by The Rev'd Gavin Dunbar
What is the single most important practical skill that the clergy must possess? I would say, they must know how to read. I would assume that all the clergy possess "literacy skills" of some sort. But that is not to say they know how to read. Literacy skills of a sort are required to negotiate the phone book or the internet. But something more is required of the clergy, who are not only called to read the Scriptures, and the church's common prayers, but also the hearts of men, and God's will for them. Indeed, who is sufficient for such things? Few there are indeed who can really be said to be able to read, whose reading illuminates the mind with the light of truth and enkindles the heart with the flames of charity. And when it comes to reading in this full and deep sense, I myself can only speak (at best) from the foot-hills, not the mountain heights. Yet what clergyman—indeed, what Christian—can be exempt from this task?
This is not to say that all Christians have been, or must be, literate (in the technical sense of the word). In the past, and in the present, many Christians have been illiterate, and depended on what they heard, and what they memorized, for their knowledge of the Scriptures and the will of God. That is, they depended upon those who were able to read—the clergy, above all.
Our own society, with its wide if not universal literacy, tends to regard literacy as a technical skill, essential for the "information economy". This is reading in the minimal sense of the word. But reading in the fuller and deeper sense is still very rare. The writings produced by the information economy are meant to be skimmed through quickly. Unless they are badly written, there is rarely anything more to be found in the text on a second reading. The Scriptures demand a very different kind of reading—one that digs in and digs deep. Indeed, the first reading may not produce much: only with repeated reading does the text begin to speak.
Modern liturgies, with their bite-sized "thought-lines", and modern translations of Scripture, which tend to break up the long and complex sentences of a writer like Saint Paul into short fragments for easier consumption, are designed to accommodate the contemporary tendency to skim quickly and lightly through a text. But with the increase in intelligibility often goes a decrease in that which is to be understood. I recall a seminary professor who made this point: the prayers of the new liturgies, he said, are easier to get into; but the more you read them the less you find there; whereas the prayers of the Prayer Book are harder to get into, but the more you read them the more you find. The difficulty many have with the Prayer Book, however, is not so much with its intelligibility, as with the ideas that are to be understood. They require the heart's conversion from worldly wisdom, and the mind's renewal in the wisdom of God. The turning away from the Prayer Book, therefore, is very much a turning away from reading, in the full sense of the word; and those who would return to the Prayer Book and the Christian religion it articulates, must therefore take the task of reading very seriously. It would be a great benefit to the vocations of both the clergy and people, if they would simply attend to their reading.
To read the Scriptures and the liturgy well requires that they be read with the accord of mind and heart, with understanding and conviction, with sympathy and sensitivity to the word itself. Along with the public, audible reading, there must be another sort, the careful and patient labour of study and prayer. In a vivid metaphor, Cranmer, in his homily on the reading of the Scriptures, urges us to "ruminate, and, as it were, chew the cud, that we may have the sweet juice, spiritual effect, marrow, honey, kernel, taste, comfort, and consolation of them." And I would say that such a reading must take place within the doctrinal tradition which issued from the Scriptures themselves, and of which we are heirs. Those who read the Scriptures should also be readers of theologians—beginning perhaps with popular writers like C. S. Lewis, J. I. Packer, John Stott, Austin Farrer, Peter Kreeft, Alister McGrath, George Macdonald, R. C. Sproul, but not neglecting the great teachers of our tradition: Calvin and Hooker, Luther and Aquinas, Anselm, Boethius, Augustine, Athanasius, Aristotle and Plato. Then we shall be ready to read the Scriptures with the help of wise teachers, better minds, and purer hearts, than our own.
Then we shall be ready to read them as if they meant something (for they do). Too many clergy read them as if they did not mean anything much at all, gibble-gabbling their way through the assigned texts at top speed, as if the liturgy consisted in the production of a certain amount of "sound and noise, signifying nothing", to be got through as quickly as possible. There is nothing edifying in a priest and people's recitation of the Creed at top speed, but it is a frequent event. The liturgy should be read without too much speed, deliberately, clearly, and audibly.
There are some clergy (and layreaders), however, who make an error of another sort, which is to read a text too expressively—as if the power of the text depended upon the modulations of the reader's voice. The point of reading is to let the word speak for itself. Indeed, the most powerful passages often have more impact when read with a certain understatement. There are few individuals whose dramatic readings of a text are not silly and embarrassing. Let us admire those who can; but be reluctant to follow their examples.
The third error is to read with affectation, in the fruity tones of the "parsonical" or "stained-glass" voice adopted by many clergy. In reading the liturgy, one should speak more clearly, carefully, slowly, and deliberately, than one does in casual conversation. This does not mean, however, (as so many clergy seem to think) that one should speak often in some approximation of an upper-class English accent. The English have no monopoly on the English language: the scripture and liturgy of English-speaking Christians sounds just fine in the native accents of North America.
Some are more naturally gifted than others as speakers, with strong resonant voices, while others suffer from voices thin, shrill, weak, or otherwise ineffective. Much of good speaking (as with good singing) is however a matter of good breathing (word and spirit are ever partners even at a human level). Some training of the voice in better habits of sound production can do wonders for even the least promising instrument. It is a mistake to rely too much on public address systems to overcome the deficiencies of the voice. In large buildings, or for elderly clergymen, a carefully-designed sound system may no doubt be necessary. I think they are used, however, far too often. On vacation recently, I attended divine service in a town just outside Toronto. Although the church building was of no great size, and well-designed acoustically as an auditory space, an expensive sound system was in place and in use. The voice wafting out of the speaker somewhere above and behind your head is the very opposite of "personal"; and what it made audible was the clergyman's inability to read.
While on vacation this summer, I took the cautious approach to church-going, and mostly went to the early service, without music or fuss. Nowadays, however, everyone preaches at the early service, or they say "a few words" (at considerable length). None of the sermons I heard should have been preached. They were just bad: bad as oratory, bad as faithful teaching, bad in their exegesis of the scriptures, and much too long for their modest merits. It would have been better if they had said nothing at all than maunder on tediously through a string of vague platitudes and conventional (liberal) pieties, tenuously related to the Scriptures or the Church's doctrine. It is quite depressing to think how much bad preaching there is, albeit somewhat encouraging to think how much bad preaching there probably always has been. The survival of the Christian religion is quite remarkable. It clearly has very little to do with the clergy or people.
Having to listen patiently to bad sermons is a fitting penance for vacationing clergymen, however. I have contributed my fair share of bad sermons to the sum of dreary pulpiteering. I recall one occasion some years ago, on a Sunday after a Diocesan Synod, in which I felt driven to write a sermon that affirmed most of the major teachings of the Christian faith. There is something about Synods that makes one wish to do so. Even though I was discarding pages right and left as I was preaching, it lasted at least forty-five minutes. The congregation was very tactful. One person said it would have made a good sermon series.
This question of length is all relative, of course: a bad sermon that is ten minutes long is ten minutes too long; a really good sermon that is forty minutes long will fly by like ten, and leave the hearers wishing for more. But after years of preaching my fair share of bad sermons, I have discovered that no sermon of mine has suffered from keeping to firm but reasonable time limits.