A word about speeches.

My dad’s gone now, but when he was alive, one of his almost daily activities involved watching at least some C-SPAN broadcasts of the United States Senate or the House of Representatives sessions. He could sit for hours watching some congressman who’s asked for the floor, some congressman who has asked for the privilege of the microphone. He may be a congressman from Idaho delivering a speech on potato growers and their plight. Or maybe he’s a senator from Maine talking about the merits of celebrating September the 15th, which interestingly enough is National Lobster Day. You may not have known that, but watching C-SPAN like my dad did, you can learn all kinds of interesting things. Watching the televised speeches of our government officials. I’ve tuned in to some of those speeches myself on occasion. One thing has always fascinated me as I watched those men and women deliver their speeches. Almost no one was actually listening to them in the room where they spoke. While speakers stand at lecterns talking to a room of empty chairs. They make gestures with their hands, they even insert dramatic pauses, refer to Mr. President as if he was in the room. But there is no audience for this speech most of the time. I’ve often wondered what it must be like to give a speech where no one was apparently listening. Of course, as a pastor, I’ve delivered a lot of sermons where I hope people were listening, but the speeches I’m positive always have an audience are the ones I deliver to myself. You might think, who wants to listen to their own speech? Well, evidently I do because I do it all the time. How about you? I don’t need a lectern. I certainly don’t need any formal notes or an outline. All day long I talk to myself about all kinds of things. I’m delivering a speech almost continually about what happened yesterday or about what somebody meant by what they said, about what might happen tomorrow, about whether I could handle something or whether I was treated fairly, maybe even whether I’m good enough or smart enough or appreciated enough. Even conversations and speeches about God, about myself. In all honesty, most of the time I’m really not talking to myself. I’m not an empty room of chairs, but I’m not talking to myself as much as I’m listening to myself. When I’m listening to myself, it means I’ve given the microphone to whatever thought happens to be speaking. Fear gets the floor, resentment gets five minutes, maybe regret asking for unanimous consent to extend its remarks. Anxiety launching into a filibuster. And I listen in rapt attention. Why is that, I wonder? Seems to me that things would be different for me if I could ask myself that question that the psalmist asked himself in Psalm 42. Why are you cast down, O my soul? Hope in God, he says. He doesn’t merely listen to his soul. He addresses his soul, you might say. His feelings are saying something, but they don’t get the last word. For a certainty, there are days in my life when fear has requested the floor, or some memory has asked for permission to make a speech to me. Perhaps a past failure or regret has requested the microphone to say a few thousand words. Well, the truth is that I get to decide who keeps the microphone in my life. The issue isn’t that I talk to myself. There are times I desperately need to talk to myself. The danger is that I indiscriminately fail to listen to the speech I’m actually delivering. Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord.