What’s Your No-Notes?

June 18, 2026

Open notebook with 'What's Your No-Notes?' question in a church setting.

On a recent episode of the Better Preaching Podcast, Tyler McKenzie made a confession I suspect most of us preachers could make: comparison nearly stole his love for preaching.

Tyler grew up an athlete, and at first the competitive instinct served him well. He studied great preachers the way a young ballplayer studies Ken Griffey Jr.’s swing — Francis Chan’s passion, Andy Stanley’s conversational ease, Tim Keller’s gift for engaging skeptics. Tyler defends that kind of emulation, and so do I. There is no craft on earth where we wouldn’t tell a rookie to study the greats.

But somewhere along the way, emulation curdled into competition. “I want to be the best preacher of my generation,” he caught himself thinking. “The best preacher in my city.” And the joy began to leak out. He couldn’t walk off stage and savor being used by God. Instead, he cataloged the seven things to fix before the next service. He couldn’t listen to another man’s sermon without keeping score. Pride when he won. Envy when he lost. The man who became a preacher because he loved sermons, the guy who found deep connection to God through sermon preparation, could no longer enjoy delivering one.

Then Tyler told me about the decision that began to break those chains, and it surprised me. He started carrying a manuscript.

For his first seven or eight years, Tyler was a no-notes preacher. Eventually he admitted he wasn’t doing it because it made his preaching better. He was doing it because he liked what people said about it: “He just goes up there with his Bible and throws it down.” The missing café table most preachers set their notes on became a trophy. So, he humbled himself, wrote a manuscript, and carried it on stage — a small, visible act of surrender declaring this is not about what people think of me. This is about preaching the Word of God. Period.

It also gave him back three hours a week. Humility, it turns out, is efficient.

Teddy Roosevelt usually gets credit for saying “comparison is the thief of joy.” Whoever said it first, every preacher eventually proves it true. Here’s the question I’ve been chewing on since we put the episode in the can: What’s my no-notes? What’s the thing I do in the pulpit not because it serves the Word, but because it serves my reputation?

Find it. Name it. Lay it down.

The joy you get back is worth far more than the applause.

There are preachers, and then there are preachers. Wayne B. Smith was the second kind.

Wayne helped start Southland Christian Church in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1956 and served as her senior minister until 1995 — growing the congregation from 152 to 3,700 weekly worshipers. He was, by nearly all accounts, the most popular preacher in the Restoration Movement. They called him “the Bob Hope of the Ministry.” He laughed easily, cried easily, and delivered Kentucky Fried Chicken to poor families at ten o’clock at night. I don’t know another man who wrapped the gospel in a bucket of chicken and made it feel perfectly natural.

But beneath the humor was a man dead serious about one thing: the pulpit.

In 1977, Wayne Smith served as president of the North American Christian Convention. When it was his turn to stand before his fellow ministers and say something worth saying, he chose as his text 2 Timothy 4:1-8, and his message was simply this — Preach the Word.

He structured the sermon around three great themes: the Summons, the Subject, and the Source.

The summons were urgent. He asked the crowd what had happened to the kind of preaching they heard on the Day of Pentecost — the kind that moved across a pagan empire like wildfire. He told the story of men visiting Billy Sunday and asking the secret of his preaching power. Sunday took them to the hotel window, looked down at the people on the sidewalk, and said three times — They are going to Hell. Wayne’s conclusion was simple: “Woe unto me if I preach not the Gospel.“

The subject was Christ — always Christ. He put it plainly: some men say we need a new message, but if that’s true, then we need a new Bible. The message is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The bedrock foundation, the heart and soul of the apostles’ message, was the Son of God — the crucified, buried, resurrected, ascending, reigning, returning Redeemer.

And the source was the Word. Wayne used the image of a healing spring around which a whole town had been built — until the day someone asked where the spring was, and no one could remember. His warning to preachers was clear: under our superstructures and our success, some of us have lost the spring.

Wayne remained faithful to the end, encouraging a gathering of ministers the very day before he died in 2016.

He preached what he believed. He believed what he preached. And he told the rest of us to do the same.

Woe unto us if we don’t.

Ask Ron Otto for his all-time favorite preaching point and he doesn’t hesitate: it’s more important how you finish than how you start.

He’s earned the right to say it. On this week’s Better Preaching Podcast, Ron — nearly twenty years into his ministry at Lincoln Christian Church — told me about his rough start. He was a poor student who didn’t think ministry was even possible for him. It took the grace of God and the grace of a lot of people, he says, including some grace from Great Lakes Christian College, to get him through. His dad taught him roofing so he’d always have a trade to fall back on, but God had other plans for those hands.

And Ron is right about the pattern. Scripture repeats it on nearly every page. Consider the demon-possessed man living among the tombs. You cannot script a rougher start than that. But when Jesus restores him, He doesn’t hide him away. He commissions him to go tell everybody what the Lord has done for you. Ron calls that story a snapshot of his own life.

I tell every student who visits my office the same thing: at Great Lakes, we’re concerned about where you’re at, but we’re more concerned about where you’re going. Your trajectory matters more than your location.

But here’s where Ron pressed the point further, and it’s the part that stuck with me. Starting well isn’t the finish line. Finishing well is the finish line. Ron is 65 now. His words: “I’m in the last leg of my race. This is my last lap.” And his singular ambition for that lap is two words he’s shared with his elders and asked them to hold his feet to: finish strong.

Because we’ve all watched too many talented preachers stumble before the tape. Blown-up marriages. Blown-up families. Blown-up churches. Satan hates whatever God loves — the church, the Word, marriage — and he doubles down on preachers. The gifting that got you into the pulpit will not keep you standing in it. Only vigilance, humility, and leaders with permission to hold you accountable will do that.

So, wherever you are on the track — rough start, strong start, middle miles, or final lap — lift your eyes to the finish line. Grace covers how you started. Faithfulness determines how you’ll finish.

Set your heart to finish strong.

Because better preaching makes a bigger impact.  

In the fall of 2016, yard signs started popping up all over Lincoln, Illinois. One neighbor had a Trump sign. Another had a Hillary sign. And squeezed between them, on lawn after lawn: “Jesus. Period.”

People assumed it was a political statement. It was actually a sermon series.

Ron Otto, my guest on this week’s Better Preaching Podcast, has preached at Lincoln Christian Church for almost twenty years—the longest preaching tenure in that church’s history. And those signs announced the most audacious thing he’s ever attempted from the pulpit: an eighteen-month journey through the entire Gospel of Luke, starting one December and ending two Easters later. He told his congregation, “Your pastor’s doing this because he’s courageous.” Then he did it. The church’s highest average attendance came during that series.

Why did it work? Ron credits a cassette tape.

Years ago, somebody handed him a recording of Fred Craddock teaching on what he called the nod of recognition and the shock of recognition. Craddock’s warning to young preachers went something like this: in our rush to say something nobody’s ever heard before, we hunt for obscure passages and clever angles—and we steal from our people the joy of the nod. That moment when a listener leans back and thinks, “I know this story. This is one of the stories of Jesus.”

But the nod is only half the sermon. The shock of recognition comes when the listener suddenly realizes the story is about them. They’re not observing the prodigal son from a safe distance. They’re standing in the far country holding the pig slop.

I’ve heard it put another way: every sermon needs amen moments and aha moments. The amen is the nod. The aha is the shock. Preaching that’s all nod is comfortable and forgettable. Preaching that’s all shock is clever and exhausting. But when familiar texts suddenly turn and look your people in the eye—that’s when the Word does its work.

So here’s the encouragement, preacher: you don’t need obscure passages to be profound. Ron seldom goes looking for them. Preach the stories your people already know, and trust God to spring the trap.

Eighteen months in Luke. Yard signs in an election year. A congregation nodding along—right up until the story turned and shocked them.

Jesus. Period.

Because better preaching makes a bigger impact.