CHAPTER III.
PRELIMINARIES—FEAR—VIGOR—OPENING EXERCISES.
It is an anxious moment when, after having completed his preparation, the preacher awaits the time for beginning his intellectual battle. Men who are physically brave often tremble in this emergency. The shame of failure appears worse than death itself, and as the soldier feels more of cold and shrinking terror while listening for the peal of the first gun, than when the conflict deepens into blood around him, so the speaker suffers more in this moment of expectancy than in any that comes after. He sees the danger in its full magnitude without the inspiration that attends it. Yet he must remain calm and collected, for unless he is master of himself, he cannot expect to rule the multitude before him. He must keep his material well in hand, that it may be used at the proper time, although it is not best to be continually conning over what he has to say. The latter would destroy the freshness of his matter, and bring him to the decisive test weary and jaded. He only needs to be assured that his thoughts are within reach.
It is very seldom possible to banish all fear, and it is to the speaker’s advantage that he cannot. His timidity arises from several causes, which differ widely in the effects they produce. A conscious want of preparation is one of the most distressing of these. When this proceeds from willful neglect no pity need be felt, although the penalty should be severe. If the speaker’s object is only to win reputation—to pander to his own vanity—he will feel more terrified than if his motive were worthy. Such is often the position of the uncalled minister. He can have no help from on high, and all his prayers for divine assistance are a mere mockery. But if we speak because we dare not refrain, a mighty point is gained, for then failure is no reproach. And the less of earthly pride or ambition mingles with our motives, the more completely can we rely on the help of the Spirit.
Another cause of fear is less unworthy. The glorious work in which we are engaged may suffer from our insufficiency; for, while God will bless the truth when given in its own beauty and power, there is still scope enough for all the vigor of intellect, and the strongest preacher feels the responsibility of rightly using his powers resting heavily upon him.
A general dread, that cannot be analyzed or accounted for, is perhaps more keenly felt than any other. Persons who have never spoken sometimes make light of it, but no one will ever do so who has experienced it. The soldier, who has never witnessed a battle, or felt the air throb with the explosion of cannon, or heard the awful cries of the wounded, is often a great braggart, while “the scarred veteran of a hundred fights” never speaks of the carnival of blood without shuddering, and would be the last, but for the call of duty, to brave the danger he knows so well. A few speakers never feel such fear, but it is because they do not know what true speaking is. They have never felt the full tide of inspiration that sometimes lifts the orator far above his ordinary conceptions. They only come forward to relieve themselves of the interminable stream of twaddle that wells spontaneously to their lips, and can well be spared the pangs that precede the birth of a profound and living discourse.
This kind of fear belongs to oratory of any character, but especially to that which deals with sacred themes. It resembles the awe felt on the eve of all great enterprises, and when excessive, as it is in some highly gifted and sensitive minds, it constitutes an absolute bar to public speech. But in most cases it is a source of inspiration rather than of repression.
There is a strange sensation often experienced in the presence of an audience before speaking. It may proceed from the united electric influence of the many eyes that are turned upon the speaker, especially if he catches their gaze. It may enchain him and leave him powerless, unless he rises superior to it, and, throwing it backward to its source, makes it the medium of his most subtile conquests. Most speakers have felt this in a nameless thrill, a real something, pervading the atmosphere, tangible, evanescent, indescribable. All writers have borne testimony to the effect of a speaker’s glance in impressing an audience. Why should not their eyes have a reciprocal power?
By dwelling on the object for which we speak, and endeavoring to realize its full importance, we will in a measure lose sight of the danger to be incurred, and our minds be more likely to remain in a calm and tranquil state. But no resource is equal to the sovereign one of prayer. The Lord will remember his servants when they are laboring in his cause, and grant a divine influence to prepare them for the work.
No change in the plan should be made just before speaking, for it will almost inevitably produce confusion. Yet this error is very difficult to avoid. The mind has a natural tendency to be going over the same ground, revising and testing every point, and is liable to make changes, the consequences of which cannot at once be foreseen. After all necessary preparation has been made, we should wait the result quietly and hopefully. Over-study is possible, and when accompanied by great solicitude, is a sure means of driving away all interest from the subject. If the eye be fixed too long upon one object, with a steadfast gaze, it will be unable to see at all. So the mind, if confined to one point for a great period, will lose its vivacity, and grow weary. Nothing can compensate for the want of elasticity and vigor in the act of delivery. It is not enough to enumerate a dry list of particulars, but we must enter into their spirit with the deepest interest. This cannot be counterfeited. To clearly arrange, and weigh every thought that belongs to the subject, lay it aside until the time for speech, and then enter upon it with only such a momentary glance as will assure us that all is right, is doubtless the method to make our strength fully available. To await the decisive moment with calm self-confidence, is very difficult, especially for beginners, but the ability to do it may be acquired by judicious practice and firm resolution. M. Bautain, whose experience was very extensive, says that he has sometimes felt so confident of his preparation, as to fall asleep while waiting to be summoned to the pulpit!
But those who misimprove the last moments by too much thought, form the smallest class. Many, through mere indolence, permit the finer lines of the future discourse, that have been traced with so much care, to fade out. This not unfrequently happens to those who preach a second or third time on the same subject. Because they have succeeded once, they imagine that the same success is always at command. This is a hurtful, though natural error. It is not enough to have the material for a sermon where it may be collected by a conscious and prolonged effort, but it must be in the foreground. There is no time, in the moment of delivery, for reviving half obliterated lines of memory.