Every once in awhile, you come across a song that's a guilty pleasure.

You secretly love it but you know that if word got out, there would be no end to the ridicule.

Well, the word's getting out today.  Make fun of me if you must, but please respect my honesty.

Here they are:  five songs I shouldn't like . . . but I do.

5.  Seasons In The Sun, by Terry Jacks.  Can you even say the name of the song with a straight face?  Probably not.  But hearing it takes me back to sixth grade, going "steady" with a girl named Ellen, and thinking I had it all figured out.  Where have you gone, Terry Jacks?



4.  I Got A Feelin', by The Black Eyed Peas.  I hate dancing.  And this song makes me want to dance.



3.  Hey, Hey, My, My (Into The Black), by Neil Young.  Neil Young is so tedious.  His politics are predictable and his voice is regrettable.  And I think I'd rather fade away than burn out.  But I can't turn this song off when it comes on.



2.  Music Box Dancer, by Frank Mills.  What's an instrumental song doing anywhere on a list of favorite songs, guilty pleasure or not?  Especially an instrumental with nary a hint of guitar on it?  Well, this one is so . . . soothing.  Plus, it takes me back to when I was 17, had a gigantic crush on a girl named Jennifer who I prayed would like me back, and was sure this song would be "ours."  Unfortunately, she never returned the favor or the affection and so now as then the song is all "mine."



1.  Hey Ya, by Outkast.  I like a song featuring a guy named Andre 3000?  Absolutely.  I bet you do, too.

If you speak the language of rock guitar, you'll love this video from the Chicago Music Exchange.  Two million hits and counting:



I'm amazed -- and a little embarrassed -- that I know so few of the riffs after #70.

As a lot of you know, I write a sermon manuscript virtually every week.

I am able to work several weeks ahead, so while I write one almost every week, it's not the one I'll deliver that coming Sunday.  That one, of course, has been written several weeks earlier.

But what's the purpose of a sermon manuscript?  Why write so much of what you are going to say?

The purpose of a manuscript is to disappear.

Yes, the manuscript gets prepared for, typed out, looked at, and prayed over all so that it may get out of the way.

Because, as many of you know, while I write the sermons out I end up delivering them without any notes.

I heard a seminary professor say one time "write your sermon out and then leave the paper in your office when preach."  I've taken that to heart for 23 years.

There are two reasons why this process works for me:

1.  I think to talk.  People come in two shapes:  those who talk to think and those who think to talk.  Some people process their thoughts while verbalizing them; if you're kind you call them loquacious and if you're feeling less charitable you call them long talkers.  I cannot think to talk -- it's why I'm a poor debater and an even worse "arguer."  I'm simply not quick on my feet and only after a heated argument think "Doh!  That's what I should have said!" 

Other people process their thoughts before verbalizing.  This is my natural wiring.  If I were to preach "off the cuff" my messages would wander around trying to find something interesting to say and never arrive.  So I think -- and pray and prepare and write -- before I talk.

2.  I internalize rather than memorize.  The time I spend with a manuscript the week before delivery is NOT to memorize it.  It's to internalize.  There's a huge difference.   A memorized sermon comes off as an actor reading lines from an invisible script.  An internalized sermon is one that inhabits the preacher's very being all week long.  I pray that by internalizing the message I know and live the things the Scripture says and the things that I can't wait to say from that Scripture.  On a given Sunday I will say most but not all of what was written down . . . as well as a few things that weren't written anywhere.  But that carefree sponataneity is only possible in the context of careful preparation.

So the reason I spend all that time writing a manuscript is so that when the time comes, it will be long gone.

If you've been following this blog at all, you know that I'm an enormous fan of the fiction of Ann Patchett.  State Of Wonder and Bel Canto are two of the most beautiful and most engaging novels I've read in years.

In The Getaway Car, a little e-reader memoir where she gives readers a window into her writing, Patchett says this:

Art stands on the shoulders of craft, which means to to get to the art, you must master the craft.


In Patchett's world, that means authors who yearn to write great novels must write.  And write.  And write.  Only when the craft of writing is down does the art of a novel -- a good one -- emerge.

As I mentioned on Monday, an effective sermon works along the same lines as a song -- verse, chorus, verse, chorus.  In other words, it is in some respects a work of art.

How, then, does a preacher get to the place where his or her sermon can operate on the level of art?

By mastering the craft.  By preparing, praying, and preaching.  And then doing it again.

When the congregation appears uninterested.  Preparing, praying, preaching.

When the congregation is oppositional.  Doesn't appear oppositional; it is oppositional.  Preparing, praying, preaching.

When the congregation is hurting.  Preparing, praying, preaching.

When the congregation is, blessedly, hungry for the next word from God.  Preparing, praying, preaching.

When the congregation is at the crest of a wave and the momentum is inescapable.  Preparing, praying, preaching.

Do it enough, do it relentlessly, and every once in awhile what comes out on a Sunday morning will be even more than a sermon; it will be a work of God-honoring and God-inspired art.