Take the preacher's supposed rejoicing: I've listened in on quite a few sermons that spoke of the rhapsody of worship via an expositional look at Isaiah 6 or Revelation 4 and 5, but save one occasion that sticks out readily from my college years, I can't recall seeing the preacher's eyes ablaze over the awesome subject at hand. When in common conversation over any type of good news, most people gleefully fumble around for words—sometimes even finding themselves at a loss for them entirely; when preaching about the News that hovers somewhere far above all headlines, you'll find most preachers have just the right words, polished and at three points exactly.

On to suffering: A lot of preachers bark on and on about faith, but rarely do they ever really navigate the waters of doubt—and from a personal standpoint at that. I've not seen a whole lot of Bibles carried from the pulpit after the sacred event, stained with tears and smelling of heartache. So many preachers have taken me into tidy living rooms that have about as much heated tension as a Brady Bunch episode, but ask to see the closet? That part's off-limits.

There are more specific examples, of course. In a sermon about anger, I heard a preacher once boldly share, "Even I struggle with anger." The audience leaned forward, anticipating something altogether human. Here's how he colored in his struggle: "I wrestle with what to do when I strike my thumb with a hammer or when someone doesn't let me merge on the highway." Really? That's all you've got to offer us from your past or present—we who, in our more honest moments, would admit to having deep disdain for some of the people who populate our world, are not on speaking terms with our sister, or ran a key down the side of our ex-husband's car, somehow magically forming a few ugly words that run a handful of letters long?

Now, I can't really say I blame most preachers for such a cautious approach. Buechner says most preachers "run the awful risk…of ceasing to be witnesses to the presence in their own lives of a living God." But here's the rub: run away from that awful risk Buechner speaks of, and there are others that await you. You run the risk of your audience camping out on your confessed doubts and not your professed faith. They may see you sob and think you're unstable. Alongside that whispered-with-a-slight-sense-of-awe title of preacher, you may be referred to as a person.

So the question stands to be weighed: which risk is worth it?

I try and push myself toward preaching that's willing to bleed a little. The turning point came at a Good Friday service a few years ago. With permission, I shared a story from a stretch in my family's life that was colored in dark shades of blue. I asked the Spirit to help me exercise great restraint where needed—the last thing I wanted to do was air out dirty laundry as if it's something to be glorified. The Spirit was faithful, and I shared with a level of transparency that gave a good spot of press to the deep fractures that come in humanity and gave an even better spot of press to the wide healing of God's grace. When I left that ministry a few months later, I cannot begin to tell you how many people thanked me for that preaching moment out of the four and a half years I'd been with them. Three individuals said my family's story mirrored their own, and they experienced a certain healing for the first time in their journey. One woman specifically said it was then that I became her pastor (which is quite a bit more than "preacher"). It was an encouraging and terrifying revelation all at once. I had far too often "[spoken] on religious matters with what often seems a maximum of authority and a minimum of vital personal involvement." Once I finally got around to leveling the playing field of the two, that's when I really had something.

I don't open a vein every week—there is the risk of bleeding out, of course—but my collective understanding of preaching, pastoral work, ecclesiology, and even the Incarnation has made me confident enough to do it from time to time so as to avoid hiding my actual personhood behind "homiletical pronouncements" (as Buechner calls them).

I'm not sure why I wouldn't be confident to wade into the waters of this other awful risk. Jesus was confident enough to let tears roll down his face as he weighed the loss of his friend Lazarus. It pushed the whole "I am the resurrection and the life" into a whole new light. He was confident enough to turn over tables, causing the going-through-the-religious-motions crowd to stare reflectively (and sheepishly) at their sacrifices. Peter, fresh from a rather confrontational moment with God, was confident enough to confess an ugly streak of racism, saying, "Who was I to think that I could oppose God?" And at the close of his second letter to Timothy, Paul had just enough confidence to admit he needed the once-sent-away Mark after all.

When all is said and done, there's an awful risk on either side of what Buechner raises, but I'm beginning to learn which one is worth taking.