Every time I deliver a sermon people come up in wonderment and ask where I learned to preach. However, I never get to tell them because they immediately fall to the floor laughing and roll away. I am, of course, glad to see people being happy, but I would like to answer that question.
I learned to preach not in the classroom nor the study nor the pulpit but in the gymnasium. I love college wrestling and, when we lived in the Midwest, I drove hundreds of miles through zero-visibility blizzards to watch the then-titans of the sport: Iowa vs. Iowa State. I think I like wrestling because so many things in our lives are stacked against us, but in wrestling you go to the mat with someone exactly your own size. Winning, therefore, does not depend on your father’s friends or your mother’s money. It depends entirely on your own determination, strength, speed, and ability to seize split-second opportunities.
In those days, nobody could stop Iowa State University’s incredible juggernaut, Dan Gable. The Russians had seen Gable on film and, prior to the 1972 Olympic Games, the Soviet sports commissars (also known as S.A.S. — Soviet Athletic Supporters) searched all over the Soviet Union for someone to go to the mat with Gable.
Beating Dan Gable was a Soviet national priority. As expected, the gold medal event at Munich came down to the Russian and the American, man against man, and Dan Gable demonstrated conclusively in 1972 that, at 149.5 pounds, he was the best in the world.
However, there is one division where the scales are not even. In those days, heavyweights could be any size, and Dan Gable had an Iowa State and Olympic teammate named Chris Taylor who came into the circle at a mere 420 to 450 pounds (depending on what he ate for lunch). Now 280 pounds is a very big man, but trying to take down Chris Taylor was to imagine putting Mount Everest on its back. For this task, the popular term is appropriate — “truly awesome.” How would you prepare for a wrestling match with a 400 pounder? I suppose you could practice by taping together a couple of 200 pounders.
Over the years a lot of wrestlers tried a lot of moves on Chris Taylor. They tried to push him backward and to the right side and to the left side — all without success. However, Taylor lost the Olympic gold medal because his opponent did the one thing he never expected. Dietrich of West Germany grabbed Taylor around what might, by courtesy only, be called his waist and pulled him forward! This hold, called a souplesse, involves getting your opponent off his feet and up on your chest, then falling backwards and twisting him over before he comes down and crushes your ribs and skull. The souplesse takes great speed, strength, and courage, and I would never have believed it possible with 420 pounds unless I had seen it on television with my own eyes.
Sermons are like wrestling matches. Preachers try to push you around in predictable directions, and since you know what is coming you are prepared to resist these holds and stay on your feet. Week after week preachers work up a sweat circling around a congregation and quit when the whistle blows without a single takedown because every move was expected and effectively countered. Thus, if congregations are going to be pinned by the Word of God, preachers need to come at them in unexpected ways. After all the ordination vows require the use of our imaginations (Book of Order G14.0207h). Of course, trying to flatten a congregation by going for the pin is not the only goal of Christian preaching. Sometimes people just need to be grabbed and hugged. Other times they only require a bit of exercise so that circling around with them for a little while is sufficient. In my preaching however, I keep trying the souplesse, and one of these days I will get it right. Until then I will just have to be content to let congregations fall on me.