While there has been an understandable reaction in parts of the Reformed world against the kind of radical downgrading of ordained ministry which has come to mark much of the evangelical world, this has itself created problems.

Perhaps most obvious is the priestly culture it can generate, where the result is that some come to think that, if they are not ordained, they cannot be of real use to the church. This then leads individuals who simply are not called to the ministry nonetheless to pursue it, often at great cost — financial and emotional — to themselves and frequently to their loved ones. Indeed, this probably accounts for part of the high rate of ministerial drop-outs.

In Table Talk 2580, Luther outlines the qualifications of a good preacher in a way that is refreshingly practical.

The first five are: ability to teach; possession of a good head; eloquence; clarity of speech; and a good memory. The list is interesting because it focuses first on practicalities, things often lost in the romantic spiritual notions of ministry we often have.

In short, the person should be able to think and speak clearly, two traits which are often intimately connected. It seems like common sense, but these basic elements are often neglected by churches, seminaries, sessions, elder boards, presbyteries and classes. To put it bluntly: if you cannot put a decent, clear sentence into English and speak it in a way that others can understand, you are not called to the ministry, no matter how much that inner voice tells you that God is calling you to preach, or your mum tells you you’d make a wonderful pastor.

That does not mean that you cannot be of great use to the church; but clarity of mind and speech are absolutely basic, just as important as godly zeal and sense of call (internal and external), for the office of preacher. We need to be careful that we do not over-spiritualize the call: just as someone with St Vitus’ Dance should never be allowed to be a brain surgeon, so the one who cannot speak with coherence and confidence should not be in a pulpit.

The task for the church is thus twofold: to create a culture which reflects the Pauline culture where to desire to be an elder is a good thing, elders are honoured, and elders who teach are considered worthy of double honour; but also to avoid the kind of Protestant sacerdotalism where many think the only way of being of true value is to hold ordained office.

That requires church officers to be true servants of the people; and to have the courage to tell someone who cannot teach that, however powerful the inner call, they are not called to be a teacher. Not an easy balance; and the latter in particular might prove tough in a culture where it is considered self-evident that every member has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of ministry.

But, as usual, Luther got it right.

The sixth, seventh, and eighth marks of a good preacher are, for Luther, that he should know when to stop, he should be certain and diligent in his subject, and he should put his life, limb, possessions and honour into it, There is a ninth mark, but we’ll come to that in a moment.

Of the three listed above, the seventh is straight forward: essentially, the preacher should study to know his subject so that he can speak with the confidence and certainty that he knows that about which he preaches.

The sixth is undoubtedly the most painful for preachers to hear. All preachers, like teachers, like the sound of their own voices and all labour under the illusion that everybody else is as interested in listening to what they have to say, and, of course, to them saying it, as they are themselves. If it were not so, they would scarcely have the confidence to preach but, as is often the case, the strength which the Lord can use to great effect is also the signal weakness that can just as easily do great harm.

There are few things more disheartening as a congregant than hearing a forty minute preacher preach for fifty minutes, a thirty minute preacher preach for forty minutes, or a twenty minute preacher preach for thirty minutes. Somehow, that last ten minutes can weaken and even destroy the impact of all that has been said in the sermon to that point. There is no virtue in length for the sake of it. I think I’ve heard two preachers in my entire life who could preach for an hour; and most preachers I know would be much better if they shaved at least five or ten minutes off their typical length.

Get up there, say what you’ve got to say as clearly as you can, and then sit down again. That’s all that’s necessary. As Luther says elsewhere in Table Talk (2643a), `I hate a long sermon, because the desire on the part of the congregation to listen is destroyed by them, and the preachers hurt themselves.’ And, as usual, Luther got it right.

On the eighth mark, the commitment of life and all to the cause of preaching, I suspect Luther is here pointing to the need for the preacher to be so existentially involved with the task that this flows over into his sermons, not as constant references to self but as passion.

I thought of this a few weeks ago when visiting at another church. At the time when the sermon was meant to be preached, the pastor gave a fine lecture on the Bible a good, redemptive historical exposition of an Old Testament passage. The congregation waited politely for the abracadabra-hey-presto! moment when, like a bunny from a magician’s top hat, Jesus is pulled as if by magic from the chosen Old Testament passage.

And, hey presto, there he was, right on cue, where he’d never been seen before! — though there were no gasps of amazement, as the congregation had, I presumed, seen the trick performed a thousand times before with other texts. The old `I bet you never saw Jesus there before’ gets a bit predictable and tiresome when its the only application, I guess. This was truly a lecture and no sermon.

Now, I may not be able to articulate precisely the difference between lecturing and preaching, but, like defining art and pornography, my inability in this regard does not mean that I don’t recognise it when I see it. And a fascinating Christological lecture on a passage from the Old Testament that leaves me merely impressed with the ingenuity of the speaker and not confronted with the living Christ is just that, and no more.

It struck me as ironic that, in a place where talk of law-gospel was common, where Luther was honoured, where justification was a central doctrine, the lecturing could be so far from Luther’s preaching — not in terms of its exegetical method (no comparison — Luther’s exegesis was often completely nuts by modern standards), but in terms of its absolute lack of existential confrontation, of any element of surprise and wonder, and of the awesome bringing home of God as God rather than simply as an idea.

Everything said was right and true, but only in the way that, say, the laws of gravity, or the advice that it is advisable to change one’s underpants on a daily basis, are good and true.

So what? Sadly, the modern Reformed penchant for cliched phrases and blather such as `the indicative is the imperative blah-de-blah-de-blah’ seems more often used an excuse for boring lectures pretending to be sermons than as a basis for passionate, confrontational preaching of the Luther kind, a kind truly built on an understanding of the doctrine of justification as a living, personal reality, not a mere concept, and which in turn actually built a Reformation.

And before somebody trots out the old `we don’t do legalism’ line, nobody can accuse Dr Martin of confusing the gospel as good news with the gospel as inspirational pep talk. The law and gospel were objective declarations — and yet they tore hearers apart and put them back together again as they were preached, a point of which Luther was only too personally aware and which flavoured everything he did in the pulpit, from overall sermon structure to tone of voice and all points in between.

Of course, we are not Donatists. The word is powerful because it is the word; God can use boring lecturers as he can use Luther to extend his kingdom; but the fact that delivery is not everything does not mean that style and delivery are not important at all; and that element of urgency, of existential confrontation which permeates the New Testament accounts of sermons and Paul’s letters — and the sermons of Luther — is much more than a mere matter of style. Boring lecturers pretending to be preachers kill churches. Period. End of story.

And interesting lecturers pretending to be preachers kill churches too — not necessarily in terms of numbers (a lecture can, after all, be fascinating and pull in the intellectual punters week after week) but in terms of the formalism they engender — precisely the kind of formalism against which Luther raged so effectively.

Lecturing is not preaching. That’s what Luther is getting at when he flags up the life or death commitment it requires. On this score, some of the modern Reformed Vosians, who take not only their theological cue from Vos (with which I am in substantial agreement) but also seem to see him as a model for preaching (oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…..), bring to my mind Lord Byron’s criticism of William Wordsworth, “who both by precept and example shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.”

Sorry, friend — prose is not verse; lecturing is not preaching; and if, as a preacher, you can’t tell the difference, please resign and do something else with your life before you do any more damage. Congregations deserve better than long-winded lecturers with more time on their hands than good sense between their ears.

Well, I’m guessing quite a few of the Truly Reformed will be lurching for their keyboards to express violent disagreement with some or all of the above. And that, coincidentally, brings me to Luther’s ninth mark: the good preacher should be willing to accept ridicule from everyone. So if there is anyone out there who is about to have a go, please bear that in mind.

As usual, Luther got that one right as well.

Carl R Trueman is Departmental Chair of Church History at Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia. He has an MA in Classics from the University of Cambridge and a PhD in Church History from the University of Aberdeen. He is editor of the IFES journal, Themelios, and has taught on the faculties of theology at both the University of Nottingham and the University of Aberdeen This article is reprinted from the Reformation 21 blog and is used with their permission. http://www.reformation21.org/blog/