Sharpen your voice. Strengthen your message.

In 2006, Dave Stone stepped to the podium at the North American Christian Convention in Louisville, Kentucky. He had just become the lead minister at Southeast Christian Church following Bob Russell’s retirement, a transition that would have rattled most preachers into playing it safe. Stone didn’t play it safe. He preached from Ephesians 4 and asked a room full of church leaders a deceptively simple question: What is the greatest benefit of serving together?

He walked through three answers — unity, maturity, and testimony — and built the case that all three are real, but the last one matters most.

What makes this sermon worth revisiting nearly twenty years later isn’t the exegesis, though the exegesis is solid. It’s the storytelling. Stone understood something every preacher needs to learn: the right story doesn’t just illustrate the point. It becomes the point.

He told about his Uncle Greg, a quadriplegic with cerebral palsy, who went to a camp for developmentally challenged adults. A church member named John Miller volunteered as Greg’s counselor for four days, feeding him, dressing him, even rigging up a flotation device so Greg could swim for the first time in his life. At the end of the week, they asked Greg the standard question: What was your favorite part of camp? Greg raised his arm, pointed at John, and said one word: You.

That story does more theological work than a dozen propositional statements about humble service. And Stone knew it.

He closed with another story, this one from his own childhood. In 1967, his family was hit head-on by a hydroplaning car while on a trip in Illinois. His mother suffered a skull fracture. His father had twenty-one pieces of glass surgically removed from his eyes. Blind and alone in a strange town, the first visitor who took his father’s hand was an elder from a local Church of Christ. When Stone’s father mentioned that his congregation worshipped with instrumental music (a real fault line in the Restoration Movement) the elder said five words that carried the whole sermon home: That doesn’t matter. We just want to help a brother in Christ.

Stone admitted he’d forgotten that elder’s name. Then he landed the plane: I’ve forgotten the name on the back of his jersey, but I’m pretty certain what the name was on the front.

That’s how you close a sermon. You don’t explain the metaphor. You trust it.

Stone trusted it, and the room felt it.

During March Madness this year, I heard a commentator say something that stuck: Winners want to be coached. I wrote it down because I knew it applied to more than basketball.

A few days later, I sat down with Don Wilson for the Better Preaching Podcast, and he proved it. Don pastored Christ’s Church of the Valley in Peoria, Arizona, for over three decades, preaching to 25,000 people a week by the time he stepped away. Six live services on a weekend. No executive pastor for most of that run. And the thing that defined his preaching more than any of that was this: every Saturday, he walked off the stage after the four o’clock service, and four or five people followed him into a room and beat his sermon up.

That joke didn’t work. That illustration was too long. Why did you say it that way?

Then it was up to Don to decide what to change before the next service. He did this for years. Not because he was insecure, but because he wanted to get better.

Here’s the part that convicted me. Don said that in his post-ministry years, he’s worked with roughly five hundred pastors. Most of them say they want critique. But when you actually give it to them — when you ask hard questions about why they’re doing what they’re doing — most of them don’t want it at all.

I think he’s right. And I think I know why. Preaching is personal. You pour yourself into a message all week, you stand up and deliver it, and then someone tells you the story ran long or the conclusion fell flat. That hurts. But then again, growth usually hurts.

Don also said something about giving his wife to critique his preaching. He told me: I don’t need a wife who worships me. I need a wife who loves me. He meant that he needs someone honest enough to say, That came across a little judgmental, or You lost them in the middle. Not because she enjoyed saying it, but because he’d created the space for her to say it and she loved him enough to walk into that space.

The green room is comfortable. The critique room is where you get better. Most of us know which one we prefer.

We also know which one we really need.

On a recent Better Preaching Podcast episode, I asked Mark Christian for his parting word to preachers. He didn’t hesitate: “Let the text win. Let it win in you. Stand underneath it before you ever stand behind the pulpit.”

I haven’t been able to shake that line.

Let’s be honest; most of us don’t approach the text to lose. But we do approach the text to mine it. We come armed with an outline, a sermon slot, a series title already on the church app, and we start interrogating the passage to get it to confess what we need it to say by Sunday. The text becomes a witness we’ve subpoenaed. We’re the attorney. We ask the questions. We decide which answers make the cut.

That’s not preaching. That’s prosecuting.

Letting the text win is a different posture entirely. It means showing up on Tuesday without a predetermined verdict. It means reading slowly enough so the text has time to read you back. It means allowing the passage to ruin your first three ideas before it gives you the right one. It means getting uncomfortable in your own conscience before you ever figure out how to make your congregation uncomfortable in theirs.

You can’t fake this. Your people can tell the difference between a preacher who has wrestled with the text and a preacher who has merely researched it. The wrestled preacher limps a little. There’s a weight in his voice that commentary software cannot manufacture. He isn’t delivering information. He’s delivering testimony.

Here’s the ordering Mark got exactly right: underneath, then behind. If you haven’t stood underneath the text all week, you have no business standing behind the pulpit on Sunday. The pulpit doesn’t confer authority on your words. The text does. And the text only confers that authority on preachers who have been willing, privately, to be defeated by it.

This week, let it win. Let it corner you. Let it convict you before it comforts your people. Let it strip you of the clever turn of phrase you already had written in the margin. Let it hand you a harder word than you were hoping for.

Then, and only then, stand up and preach.

On a recent episode of the Better Preaching Podcast, my guest Mark Christian said something that’s been rattling in my head ever since: “It takes a whole lot more talent to be at a church of 125 than it does to be at a church of over 3,000.”

Mark pastors one of the largest churches in Missouri, but before that he was the pastor of a small church in central Michigan. So, he isn’t romanticizing small-church ministry from the cheap seats. He’s earned the right to say it. Then he went further. He pictured a line forming at heaven’s gates, and the VIP treatment going not to preachers with podcasts and platforms, but to the faithful pastor who served nineteen years in a farm community nobody noticed.

That image stopped me cold. It looks a lot like my dad.

When I was a junior at Great Lakes Christian College, Dad became a freshman. He sold the family farm in his forties and spent the rest of his life as a bivocational preacher in small churches across North Carolina, Georgia, Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana. He called me once, discouraged, thinking about quitting. I asked how many attended the church when he arrived. Twenty. And now? Sixty. He had tripled the church in five years, doing the counseling, the marrying, the burying. And he thought he was failing.

He wasn’t. He just didn’t have a platform to tell him otherwise.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: a platform is a terrible feedback mechanism. It rewards what photographs well. It has nothing to say about the hospital visit at 2 a.m., the marriage you prayed back from the brink, the funeral where you were the only clergy anyone in that family had ever known, or the teenager who kept showing up because you learned his name. A platform doesn’t measure faithfulness; it only measures reach.

If you’re preaching this Sunday to forty people in a town of four hundred, hear this: the percentage of your community you’re reaching would embarrass most metropolitan megachurches. You are not waiting to be called into ministry. You are already in it.

Summon the heroes. They look like you.

Early in ministry, I mistook volume for fruit. If the room was full, the sermon must have worked. If the stage was bigger, the calling must be clearer. It took me years to see I had the equation backwards.

Mark Christian drew a helpful distinction in a recent conversation on the Better Preaching Podcast: there is performative preaching, and there is pastoral preaching. Performative preaching walks onto a stage, earns the right to say a big thing, and says it well. It has its place. Camp messages, conferences, funerals for people you barely knew. Someone has to stand up and speak. We need preachers who can do that. But most of us aren’t called to live there.

Pastoral preaching is the slow work of opening the same Scriptures to the same people over a long stretch of years. It is not lesser work. It is harder in a different way. You can’t hide behind cleverness when the people in the pew watched you make coffee at their mother’s funeral. You can’t fake authority with a congregation that knows your kids’ names and has seen you on your worst Monday. You have to actually pastor, and the pulpit becomes less a performance stage and more a kitchen table where the family gathers to hear from the Book.

Here’s what I’ve learned: the preacher who stays gets something the traveling evangelist never will. You see the sermon land and then watch it grow. You preach on forgiveness in May and sit across from a reconciled father and daughter in October. You preach on generosity in November and watch the benevolence fund fill up by January. You preach a hard word on pride, and three families thank you for it six months later. That feedback loop shapes your preaching in ways no homiletics textbook can.

If you’re in year two or year twelve, and you’re tempted to think the real preaching is happening somewhere else, don’t believe it. Stay. Preach the text. Love the people. Let the Holy Spirit do the slow work.

There are preachers, and then there are preachers. Wayne B. Smith was the second kind.

Wayne helped start Southland Christian Church in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1956 and served as her senior minister until 1995 — growing the congregation from 152 to 3,700 weekly worshipers. He was, by nearly all accounts, the most popular preacher in the Restoration Movement. They called him “the Bob Hope of the Ministry.” He laughed easily, cried easily, and delivered Kentucky Fried Chicken to poor families at ten o’clock at night. I don’t know another man who wrapped the gospel in a bucket of chicken and made it feel perfectly natural.

But beneath the humor was a man dead serious about one thing: the pulpit.

In 1977, Wayne Smith served as president of the North American Christian Convention. When it was his turn to stand before his fellow ministers and say something worth saying, he chose as his text 2 Timothy 4:1-8, and his message was simply this — Preach the Word.

He structured the sermon around three great themes: the Summons, the Subject, and the Source.

The summons were urgent. He asked the crowd what had happened to the kind of preaching they heard on the Day of Pentecost — the kind that moved across a pagan empire like wildfire. He told the story of men visiting Billy Sunday and asking the secret of his preaching power. Sunday took them to the hotel window, looked down at the people on the sidewalk, and said three times — They are going to Hell. Wayne’s conclusion was simple: “Woe unto me if I preach not the Gospel.“

The subject was Christ — always Christ. He put it plainly: some men say we need a new message, but if that’s true, then we need a new Bible. The message is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The bedrock foundation, the heart and soul of the apostles’ message, was the Son of God — the crucified, buried, resurrected, ascending, reigning, returning Redeemer.

And the source was the Word. Wayne used the image of a healing spring around which a whole town had been built — until the day someone asked where the spring was, and no one could remember. His warning to preachers was clear: under our superstructures and our success, some of us have lost the spring.

Wayne remained faithful to the end, encouraging a gathering of ministers the very day before he died in 2016.

He preached what he believed. He believed what he preached. And he told the rest of us to do the same.

Woe unto us if we don’t.