There comes a moment in every preacher’s life — usually somewhere between the second cup of coffee and the opening hymn — when you look down at your sermon manuscript and think, “Ah. I see the sermon has decided to preach something entirely different today.”
This is a well-known spiritual phenomenon, shared among clergy with the same solemn nod we reserve for funerals, synod budgets, and parishioners who whisper, “This won’t take long, Father.”
You’ve crafted the sermon carefully. You’ve consulted scripture, prayed deeply, consulted Working Preacher, rearranged the books on your desk for inspiration, prayed again, rewritten your introduction, and confidently printed out your final draft.
Then Sunday arrives.
You step into the pulpit, take a deep breath, open your notes — and the lofty theological masterpiece you prepared decides it no longer wishes to be preached. Instead, it curls up like a startled hedgehog, leaving you to fend for yourself.
I am convinced sermons are sentient. Left alone too long on one’s desk, they develop strong opinions. Yesterday’s well-behaved exegesis becomes today’s renegade homiletical toddler, knocking over your tidy structure and replacing it with a chaotic but strangely Spirit-filled improvisation.
Even great comedians, patron saints of gentle chaos, would agree: the best-laid homilies of clergy and commentators often go awry.
But here is the thing — sometimes that’s where the Spirit is hiding.
There are Sundays when the manuscript feels like a safety net woven of linen and best intentions, but the Spirit whispers, Let go, dear preacher. The people don’t need footnotes today. They need honesty.
There are moments when you glance down at your text and it seems to have entirely different ideas about what the congregation should hear. Bits of it disappear. Other lines leap forward with new meaning. A sentence you don’t remember writing suddenly becomes the heart of the whole thing.
And occasionally your sermon will look up at you like a mischievous altar guild cat and say, “I’m done now.”
That’s when you step back — sometimes literally — and let God do the heavy lifting.
Improv, in the pulpit, has less to do with cleverness and far more to do with surrender. It’s not about abandoning preparation (heavens no!). It’s about trusting that somewhere between the biblical story, your own human fumbling, and the gathered hopes of the congregation, the Holy Spirit is weaving a message more graceful than your outline ever anticipated.
And sometimes the sermon that doesn’t behave is the one the community needs most.
So when your notes betray you — when they slide off the lectern, flutter like rebellious pigeons, or simply refuse to match the moment — take heart. You’re in good company.
After all, the first disciples were never given a manuscript either.
And somehow, the Word still got preached.
Amen.
Companion Prayer
Holy Spirit of wisdom and surprise,
When our plans unravel and our words wander,
steady our hearts to trust that You are still speaking.
Guide our thoughts, shape our stories,
and let grace rise even from our fumbles.
Bless all who preach and all who listen,
that together we may discover the living Word
moving among us, unexpected and full of hope.
Amen.