People of a certain age will remember David Spade’s comedic role of Dick Clark’s receptionist on a repeated Saturday Night Live skit. The premise was that famous people, usually including that week’s guest host, would stop in to see the legendary producer, only to discover that the pretentious person behind the desk was an uncooperative gatekeeper who didn’t recognize them and would not let them through to see his boss. The biggest cultural star of the moment could face Spade’s smarmy and total disdain.

“And you are . . . ?”
“And he would know you because . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just a little crazy right now. If you could just take a seat.”

No matter how famous or recognizable the person, David Spade’s gatekeeper was as impassable as he was condescending. He alone decided who got past him—and no one did.

Preaching sometimes feels like that. We’re trying to get through but finding it difficult to be recognized.

The human brain comes with a “gatekeeper” that, though not as scornful as Spade’s Saturday Night Live character, might be just as difficult to get past. The gatekeeper part of the brain makes instantaneous decisions about what information gets rejected, ignored, or considered. Unlike the higher reasoning part of the brain, which consciously thinks and processes the information, the gatekeeper evaluates the source of the information, determining whether it is credible and whether it is worth the attention. It’s a very sophisticated servant.

For instance, if someone speaks in a way that seems to contradict the content of the information, the gatekeeper tells the brain to beware or to ignore it.

The gatekeeper notices anything that undermines credibility—the salesman who won’t look anyone in the eye, the woman who seems to hate her job and the product she’s selling, or the preacher who doesn’t seem happy about what he calls “good news.” But it’s evaluating things based on density as well as reliability, and responding with appropriate attention and focus. If a speaker is repetitious, for example, the brain allows mental resources to be allocated to other thoughts and processes, like emails and other things that constantly clamor for consideration.

The gatekeeper especially notes whether all the words and sounds coming from a speaker carry significance. If the speaker uses a lot of sounds that don’t really convey any true meaning, the listener’s mind takes note and adjusts accordingly and automatically. That means that the more fillers and “verbal bridges”—the sounds and words speakers employ not for meaning but to fill the silence—the more the brains of listeners tune out, allocating mental resources elsewhere and allowing other thoughts to intrude.

Fillers and verbal bridges are the enemy of preachers. They steal time from the ideas and truths that need to be preached, not to mention the time of listeners who have graciously come to listen. No matter how considerate the audience, the gatekeepers in every listening brain immediately discern that the higher reasoning powers only need to engage about 60%, because 40% of the sounds coming out of a speaker’s mouth mean little or nothing.

“You know . . . it’s like, as I was thinking about what to preach, I, um, wasn’t sure, and, you know, I thought about it and, I mean, I prayed and, um, well, the Lord led me, I think . . . I felt the Lord leading me to, um, this passage, because it’s, well . . . it was, like, you know, really, really . . . um, meaningful to me in an, um, uh, yeah, well, really hard time in my life. You know what I mean? Right?”

The stammering and yammering of superfluous sounds are not merely time wasters or inelegant utterances, but inducements to inattention and indifference. Sometimes preachers think their message has been rejected when, in fact, it hasn’t even been heard. It was filled with so much filler that it never got past the gatekeeper.

On the other hand, those preachers who maintain focus and convey meaning in every sound keep the listeners engaged. They command attention because they speak with an economy of words that require active listening. They get past the gatekeeper and land their message. The content may be rejected, to be sure, but at least it was genuinely heard.

What a shame to spend hours in study and sermon preparation only to undermine it with meaningless vocalizations in the pulpit. One of the best—and most painful—exercises for any preacher is to watch a video of a recent sermon and tally all the “ums,” “uhs,” “wells,” “you knows,” and every time “like” is used to mean something other than a comparison. The pain of hearing and counting every verbal bridge will be a painful inducement to exercise message discipline in preparation and delivery.

If we believe what we preach, we surely need to sound certain of it.

Hershael W. York is Dean of The School of Theology and the Victor and Louise Lester Professor of Christian Preaching at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.