There is no room for the dilettante, the weakling, for the shirker, or the sluggard. The mine, the factory, the dockyard, the salt sea waves, the field to till, the home, the hospital, the chair of the scientist, the pulpit of the preacher - from the highest to the humblest tasks, all are of equal honor; all have their part to play.
This is no time to speak of the hopes of the future, or the broader world which lies beyond our struggles and our victory. We have to win that world for our children. We have to win it by our sacrifices. We have not won it yet. The crisis is upon us. . . . In this strange, terrible world war there is a place for everyone, man and woman, old and young, hale and halt; service in a thousand forms is open. There is no room now for the dilettante, the weakling, for the shirker, or the sluggard. The mine, the factory, the dockyard, the salt sea waves, the fields to till, the home, the hospital, the chair of the scientist, the pulpit of the preacher - from the highest to the humblest tasks, all are of equal honor; all have their part to play.
A farmer purchased an old, run-down, abandoned farm with plans to turn it into a thriving enterprise. The fields were grown over with weeds, the farmhouse was falling apart, and the fences were broken down. During his first day of work, the town preacher stops by to bless the man's work, saying, "May you and God work together to make this the farm of your dreams!" A few months later, the preacher stops by again to call on the farmer. Lo and behold, it's a completely different place. The farm house is completely rebuilt and in excellent condition, there is plenty of cattle and other livestock happily munching on feed in well-fenced pens, and the fields are filled with crops planted in neat rows. "Amazing!" the preacher says. "Look what God and you have accomplished together!" "Yes, reverend," says the farmer, "but remember what the farm was like when God was working it alone!"
Lecturers and preachers often wonder why they are disturbed in the middle of their discourse by their hearers rising up and going out. Over a century ago in the 1850's, this question was investigated by a national Council of Lecturers. Some thought the habit was due to natural infirmity; but that could not be, as it was frequently observed in able-bodied men and women. It was suggested that it might be owing to the lecture being stupid, but this idea was proved false by the council president, who remarked he had seen people go out at a lecture of his own. The conclusion was that the habit was owing to a congenital disproportion, the mind of the goer-out being able to contain only half a lecture-so he went when his mind was full.
A preacher in the East End of London was speaking of the love of God-so full and boundless-and compared it to the love of a mother, which remains constant and true even when her children sinned. "Nothing," he said, "can destroy the love of a mother." At the close of the service, when he went out into the cold, rough night, a little girl in rags pulled at his coat with a trembling hand, and said: "Please, sir, you forgot something tonight. There is something that can take away a mother's love." "What do you mean, my child?" he asked. "Please, sir, liquor will. It took away my mother's love, and I know."
A good sermon leaves you wondering how the preacher knew all about you.
When the congregation of a drought-stricken area gathered to pray for rain, the preacher said: "Brethren, we are here to pray for rain. Where is your faith? Not one of you brought an umbrella!"
"A preacher is a messenger," once said a very wise man, "and being a messenger, he has no right to change the message he carries, any more than a Western Union messenger boy has a right to change the message in the telegram that he is employed to deliver."
Actors speak of things imaginary as if they were real, while you preachers often speak of things real as if they were imaginary.
What a searching preacher of self-command is the varying phenomenon of health.
The good rain, like the bad preacher, does not know when to leave off.
Don't be a cynic and disconsolate preacher. Don't bewail and moan. Omit the negative propositions. Challenge us with incessant affirmatives.
Live while you live, the epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day; Live while you live, the sacred preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies. Lord, in my views, let both united be: I live in pleasure when I live to thee.
The preacher and the writer may seem to have an... easy task. At first sight, it may seem that they have only to proclaim and declare; but in fact, if their words are to enter men's hearts and bear fruit, they must be the right words, shaped cunningly to pass men's defenses and explode silently and effectually within their minds. This means, in practice, turning a face of flint toward the easy cliché, the well-worn religious cant and phraseology - dear, no doubt, to the faithful, but utterly meaningless to those outside the fold. It means learning how people are thinking and how they are feeling; it means learning with patience, imagination and ingenuity the way to pierce apathy or blank lack of understanding. I sometimes wonder what hours of prayer and thought lie behind the apparently simple and spontaneous parables of the Gospel.
There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."
Nothing anonymous will ever persuade-the faith and conduct of the preacher give life and power to his message. Thus preaching is different from mere feeling. You may teach mathematics or geography without being fully convinced. But in delivering the Gospel message, if it is to be a living life-giving message, there must be in the preacher a sense of message and the desire to deliver it.
Preachers in pulpits talked about what a great message is in the book. No matter what you do, somebody always imputes meaning into your books.
If there is not Hell, a good many preachers are obtaining money under false pretenses.
Said of the Irish itinerant preacher the Reverend Mr. Whitefield, who arrived in Philadelphia in 1739. Every accent, every emphasis, every modulation of voice, was so perfectly well turned and well placed, that, without being interested in the subject, one could not help being pleased with the discourse . . . .
A preacher was operated on for a hernia. As this was about the time of the first world war he was given ether. As he was coming out of the anesthetic a fire broke out in the building next door. As the flames began to show through the hospital windows the nurse pulled the shades down. She didn't want the preacher to think his operation had been a failure.
Powerfulest preacher and tinderest teacher And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
Deliver me from your cold, phlegmatic preachers, politicians, friends, lovers and husbands.
