Paul Hollywood as Preaching Instructor

It's just a thought experiment, but maybe there's something to be learned

When my wife had some surgery earlier this year, the long recovery occurred at home with what has become known as “comfort TV.” In our case, it was the “Great British Bake Off” (known on Netflix as the “Great British Baking Show”), which has now aired its 16^th season.

Paul Hollywood, celebrity chef and television personality, is the only host who has appeared in every season, and his judgments about the baked goods prepared by contestants are apparently the judgments that lead to contestants either going home early or continuing to the final round. It’s typically an engaging show, and the competition seems friendly, with the contestants consistently supporting and encouraging each other.

Most striking to me about the show, however, are the comments Hollywood makes as he tastes someone’s offering, which in many cases is the result of more than four hours of painstaking kneading, baking, and decorating. My favorite camera shots show contestants kneeling beside their oven and peering intently through the small window. I know the feeling. Since I am not much of a baker (or even a cook), my mind sometimes wanders during the show to sermon feedback. I imagine Hollywood as a preaching instructor giving sermon feedback, and I find myself wondering what he would say, for example, about my most recent sermon.

Hollywood might bite into a piece of cake (or hear my sermon) and exclaim, “It’s raw!” Another way of saying, I suppose, that it should have spent more time in the oven. Or the same amount of time at a higher temperature. As I mentioned, I’m no one’s idea of a baker (or cook), but to me “raw” is not what pastries or sermons should be.

I’ve made a mental list of Hollywood’s favorite evaluations, and here they are:

“It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Which might be a good response to a sermon that is poorly structured or rambling. A tough evaluation to hear, probably, but at least it’s honest and direct.

“The texture’s all wrong.” A sermon with the wrong texture could be overly dry and academic, or else too emotionally charged and lacking in substance. People who sit in the pews week after week know texture.

“It’s not quite there.” This comment might actually land pretty well with a seminary student. I wish I had heard it. It offers a bit of hope, as in “shows potential, needs work.” I would have accepted that.

“It’s overdone.” A sermon that’s overdone could, for example, contain too many details, when one or two would have sufficed. A preaching instructor might even say, “Less is more.” Or, “show me, don’t tell me.” I could have handled that feedback too.

“It’s not what I was looking for.” Frankly, I’m not sure what I, as a student, would have done with this bit of feedback, but it is feedback that I have heard from members of my congregations over the years. A more helpful version of this comment in the classroom might be: “It didn’t quite answer the question of the text, did it?” Or, “I think it strayed from the core message.”

“Where’s the flavor?” is a frequent comment in Hollywood’s repertoire, and it might actually be helpful feedback to a preaching student, as in “where’s the heart?” Or “It’s missing an impact!”

As I think back to my very first sermon – preached in the finely-appointed seminary chapel to a “congregation” of fellow students and my preaching instructor – I remember little of what was said. That’s partly because I was as anxious on that day as I have ever been.

What I remember most clearly from the instructor’s feedback was his comment about my appearance. His very first words after the sermon complimented me on my “sartorial splendor,” which elicited nervous laughter from my classmates. I of course heard the words as sarcasm. I was wearing the only suit I owned at the time – a tan corduroy number, including a matching vest, with a very wide and brightly colored tie. The comment, coming as it did immediately after I had raced through that first sermon with no eye contact and trembling hands, stung a little.

The only other comment I remember from that day was the instructor’s recommendation that I refer to “funeral directors” instead of “morticians.” That one stung too, though not as much. I don’t remember that I ever again referred to a funeral director (or a mortician) in a sermon.

I’ve never been a preaching instructor, but chances are good that, if I were, I’d get some of my feedback wrong too. Early on, Paul Hollywood referred to someone’s effort, fresh from the oven, as “diabetes on a plate,” for which he later apologized on social media.

To all the preaching instructors out there, all I can say is, “Thank you for your service. And please don’t look to Paul Hollywood as a model.”