THE SHORTEST SERMON ON RECORD

April 4, 2003

Rabbi Edward Paul Cohn
Temple Sinai
New Orleans, Louisiana

When the title of this evening's message, "The Shortest Sermon On Record," was announced recently, two of you were quick to remind me of an historic precedent. It seems that many years ago on a Rosh Hashanah evening, owing to the stifling temperature in our as-yet un-air conditioned Sanctuary, Rabbi Julian Feibelman, of blessed memory, rose and announced to the Congregation that the sermon was canceled. The implication from my friendly historians was all too clear--"Try to beat that record, Rabbi!"

No problem, really! Because, first, that incident doesn't really count. Think about it. It was a no-sermon event! Having never started, there wasn't really a sermon to be short or long! Second, I have no need of being inordinately brief this evening, for my obligation is but to disclose to you the facts surrounding "The Shortest Sermon On Record," not necessarily to deliver it! (Relax, however, because pulpit brevity is a prudent strategy at an early service when nine-tenths of the congregation has restaurant reservations!)

Now, as to that record-breaking sermon, it was in fact delivered several years ago by an Episcopalian minister somewhere up in Michigan and it is certified in the Guiness Book of Records as a one-word sermon. When it was time for his message, the cleric stood up and spoke the single word: "love." That was all he uttered, and he sat down. Some parishioners still remember it as his finest homiletical effort! Often we preachers hear it said that

the Service would be nicer
if the sermon were conciser!

No doubt that rector's sermon was vastly more appreciated than the one that was delivered by a Unitarian colleague who preached the longest sermon on record: 60 hours and 31 minutes.

I came across this amazing statistic. During the lifetime of the average Puritan in 17th-century colonial New England, each man and woman listened to more than 7,000 sermons, requiring some 15,000 hours of concentrated listening! Of course, that was before cable.

Is there any wonder, then, that a fellow named Sydney Smith who was born back then, writing in his "Sketches of Moral Philosophy," made this dour observation on sermons:

Preaching has become a byword for long and dull conversation of any kind; and whoever wishes to imply, in any piece of writing, the absence of everything agreeable and inviting, calls it a sermon.

I do not deny it! We clergy have clearly brought such criticism upon ourselves! What was it that a fellow named Whately had to say on this?

Many a meandering discourse one hears, in which the preacher aims at nothing, and--hits it.

In his famed address in 1838 delivered to the Harvard Divinity School, Mr. Emerson expressed his disdain for such a preacher whose sermon

had not one word intimating that he had laughed or wept, was married or in love, had been commended, or cheated, or chagrined. . . .The capital secret of his profession, namely, to convert life into truth, he had not yet learned.

And Emerson went on to characterize the "true preacher" as one who deals out his life to the people, "life passed through the fire of his thought." That's how Emerson described the fine preacher.

The very best sermon, of course, is the one in which the preacher is speaking to himself or herself every bit as much as to the congregation. The finest sermon is the one in which the speaker holds up to his or her own struggle to actually live the kind of quality life we know our religion calls us to lead.

Of course sermons need not belong only to the clergy! And, if there is a point to all this, we have now arrived at it. So it occurs to me, my dear friends, that each one of you has probably been gifted with occasions on which your own dear ones and precious friends have shared with you, either in words or by example, those lessons and experiences which have served to illuminate your own understanding of life and its holy possibilities. No doubt you, too, have also shared certain profound truths and wonders with others along the way.

Talk about "Short Sermons!" I'll never forget, and I've mentioned this before, the day my Grandmother, whose Yahrzeit occurred only a few weeks ago, taught me an unforgettable lesson in the very fewest of words.

I was hungry and had stopped by her home one late winter's afternoon on my way home from high school. You see, Grandmom's home was almost exactly halfway between the school and my own house. Now, a fifteen-year- old kid at 4:30 in the afternoon can be quite an eating machine, but on this particular day, whatever it was that Grandmom offered me was immediately and gracelessly rejected with a comment akin to:

Oh, I'd rather starve than eat that stuff!

My Grandmother had lived through a good piece of history: two world wars and the Great Depression! She knew what struggle was and she also knew a thing or two about gratitude. So she pulled herself up to her about 5-foot, 1-inch of height, looked me square in the eye and delivered this sermon, which I'll remember all the days of my life. It was a sermon of exactly eleven words.

Eddie--Never say, "Fountain, I will not drink of your water."

Let me tell you, time and the world stood still, because I knew her words had struck a bulls-eye in my heart. It wasn't my shame she was after. It was my enlightenment.

And don't forget that sermons needn't even resort to words. Who hasn't been touched and profoundly instructed by the loving sacrifice of another?

Those who did without, so we could enjoy all the more.

Those who held their tongue when, in our blatant stupidity, we deserved to really get an earful.

Those who suffered our misplaced anger and undeserved wrath, but who never said "I told you so" when we finally learned the magnitude of our folly.

Those who befriended us when we were undeserving, or defended our honor when we failed to do as much for ourselves.

Many an instruction and caring lesson I have received from each of you as well! It was a congregant and friend who, early on in my rabbinate, taught me not to expect to better my previous sermon each time, but simply and confidently to try my best in any given week and then to let it go.

It was a congregant in a student pulpit way up in northern Michigan who, at the Temple Cemetery, pointed to a certain tombstone and said--"You know they say that she was the richest lady in the whole town." And when I followed up with the eager question, "Did she leave a lot?" replied with the unforgettable insight: "She left it all!"

Well, there are other "sermons"--sermons that you've seen and heard delivered-- no doubt, some of them among the shortest on record. And yet their loving words and their earnest instruction have become an inseparable part of your very soul and essence, haven't they?

These are the kinds of "sermons" which every one of us can deliver when we share our pain, our failures, our victories, our insights, and our growth with another. And when, of course, the object of our sermon actually listens to our words, then it is that two souls can actually kiss. It's a beautiful thing when it happens that way!

So everyone can be a preacher. And to a great extent we'll be most remembered and beloved for the lessons that we've bothered and cared enough to impart to others.

So you see, a sermon is something which we do together as God's people. And if and when our words are supported by our works and deeds, then our words--these sermons of the heart--can really travel all the way from here to Heaven, and perhaps all the way to eternity.