I've done several public speaking events lately. Though all of those events taught me something, this last Sunday’s preaching endeavor at Claremont UCC definitely stands out. Here's my story...
I grew up in/at CUCC. So when I got asked by my friend the Rev. Iona Dickinson to be "pulpit supply" I jumped at the opportunity. It was a chance to see old faces, reconnect with old friends, and to say "thank you" to those who were part of making my time in seminary possible (through their scholarship contributions). I put hours and hours into preparing my sermon: exegesis, meditation, conversation with colleagues, drafting, editing, finalizing, rehearsing. Phew!! What a mental and emotional work-out sermon-writing can be. I have NO clue how clergy do it every week. No clue.
Anyhoo, CUCC has two services: one at 8:15am and one at 10am. The earlier service is attended by a smaller, older crowd. The 10am service is broadcasted on local television, podcasted, and full of families. I knew, going in, that the second service would be more energetic and familiar because that's the service I attended as a kid.
After being introduced by the lay liturgist at the 8:15am service, I stood up, walked to the pulpit, looked out over the pews, and felt nothing but dead-weight. I have come to expect a little resistance when people first see me, because it's not every(sun)day that a 26-year old, tattooed, woman preaches in Christian Churches. But this particular dead-weight never subsided. The people's eyes communicated nothing; they weren't smiling or encouraging me with their body language. I felt shut down before I even opened my mouth. After 1 minute of speaking, I saw at least 10 people in the congregation looking down at their bulletins, not listening to a word I was saying. After 2 minutes of speaking I had microphone problems and someone had to come "help me" which consisted of him fidgeting with this little device on my blouse. You can imagine how appropriate that looked to the congregation. After five minutes of speaking my body was drenched in sweat. They weren't giving any visual or verbal feedback. Of the 25 people in the room, I could tell only 5-6 of them were with me. I began talking too fast, feeling pressured to finish in order to relieve these people of their suffering. Apparently, listening to these "young people" (how they would refer to me later) is always so dreadful because we talk too fast, talk too soft and they can't follow or hear anything we are saying. How sad. The service finally ended (much to my relief) and a 95-year old man walked up to me and said "For your content, thank you, but you are NOT a public speaker." Touché.
You can imagine how excited I was to get up and do it again for the 10am service. I called my mom to come take a walk with me between services because she always inspires me to "push through" whenever I feel like giving up. I automatically felt better upon her arrival. And then I did something by accident, and I do mean accident: I put on a preacher's robe for the second service. I NEVER wear a robe when preaching b/c I've always considered it out-dated and elitist. But I had to in this instance for reasons that need not be explained on the internet. Suffice it to say, it was absolute necessity despite the 108 degree heat. Like many things I have opinions about before actually trying them "on," I found the "objectionable" robe quite helpful in tackling the task at hand. I felt more pastoral, more ready to preach. And so I put my dad's cross around my neck, and headed into the big sanctuary for the second service.
There were probably 250 people in the sanctuary. Upon entering I spotted at least 20 friendly faces, people who had come either specifically to hear me or folks I had grown up sitting next to on Sunday mornings. It felt familiar and welcoming. The service began with a couple minor boo-boos committed by the lay liturgist, which inspired lots of laughter by the congregation--light-hearted, loving laughter between friends. The sound of chuckling settled my heart. The pressure came down a bit. I felt just enough ease to come out and watch the "children's service." I sat legs-crossed, robe on, right there on the floor with all the children of the congregation under the age of 5. Their faces helped to further calm me down. After the children were excused and the scripture had been read aloud, I was ready to go. I said a quick prayer of surrender, and hopped into the pulpit.
They hugged me with their eyes. They said "you can do it" with their body language. They laughed at my jokes. They followed me from start to finish. The Holy Spirit moved. I could feel It, the entire time. I was moved to tears at one point--something I shared with several members of the congregation. When it was over, people came to thank me and by the time I'd shook the last hand, I had nothing but pure joy running through my veins. Let me tell you, this was a night and day difference from the first service.
Here's what I learned: the Holy Spirit moves because people open their hearts to one another. I could not have given that second sermon if the second service participants hadn't loved me into speech (to quote an old school pilgrim :). The Holy Spirit moves in worship when give and take happens: between minister and lay, between sacrament and spirits, between every-week worshippers and guests, between old and young, etc. I once heard someone say that church shouldn't be a spectator sport. Amen to that. Give and take. Mutuality. Call and response. The intentional exchange of love. That's the Church I want to call "ours."
Public speaking is fucking scary. It is the most vulnerable thing I do. Though many people consider the minister "powerful," I think a certain feeling of powerlessness accompanies getting up and giving voice. You cannot control how people receive you or what people think about what you say. You cannot control what critiques will come at you, or what hearts you will touch.
I just spoke to another dead-weight audience this morning at a camp and conference center I am currently working for. I had the same feelings of rushing and wanting it to be over. There is nothing worse (after having put hours and hours of work and much energy into a presentation) than seeing blank faces, no head nods, and to receive little to no eye contact. This time I just asked them point blank: "Are you bored? Is this hard to hear? Are you with me?" Nothing. Just more blank faces. I finished my presentation and showing my frustration, packed up my stuff and walked out of the room. At least ten people rushed out after to me to tell me how much they learned, how much they enjoyed what I had to say, how fascinated they were by the topics. But good God--they did very little to show it at the time! I know some people are total non-responsive listeners. Some people need to knit or draw or take notes when listening to a talk. Some people stare like they're bored when they are just concentrating. (It is quite possible that UCC history, beliefs, and organizational structure just bore the hell out of people ages 18-25. That's probably the most likely explanation, and I get it. It bored the hell out of me during most of my polity class.) But sometimes I think people just assume they're invisible when they are a member of an audience--that they can get away with "checking out" or not paying attention because they aren't the immediate center of attention. The truth is, however, that the efforts and energy of the speaker are up there, out-stretched and vulnerable, just waiting for a sign from the living, a sign that someone is listening, a sign that their work hasn't been prepared in vain.
It is hard to occupy a pulpit, a leadership or facilitation role. These days I am thinking about all those times in high school and college when I buried my head on my desk, or out-right defiantly talked when someone was trying to teach/present information. And I feel like shit...and I think this idea of karma makes a lot of sense. But here's what I also know: most of those times when I wasn't "paying attention" I really was paying attention. Some of the teachers/preachers/counselors/coaches I did the most to piss off were the ones I loved the most. Some of them were smart enough to "get it." They did little in the way of punishing me for my bullshit (because I wouldn't have obeyed anyway), but did a lot to show me they cared in other ways. I think they knew ultimately they weren't solely responsible for teaching me the lessons I needed to know. They knew that people have lots of opportunities to learn and that life has a way of coming full circle. It certainly has in my case. They put less energy into shoving me into their expectations of what "proper" participation would look like, and more energy into supporting me where I was and how I was at the time.
I have another sermon to preach this upcoming Sunday. Though people's faces and responses will matter to me, I will try to remember that all seeds sown harvest in all kinds of ways at their own pace. I will pray more prayers of surrender.
2 comments:
Oh, I wish I had been there in that first audience to smile and nod and laugh for you!
I know exactly how you feel about this! At ESUMC, we had two services, too, and there would always, always be a different dynamic between the two services, although we could never predict what they would be.
It's really disappointing but true what you point out: a lot of the older folks who complain about "young people" being hard to understand are exactly the ones who are poor listeners (in terms of communicating their listening to the speaker) and so they create the environment in which the younger speakers don't speak their best and the older listeners can't hear. But most of the people in these nasty cycles of mis-communication are not as self-aware as you are and don't know that's what's happening. I have often come back from speaking just feeling rotten about my speaking, not holding the audience properly accountable. Other times I have felt great about my sermons, and it was probably more the audience's work than simply my own, but I take the credit all myself.
Anyway, you are amazing and wise and you ARE a public speaker. So there.
What an excellent account of the bumpy road of public speaking! This actually reminded me of the time I came to the camp you worked at a couple years ago to talk to the campers about Heifer. Blank stares, no response, lots of sweat. I did not feel good about that day, but I do remember the three girls who came up and thanked me afterwards.
What I have learned MOST from being a public speaker is how to be an audience member. That it is my responsibility to be a part of the entire event by participating in such a way that lets the energy, or, as you say, the holy spirit, move through us. Every year when I speak to my room full of parents for the first time, I look for the smilers and the nodders, and I remember to stand in my shoes and speak from that truth place inside.
I miss you, Em! Will you be around Claremont this Saturday?
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