Understanding messages requires filtering delivery from content

As a child in church I first became aware of the struggle that form and content wage against each other. Which was more important? What the preacher said or the way he said it? Usually I missed the content because I couldn't get past the preacher's histrionics.

I couldn’t take my eyes off one guy who emitted occasional sprays of spit between bursts of shouting and frenetic arm waving. Another guy put his white, folded handkerchief on the pulpit and grabbed it now and again to wipe sweat from his forehead. He worked up a mighty lather, and I started clocking him between wipes, which passed the time during his spiels. All those preachers appeared rather foolish — but entertaining nonetheless.

Our church seemed to hold preaching contests, as evangelists passed through twice a year, attempting to out-proclaim the local minister. One guest speaker was a missionary from the “foreign fields” who stood beside the pulpit and spoke softly — no histrionics — painting vivid portraits of the country and people she served. Her form merged perfectly with her content, allowing me to listen and cling to the words, free from the glossy antics I was used to seeing. I liked her.

When I was quite young my parents took me to a Spike Jones concert where we had floor seats close to the stage. Look up Spike Jones on YouTube and watch in ludicrous amazement. I now realize his show was a send-up of old time burlesque without the girls, a spoof of serious music. A midget wearing a ridiculous wig jumped off the stage and ran through the aisles, eventually hopping onto my mother’s lap, to everyone’s delight. I was ashamed of my mother for laughing. I thought he’d violated her in some obscene way. And that wig. Pretty frightening. It reminded me of those preaching contests, something off-key.

A few years ago I went on a fact-finding venture and attended a megachurch service, complete with theater seats, blasting music, flashing images on huge monitors, people standing and waving arms in the air — and this was before the service started! I climbed to a seat in the back and watched the spectacle to the end. Everything appeared well choreographed, right down to when the loud prayer-mumbles should cease. It all stopped on cue. I left the church speechless, my overloaded senses hammering within me. I'd never seen anything like it. At home, I drank beer and watched the violence of NFL football to calm myself. Bone rattling tackles and helmet-to-helmet smashing helped considerably.

The service wasn’t my worshipful cup of tea, but the people there must have been able to cut through the form and find meaningful content. Surely most did — otherwise why were they there? But I was overwhelmed and confused. I couldn’t see the content for the form.

I assume the best writers, speakers, musicians and artists try to find that golden balance where form and content merge, letting the audience forget the creator but be glued to the creation. In the end, one shining piece of work should stand on its own, appearing unique unto itself, not to the creator’s posturing. But I suppose such work only rarely exists. Yet, I've read, listened and viewed such art many times.

For me, Spike Jones and those shouting preachers made their points perfectly: “All eyes on me, please. Watch and be impressed.” But I certainly wasn’t. Yet, I'm well aware some people get their jollies by trying to impress other and themselves, content be damned. And where's the meaning in that?

Michael Pulley lives in Springfield. He can be reached at mpulley634@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on Springfield News-Leader: Understanding messages requires filtering delivery from content