According to
a quick, lazy online search, about 75% of people have some level of fear of
public speaking. About 10% are
absolutely horrified by the prospect of talking in front of a group. Some lists of fears rank public speaking neck
and neck with death itself.
Interestingly
enough, introverted people often can be effective public speakers. As one article suggests, introverts “spend a
lot of time alone thinking, observing and analyzing. An introvert is rarely
short of ideas and creativity. They can
often delve deeper into the topic and come up with unique angles that compel
the audience to sit up and pay attention. Reading and researching is one of
their strengths…”
It has been
said, “If you want people to pay attention, say the wrong thing.” Perhaps that’s one reason many people avoid
public speaking: they don’t want to say
the wrong thing. Indeed, how many times
have we listened to a speech or a sermon and all that we truly recall later is
a mistake or misstatement that occurred, or something with which we vehemently
disagree?
On Easter
Sunday, Mary and I heard a preacher refer to “making lemons from lemonade.” It was reported later that the same mistake
was made in all three worship services at the church that day.
One of my
esteemed seminary professors told of how once he gave a series of lectures on
the Old Testament Creation stories from Genesis,
and in referring to the verses describing how God breathed life into the
first human beings, the scholar/prophet/teacher intoned, …”in the image of God
he created them, feel and mayfeel he created them.” The Professor had no idea he named new
genders until it later was pointed out to him.
My own
preaching featured flubs and, no doubt, instances of “taking God’s name in
vain.” As a puppy minister in my student days I preached at a church in Indiana. In an early sermon I was trying to reference
a phrase I recently heard, “Hoosier Hospitality.” In the moment, however, I couldn’t spit it out. I kept saying, “Hoosier Ha…Hoosier Ha…” Finally, I stopped and remarked, “All I could
think of was Hoosier Hostility.”
Naturally, it got a laugh, and likely was the only part of the sermon
anyone remembered. It’s all I remember
about it.
Speaking of
seminary days, our weekly chapel service at the school sometimes featured
students as the preacher. Even though
glossophobia doesn’t apply to me generally, I made sure I never stood in that
pulpit. Reviews of sermons at the chapel
service were savage, especially from other students. The post-chapel scene was like watching a
group of vultures swoop down on fresh roadkill.
Also, I never
could see myself preaching in front of someone like the president of the
seminary, whom I held in very high regard.
He truly was a friendly, gentle soul, although very brilliant and
accomplished. (Many years later, at a
luncheon, the then-president of the seminary commented that he was “surprised
to see that T.J. Liggett isn’t ten feet tall,” having heard of his reputation
and work. I turned to Mary and said, “You
mean, he isn’t?”)
T.J. Liggett’s
daughter was a member of the National City Christian Church in Washington,
D.C., and when I was a pastor there she let me know T.J. would be present for
worship one Sunday when I was scheduled to preach. So, some 20+ years after I avoided preaching
in front of him, it finally was going to happen. At least, I had advance warning. When I stood in the pulpit, there he was,
about four rows from the front, dead center in my field of vision. I acknowledged his presence, then went about
my work. The sky didn’t fall, the
building didn’t collapse, I didn’t faint, nothing bad happened.
Following the
service, after shaking the people out, I wandered back into the sanctuary,
spotted T.J., and glided over toward him.
He introduced me to the person with whom he was speaking (we had many
visitors to the church, it being our denomination’s flagship congregation,
located in the bulls-eye center of the nation’s capital), and after a few
moments of chit-chat it was evident he wasn’t going to comment on my
sermon. So, I went about my other chores
of the day, albeit a bit disappointed.
A few days
later, his daughter said, “Did Dad tell you how much he thought of your sermon?”
I replied,
nonchalantly, “No, I guess he didn’t.”
“Well, he
thought it was great.”
“Oh…well, that’s nice.”
Sometime
within the following year it happened again, only this time I had no advance
warning. I climbed into the pulpit,
looked out at the people, and there he was, again in the same spot as before.
My preaching
that day actually elicited applause from the congregation when I finished, and
I watched as T.J. slowly approached me after the service, walking with a cane: “Timely. Insightful. Biblical.”
I’m not sure
if his comment was because I said “the wrong thing,” but I was thrilled,
gratified, relieved. There truly wasn’t
any glossophobia that day, but it sure was nice to get that approval from him.
