My grandfather died before I was born, when my mother was still in college. I don’t know very much about him, so what I found last week was of great interest to me.
I was in South Dakota helping to clean out my grandmother’s house. It was winter there still — the neighborhood looked like a skating rink.
Inside the cluttered house, in a drawer of clothes, I found a box of typewritten sermons, with editing marks made in pencil.
As I scanned through the first sermon, I noticed something disturbing. The most interesting parts had been crossed out.
Why did he cross out the most compelling parts, including a wonderful story about the Norwegian composer and pianist Edvard Grieg? Did he feel the congregation wasn’t ready for it? Did he feel it was too personal, not professional enough?
And then, the natural question was: how much do I do that?
In editing, we have to give up some very dear and beautiful parts so that the whole piece works.
However, when is something else holding you back, a certain stiffness? It’s important for you to be free with what the work is meant to be. And taking a risk may make more than the difference between people feeling drowsy during your sermon and staying awake. Taking a risk may show us something we’ve never seen and only felt before because no one had the courage to say it.