The Preachin' Ain't Easy
We had a preaching lab in Bible school where everyone was required to preach a 20-minute sermon to the class. And that didn't seem to bother anybody. The class was like a school of piranhas; they couldn't get to preach the meat of the Word fast enough.
Not me. Like Wallace, I had a queer inner sense of perfectionism—there wasn't anything that I could do, whether it was studying the Word, learning the Greek, or praying the lights out, that was ever going to be good enough. This was the Gospel, after all, God's ultimate and exclusive plan to save mankind and all creation, and I am, well, I am me.
When it was my turn, I somehow made it through. As the professor gave the class his critique (a surprisingly effusive review, actually), it was everything I could do to stand there and smile and not puke my guts out in front of everybody. I know what it means to "sacrifice how gorgeous and perfect it is in your head for what it really is."
The preaching ain't easy, but we plod on because we must. Or else, how would they call on Him without a preacher?