Saturday January 1, 2005: My first day of work as a congregational rabbi. “You can lead part of the service,” my welcoming committee said, “But you won’t have to preach (give the dvar Torah). A community member is preparing the sermon.”

Surprise! The community member did not show up. On the spot, literally in the moment, I chose to speak. Truly, it was not difficult. In the day’s Torah reading, Genesis 50, Joseph forgives his brothers and promises to support them. He lives to know his great-grandchildren. And then he dies. So, I spoke of love, family, and the yearning so many have to die surrounded by their nearest and dearest kin. And of Joseph’s faith and his generous heart.

But I did make a mistake. Though I had spent three weeks visiting the congregation, I did not recognize the woman who sat in the back, sobbing as I spoke. Twice during the sermon, I apologized for making someone cry. Later I learned she was a cousin of a member, visiting after attending a family funeral. I wish I hadn’t apologized. I wish I had let her grief be. And I wish I had understood that an audience moved to tears is usually a sign of success, not failure.

How would I know? I never had a course in homiletics, though I’d spoken at services. I’d presented academic papers rich with storytelling, and laced with Biblical teachings. I’d given moving lectures that people -– after the fact — called “sermons.” But, I had no clear map for what I was doing – except the one drawn by my youthful experience.

As a teen, I enjoyed going to synagogue and hanging out with my father. So, many Saturday mornings, the two of us walked around the city, visiting different synagogues. At the closest synagogue, Rabbi I. Usher Kirschbloom preached. Or rather, he lectured us on voting for Jimmy Carter. He railed against the ordination of women rabbis. My father, who secretly hoped I would seek ordination, was openly disgusted. At our favorite synagogue, Rabbi Ben Zion Bokser preached. On our first visit, he spoke about Immanuel Kant’s vision of a divinely ordained morality. “Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing awe,” he said, quoting Kant, “the starry heavens above and the moral law within.” Ecstasy lit up my face and my father nudged me. “See?” he said, “I told you you’d like it here.”

To this day, I love to preach about awe. About the grandeur of nature. About God’s presence in things great and small, beautiful and painful. About philosophy, spirituality, moral sense, and the soul. I do not preach about politics or contentious denominational issues. Blog about them, sure. Discuss them in a class or book group, yes. Refer to them in prayers for peace, of course. But make something divisive a Sabbath centerpiece? No. That’s not what the Sabbath is for.

In seminary, I learned a sophisticated theology of the word of God. God’s voice is not distinguished by its precision. Instead, every utterance holds multiple levels of meaning. Hebrew, a deeply metaphorical language, is a perfect medium for Divine speech. As we study Hebrew Bible, meaning continuously unveils itself, teaching us about spiritual development, communal flourishing, interpersonal respect, moral development, social psychology. “Study a bit of Torah every morning,” says the Ba’al Shem Tov, founder of the mystical Hasidic movement. “It will provide exactly the guidance you need that day.”

As a preaching resource, Torah has never disappointed me. Its language can welcome babies, comfort the bereaved, ease communal anxiety, celebrate animal life, and express the subtlest philosophies. Slowly, I learned to speak Torah in my own voice. Not to fear stepping out of a denominational box. Yes, to express what I learned through study, dreams, and personal encounters. Yes, to start with a comfortable outline: a personal anecdote, a textual exegesis, a spiritual lesson. Also to vary that outline as text, situation, and audience demand. My audience sometimes surprised me. When I illuminated the Genesis text with stories of my broken family, I knew they would weep with me. But how could I know they would love the intertextual analysis of wisdom? The eulogy for a divinely inspired feline sage?  The simple cry of confusion and pain at a young woman’s death? The celebration of magical realism in the Book of Numbers? Or the deeply personal account of a mystical experience?

I love preaching. I find it easy. Stimulating. A good use of my scholarly training in hermeneutics and critical thinking. A meaningful use of my public speaking skills. A great way to vibrate in sync with others. A wonderful way, sometimes, to speak my own spiritual heart as sympathetic others listen. In small settings, I often invite discussion afterwards. In larger settings, especially if I’ve internalized my outline and jettisoned my notes, I let the congregation’s emotional response guide me. Sometimes, the Torah I’ve received is exactly the guidance someone else needs that day, too.

Prepared as an assignment — “your homiletical autobiography” — for a course I’m auditing at the Vancouver School of Theology, “Homiletics,” taught by my colleague Rev. Dr. Jason Byassee