There is too much reminiscence of our philosophical and scholastic studies in our sermons. It often appears as if we were speaking to a meeting of young bachelors in theology. We seem to believe—and the notion is generally taken for granted—that we have not adequately developed an idea unless we discuss it for an hour or for three-quarters of an hour at the least.
Thus the audience is overwhelmed under the weight of a ponderous erudition. It is not sufficient that they should have one proof set before them, they must submit to any conceivable number on the same subject. Or, to use M. de Cormenin's language, preachers keep on using the flat side of their sword with weak proofs, after they have given a decisive thrust with the weapon's point. What has been said a thousand times before is repeated, and what everybody knows, or what nobody needs to know, is dilated upon to no purpose.
A man must be endowed with extraordinary genius who can bring forcible thoughts to bear upon one and the same subject for the space of a whole hour. But this consideration does not appear to occasion the least embarrassment. The vacuities of thought are filled up with words, and that is called developing an idea.
For the most part, we are all convinced that others speak too long, but we are beguiled by the world's flattery.
We preach, and people are delighted, and send intimations to us that we have acquitted ourselves to admiration; that they would gladly have listened to us much longer, and so forth.
But we know better than any one else that the world does not always speak the truth, and that we ourselves have frequently denounced its want of sincerity. How comes it, then, that we are deluded by such fine speeches? In flattering us, the world simply plies its trade; but it is our duty not to give heed to its blandishments. Moreover, there prevails at present a strong and universal conviction that, generally speaking, our sermons are too long.
Ask whom you please, enemies and friends, ask even the most fervent Christians—thanks be to God there are intelligent men, and men renowned for their charity among the sincerely religious—ask them, I say, and they will tell you that our sermons and services are too long. And if pious and intelligent men are of that opinion, what must the masses think?
Undoubtedly, the intention is praiseworthy. … We aim at securing a greater good by lengthening out the services and sermon. Still, it is equally certain that in so doing we discard both prudence and charity. It resembles the ordinary treatment of wives, who insist on giving their sick husbands good strong broth, on the plea that it will do them more good than all the chemist's medicines. The intention is unquestionably a kind one; but it is no less true that the regimen, instead of benefiting the patients, is most likely to kill them outright. Alas! the same result has followed a similar injudicious treatment of men's souls.