. Then preaching is far less a chore than a delight. It is a report of what has been shown to eyes that previously were “holden.” The “stranger” who joins us—as he did the two who walked to Emmaus—makes our world without him seem strange as the bread of life is broken.

Exegeting with Intention

Nobody reads the bible without interests of some sort. Even those who read it as literature, for pleasure, or to dispute it have some purpose in mind. This is even more the case for those who read it as sacred text. Indeed, the claim for the bible as word of God, authoritative writing, or any other designation that indicates privilege necessarily involves a theological act. The privilege the bible has among human creatures means that there is no ordinary reading. The intention to which we now have reference, however, refers more to the subject who reads or hears what is brought forth from the scriptures.

It is like leading the children to stand before the mountain where God spoke from the flames of Sinai. It is like the prophet making a direct address to the king, who is confused regarding who is the troubler of Israel: the selfish scoundrel who should be put to death, or the finger that writes to break up the sacrilegious drinking party? Again, it is like the prophet telling the king he must die and then pronouncing that fifteen years have been added to his life. Exegeting with intention is bringing a brother into the presence of the Messiah who sees and knows him prior to the introduction. It is the ephphatic encounter that opens the deaf ear (as with the man whose ear was opened by the word of Jesus in Mark 7:34), or the ergersistic event, where the command to rise performs the work of obedience, which is like resurrection (as with the cripples in Luke 5:23 and John 5:8).

With intention, a specific word is spoken to specific persons to address specific issues. This is more than the truth in general—whether it be the truth of the scriptures or the truth about the human condition. Just as there can be exegetical excess from the investigation of the text, so it can be from the context. Exegesis with intention refers to the truth of the word being applied on the spot. It is more than a statement of the case, as with social scientific analysis, or social commentary such as one hears in rap and hip-hop. It is more than theological truism, such as is found in trite speech, like “all things work together for good” taken out of context.

Just as one must submit to the world and reality of the scripture to rightly divide the word (cf. 2 Timothy 2:15), so one must give the mind to know the “madness and folly” that resides in the heart of the hearer. This hermeneutical principle, articulated by the preacher in the book of Ecclesiastes, is the only real option for those desiring to be heard and understood, especially in a day of epistemological shifts. In the truly dense spaces where civilizations intersect and clash—where eras join and separate—canons are not always clear.

Vexation of the spirit cannot be avoided in relevant and powerful preaching. The business is not usual. The subjects are not predictable. A trip to the commentary does not comprehend the madness of racism, wars of preemption, and suicide bombing. Nor does it make sense out of ethnic cleansing, genocide, and patricide. The madness must be stared in the face for knowledge of what it is—with comments about what ought to be the case suspended—till one sees what makes it tick. Children do not join gangs and commit suicide for nothing, despite the protests of parents concerning “how good they have it.” Put another way, we do not know the mind of the generation by doing all the talking ourselves.

Twenty-first-century preaching is to a generation that to a significant degree knows nothing of the farm. Many persons in our civilization have no sense of the work that is required to plant, cultivate, and harvest crops. Food is purchased at the market, or it is bought prepared and ready to eat. Similarly with other forms of technology: the younger generation has come to rely on them—without the memory of times that predate such innovations—as if conveniences and gadgets simply came with the world. No explanation of the physics of electricity, magnetism, or electronics is required. On the other hand, where scientific knowledge is present, it can readily become the measure for all claims that are trustworthy. Verifiability is thought to reside in the measurement of the senses. In a context such as this, preaching from the scriptures seems to rest on knowledge from a strange and distant world.

Because of this strangeness and distance, countless images, metaphors, and parables from the bible have no resonance. The epistemological discontinuities often go unrecognized. Common sense realism has flowered into full bloom. Add to this the perduring pragmatism that is driven deeply into the American landscape, and the consequence is that much of what the bible has to say about human nature has an odd sound. The world of the bible is strange and foreign.

A necessary intention of preaching, therefore, must be to expose the hearer of the gospel to his or her own subjectivity. Knowledge and exploration of the epistemological breaks is as crucial for the exegetical task as critical study of the text. To put the matter another way, preaching with intention requires what Charles Long has called “archaeology of the subject.” This is an interrogation of what it means to be modern, postmodern, American, or whoever we know ourselves to be. But sincere communication also requires taking seriously how we are known by those we consider as the Other. An intersubjective connection is present in every act of effective preaching.

A cornerstone in the structure of modern knowledge is the dictum popularized by the philosopher Hegel, that the rational is the real. He spoke in concert with others who sought to push back the curtain of mystery and enlighten the world. Despite the benefits of scientific knowledge deriving from this epistemological shift, reality has never caught up to the dictum. It refuses to evolve fully from magic, to religion, to science. As with the solution to the quadratic equation, there is a set of factors in plenary reality that have a coefficient of “i.” If imaginary, there is a section of reality that remains real, even when it does not fit into rational constraints.5 To use the language of Rudolf Otto, the “numinous” is as real as the rational.6

Preaching necessarily embraces the numinous (pneumatic) factors. It is inspired by the Spirit. It is an invitation into the world of mystery, even as it enters into the mysteries of the human heart. To the extent that it remains in tension with the scriptures and remains consistent with the intention for which it is given, preaching employs the language of pneumatology. Indeed, in some ways this archaic discourse is consistent with what might be nominated as the “postmodern tendency” of the twenty-first century.

Concern to speak to the times and seasons prevents the preacher from becoming a ventriloquist dummy for the culture. For then the tension would be broken, forfeiting the energy and power of preaching. When the preacher acts as dummy, her lips move, but another supplies the thoughtful reflection. The word of the Lord is confused with the word of the king and the voice of the land, as in the day of Ahab and Jehosophat. Ahab refused to call Micaiah, saying he only spoke evil and never what he wanted to hear. But all the other prophets were under the spell of the lying spirit. They would send the people into a battle where God had promised no protection and victory.

The image of the ventriloquist dummy was riveted in my imagination one night while watching Ted Coppell. There was a discussion between Jesse Jackson and Jerry Falwell prior to the demise of Apartheid in South Africa. Falwell called Bishop Tutu a phony and proceeded to apologize for the regime that was in power. There was no hint on his part of a need for “Regime Change.” Interestingly enough, here were two Baptist preachers who were light-years apart in their perspectives. Jesse went for the jugular, telling Jerry he sounded like a ventriloquist dummy for Pik Botha.

Those who were raised in the church, coming up through the “cradle roll,” have heard the text read and interpreted so frequently that there is often little clue concerning where the text ends and theological construction begins. Instruction in the faith is unavoidable, and it is the proper work of every Christian community. However, theologically trained pastors and preachers have the responsibility for examining these constructions so the word can do its sanctifying work. Sometimes it is necessary to prevent the “sins of the fathers” from being passed through the generations. In less serious cases it is necessary to take seriously the inquiring mind and prevent rebellion due to false faith.

An illustration will serve well at this point. I remember being approached by a member who proudly informed me she had purchased a new Scofield bible. My response was polite at best. She insisted that I say more. What I said upset her. I see in retrospect that I may have been excessively brash, but the truth I sought to make was the same. I told her, “I wouldn’t give a dime for it.” Shocked at the impious response of the pastor, she asked why. My answer was that I prefer my bible and my commentary under separate covers. It had never occurred to her that such a bible teaches a particular theology. She, and others like her, failed to notice the line that separates scripture from the notes that accompany it. The particular theology of Cyrus Scofield, itself derived from John Nelson Darby, is effectively subsumed into the scriptural text.

The same comment may be applied to any system of knowledge in which a set of presuppositions is required to make “correct interpretations.” A catechism has its place: let it be what it is. The same principle applies to fundamentalism, scientism, historicism, liberalism, etc. Every critical discourse needs to acknowledge its catechism. The faithful dispenser needs to know these catechisms, whether they are written or oral, whether they are labeled as such or whether they are interwoven with the culture. Identification of catechisms is like the fine art of tuning out static that prevents clear communication. For the preacher, it is like standing in the counsel and knowing the difference between the conflicting noise and the certain sound.

Again, one must be careful in an environment where preaching often seeks to avoid the issues that matter. In such a place, preaching itself often doesn’t matter. One can see how that flaw was introduced into American Christianity to soften the church’s thousand-year opposition to slavery. Throughout the history of the church there have been debates over the status of servants and slaves within Christian fellowships. On the one hand, the church taught that all who believe on the Lord Jesus are baptized into one body, where there is neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free (Galatians 3:27–28). On the other hand, Christian slaves were taught to obey their masters (1 Timothy 6:1; 1 Peter 2:18). From the Old Testament teaching, a distinction was made between the people of the covenant and the heathens when it came to purchasing slaves (Lev 25:44–46). Manstealing was prohibited, and evangelical demands upon the church required that the gospel be spread to every creature (1 Tim 1:10; Matt 28:19; Mark 16:15. The result was ambiguity and inconsistent teaching in the matter.

In the American churches, abolitionist Christians argued that slavery in every form was inconsistent with the gospel of liberty. The response of slaveholding Christians was to deny that baptism in any way changed one’s social status, and to require Christian slaves to disclaim any intention for manumission when seeking admittance to the Table of the Lord.7

In defense of bondage, however, the church went further to argue not only a benign or permissive disposition on God’s part. The positive argument was made by many to prove that God ordained slavery, cursed the descendants of Ham (the darker races) to be slaves, and regarded as sinful disobedience any acts to be free. Some went so far as to declare that Africans devolve from a separate creation, are beasts and not men, and do not possess souls. Any mixing of the races has its origin in sin, and the quest for social equality is nothing more than an “infidel pestilence.”8

Again and again, there has been in American Christianity an uncoupling of personal and social holiness, spiritual and secular gospel. Spiritual truth was sectioned off in the regions of the heart, and business was not mixed with ethics and morality. Hence acts could be morally reprehensible, yet legal, and the church refused to speak on matters of justice. Such docetic patterns persist into the present. At the same time, preaching can be obsessed with the spatial coordinates of hell, or what color robe one wants to wear in heaven. Again, when preaching avoids the issues that matter, the preaching does not matter.

Even when the forms are taken from or suited to the younger, there is content and wisdom that must come from the elder. There can be little dispute that desperate clinging to nineteenth century forms spells the death of the church as we know it. Fewer and fewer from the current generation so much as know the traditions of the fifties, and even smaller numbers desire them. As in the days of Eli, the light in the Tabernacle in Shiloh shows signs of growing dim. Yet it is Eli who knows the voice of God. Even when the call went to Samuel, the old priest was needed to instruct him in saying yes to God. Samuel was vigorous, aggressive, and obedient to God. His works prospered at the hand of God. Wherever he went men trembled in his presence. But he became advanced in years like Eli before him. What’s more, his sons were disobedient priests who displeased God, just like the sons of Eli.

For preaching, the methodological question may be restated as a rehearsal of the conversation between God and Rebecca pending the birth of her sons. She wanted to know what was transpiring in her womb that caused such turmoil. The response of the Lord was that there were two nations within her, and the elder would serve the younger. For preaching this is crucial: either the offering will be twenty-first century, or it will be done in solitary. The question is how to preserve the timeless truth of the gospel and present it to a generation so that it can hear it.

This is utterly crucial. Knowing the issues is itself a challenge. In large measure it is how to put critical disciplines in the service of theology. It is ever so easy to grant to analysis more than servant status. Even where it un-conceals the problems and obfuscations, it does not supply the vision for the church. Whether it is Marxism, Rap, or Hip Hop it does not prophesy to set forth the reality that God is creating.

What the preacher is ever seeking is a subject-to-subject encounter in which the hearer meets God. This is the radical language of the Old Testament in the theophanies, where Moses meets God on Sinai, or Isaiah hears the voice of God in the temple. The incarnation of the Son brings a generation face to face with the Son, and in the course of events Phillip is told, “he who has seen me has seen the Father.” It is as radical as Saul’s encounter on the road to Damascus. It is stated in contemporary parlance in the I-Thou language of Martin Buber.9 The image of this encounter is depicted no better than in the instance of the African slave who put the bible to his ear to hear what the ship captain who enslaved him had heard.

And yet, one must test what is heard to know whether it is true. For instance, did the slave and the master hear the same word? It seems they didn’t. One heard a word that authorized making slaves of the heathens in perpetuity. The other read from the same chapter (Lev 25) that in the year of Jubilee all who were in bondage were set free. What’s more, this is the year that has been declared by the Messiah, upon whom the Spirit has come to rest and in whom the Spirit dwells without measure.

Here the Spirit of wisdom matches the madness and folly of the generation. It exposes it for its true content in pneumatic space where the Spirit performs the work of liberation. One sees this most clearly in the intersection of Christology and pneumatology—preparation of the way for the Son, in the incarnation of the Son, the inauguration of the Son to Messianic office, in the ministry of the Son, and in the sending of the Spirit. The Spirit of liberty turns the hearts of those who believe to the wisdom of the just, prepares a people fit for their God, lifts the poor from the dung heap, and sets free those who are oppressed by the devil (Luke 1:17ff). In other words, where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.

Preaching with intention opens those spaces through which there can be a pneumatic flow. It plunges the preacher into a spiritual space older exegetes knew as the “sensus plenior.” The truth comes forth to embrace—yea, to overwhelm—the one who takes the time and makes preparation to hear. It is an answer to the prayers for the preacher that ask for “. . . his eyes to be set to the telescope of eternity, his ears to be pinned to the wisdom post, for his tongue to be turpentined, and his words turned into sledgehammers of truth.”10 This space is not entered into casually or upon a whim. This ground cannot be traversed without preparation; nor can what is claimed go without testing. Yet this is the surplus given in revelation, without which one is not yet prepared to speak for God.

The work of exegesis serves to modulate the corrupted boundaries in which the hearers dwell. It disturbs the false placidity and undifferentiated ether of a world that has turned from its creator; it punctuates the noise of chaos with silences of the Spirit; it charges toxic atmosphere with divine effluvium. Then it translates what has been seen and heard in the counsel of God into auditions that transform ordinary space into a doxological environment wherein God is present. The Lord is in his Holy Temple; let all the earth keep silence. Let the silence be broken only to say, “Speak Lord.”

1. Cleland, Preaching to be Understood.

2. See Cleland’s chapter on “bifocal preaching,” 33–58.

3. Taylor, How Shall They Preach, 24.

4. I am borrowing this term from Charles Long to account for the moment in which one gives full attention to reality that cannot be readily dominated or dissected. See Long, Significations: Signs, Symbols, and Images in the Interpretation of Religion. Long describes the moment as looking into a rock. Hence the term “lithic,” taken from lithos, Greek for rock. What is desired is “in the rock,” not under it or behind it. The moment is akin to the one in which the sculptor sees in the rock the image that is to be brought forth. For preaching, this is like looking into the word (the text) and waiting for the insight that must be given—an insight that cannot be rushed.

5. When the quadratic equation is solved, one of the factors is the square root of –1. Standard practice is to designate this factor by the sign “i.” Mathematical convention is to discard any answers containing this factor. It is real, and it can be squared to equal 1, but it cannot be reduced to any rational sum.

6. Otto, Idea of the Holy.

7. See Jones, African Americans and the Christian Churches 1619–1860, chapter 1.

8. See Smith, In His Image, But . . . , especially chapter 3, “In Defense of Bondage,” 129ff.

9. Buber, I and Thou.

10. Johnson, God’s Trombones.