Máté Márkus: Did Sándor Joó Have Points?

From its title, the article examines whether Sándor Joó’s preaching employed structured ‘points’. It thus addresses the practice of structuring sermons into points—specifically the so-called ‘three-point’ sermon—through an examination of the sermon material of a significant Hungarian preacher.

The practice of “three-point preaching” is perhaps more characteristic of Reformed sermons than of the preaching traditions of other denominations. It represents a traditionally Reformed homiletical method (which we might describe as ’Puritan’ or ’good Reformed’ in everyday speech). This approach deserves recognition, since it is undoubtedly better to listen week by week to a sermon structured in three points than to one without any. Yet, when listening to theology students and pastors, one often gets the impression that the preacher has prayed over the text until three messages were simply “squeezed out” of it. These messages, however, frequently relate only loosely to one another; it remains unclear what the central message is or why three points are necessary at all. Consequently, the sermon may appear fragmented. In such cases, the listener often feels that one strong point would have been more effective than three: “Less is sometimes more.” Three points are better than none, yet one point may be more powerful than three.

Even from this brief introduction, it is already clear that my aim is to examine the relationship between intention and consistency—or inconsistency—in the practice of three-point preaching. The clearer the preacher’s intention, the more consistent the sermon will be; the less clear the intention, the more inconsistent the sermon tends to become. Does this imply that three-point preaching is inherently flawed or a homiletical error? Not at all. It is, however, necessary to clarify what we mean by “three points.”

First: three-point preaching does not simply mean that a sermon has an introduction, body, and conclusion. It may be argued that virtually every Reformed pastor satisfies this rhetorical minimum. Rather, speaking in three points means that the main body of the sermon is divided into three principal sections—three theses.

In ancient rhetoric, we do not encounter any guidelines prescribing that the main body of a speech must have three parts. Nonetheless, the number three has carried significance from the beginning. In Rhetoric, Aristotle identifies three sources of persuasion: logos, pathos, and ethos.^[1] Logos concerns the logical structure and truthfulness of the speech; pathos encompasses the emotions elicited in the listener; and ethos refers to the speaker’s integrity in delivering the speech—without which persuasion is incomplete, even if logically correct and emotionally engaging. From this tripartite division, it becomes clear that the speaker must engage the listener’s intellect and emotions, and—by implication—the will. Cicero puts this even more succinctly: the goal of speech is docere, delectare, movere—to teach, to delight, to move.^[2] The speaker aims to impact the listener’s mind, emotions, and will alike. Quintilian adopts this same triad from Cicero.^[3] It is evident from this basic introduction that ancient rhetoric never sought to generate three distinct messages in a speech. On the contrary, a speech is most powerful when it conveys a single message—yet that message must resonate on all three levels: intellect, emotions, and will.

Thus, three-point preaching should not be dismissed. The misconception lies in thinking that three points must equate to three messages. Instead, three-point preaching should signify that the preacher has a single message, which can be communicated in three ways: appealing to the intellect, the emotions, and the will. This, of course, does not preclude a sermon from containing three messages—it can.

When considering Sándor Joó, it is worth noting his successor in Pasarét, Kálmán Cseri, who delivered several sermons—primarily from the New Testament, mostly Pauline texts—in which three distinct messages appear as three points. Even if these points have little substantive connection, he unites them through a creative a semi-thematic, or formally unifying framework. Simultaneously, he also delivered sermons in which one message was divided into three parts. For example, in his 1997 sermon Saints–Servants–Soldiers, explaining the Letter to the Ephesians, he states: since God has raised you from spiritual death to life, be 1) Saints, 2) Servants, 3) Soldiers.^[4] The first point discusses what it means to be holy, the second what it means to be a servant, and so on. Yet the sermon is not ultimately about defining biblical roles; rather, it conveys that the believer raised from spiritual death is on a developmental journey. The key question is: where are you, dear listener? Though seemingly divided into three “subjects,” the sermon presents a single clear question.

Thus, delivering three messages in one sermon—three quasi-independent sermonic units—is permissible, but this demands considerable creativity; without clear intention, inconsistency may easily result.

If there is a preacher in Hungarian homiletical history who consistently formulated one, clear message in nearly every sermon—sometimes in three ways—it is Sándor Joó. He is credited with the saying: If you want to shoot a wild duck with a shotgun, do not fire into the middle of the flock; aim at one. This mindset is reflected in his sermons: he always sought to deliver a specific message. In an early sermon (August 27, 1938), he noted that questions often arise in pastoral counseling, which he later addressed in sermons, based on the principle that what is one person’s question may be the question of many. As Kálmán Cseri observed: “In this way, many of his sermons became collective pastoral counseling.”^[5] This perspective required precisely this approach: one clear question, one clear answer.

This principle can be demonstrated in nearly any of his sermons. Here, I illustrate it with three sermons selected according to a principle but randomly: the first sermon after New Bread in 1965, 1960, and 1955. Let us examine how the principle of a single message is realized.

I. Sermon

The first sermon was delivered on August 29, 1965, with the title: The Foundation of Life.^[6] The text of the sermon: Matthew 5:24–27, The House Built on the Rock. The sermon begins with the statement that Jesus does not say that storms may perhaps come in life, but speaks of it as a fact: storms will come, when the rain pours down, the floods rise, and the winds rage. In other words, storms and sufferings in life are inevitable. At first, almost imperceptibly, the preacher begins to engage the emotions of the audience. He mentions the various storms and sufferings of life, showing how much they can tear apart human existence. The listeners begin to connect emotionally with the theme, although no concrete message has yet been spoken.

Then he broadens the image of the storm to a universal and existential level when he says that even if there is someone who has not been struck by truly great storms in life, one great storm will inevitably overtake everyone: death. And then it will truly be revealed on what foundation one has built their life. With this, the first third of the sermon—which also forms its affective dimension—comes to a close, and the second third begins, in which he presents to the listeners the cognitive connection that whatever foundation one builds their life upon in this world, it may collapse. Here too, he reinforces the affective link with concrete examples: many thought real estate was an unshakable foundation—then came the war; many based their lives on love—then came a great disappointment; others on health—then a wrong step getting off the tram was enough. This is the second third of the sermon, at the end of which the listener almost asks the question themselves: what then is the foundation that can withstand the storms, upon which one may build their life? And the preacher declares that it is the Word of God that is eternal—but not in the sense that one has a secure foundation in life if the Word of God is merely occasionally a part of it, but only if one hears it and acts upon it. Here, the sermon reaches its goal, and the volitional dimension awakens, since the listener now personally desires to understand God’s personal message for them and to build their life upon it by putting it into practice—so that their house may not suffer “great ruin” when the storm strikes.

The message of the sermon is clear: whoever acts upon God’s personal message to them will not see their life collapse in the storms. The preacher does not announce the message in advance, but it unfolds gradually in three very clear stages: the first is affective, the second cognitive, and the third moves in the volitional dimension. The sermon is not static but dynamic: from storms it leads to the storm-proof life. Within it, the principle of one message, threefold engagement is perfectly traceable.

II. Sermon

The second sermon was delivered on August 21, 1960, with the title also in possessive form: The Power of Sin.^[7] The text of the sermon: Mark 5:1–19, The Story of the Gerasene Demoniac. The sermon begins by addressing the thought that the possession seen in this Gerasene man might be considered merely a myth of a world two thousand years ago, something no longer existing in the age of modern medicine, but this is not true. The same power that possessed that man two thousand years ago still exists today and still holds human lives under its dominion: the power of sin. With this, the development of the sermon begins, explaining the characteristics of this power. Interestingly, the ontology of sin is presented in a threefold structure.

Sin is greater than man. First, he explains the difference between fault and sin, showing that sin is not merely a “moral stumble,” but rather an opening of a door to a power over which man has no control: the power of sin. He cites the relevant Pauline text from the Letter to the Romans: “I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.”

Then he draws attention to the fact that this man was bound with chains, and yet he broke them. This means the power of sin cannot be chained, cannot be controlled. There is nothing external that can restrain the power of sin over man. Here too, the preacher gives some examples.

Finally, he highlights that the demonic spirit destroyed an entire herd of pigs. This shows that the power of sin can destroy even a herd of pigs—in other words, it is destructive.

All three subpoints appeal both to reason and to emotion. The cognitive connections are clear, yet each one is given affective force through individual examples. Surprisingly, these points are short, not over-explained: he only elaborates until the listeners grasp the nature of sin. But at this moment, the sermon shifts direction, turning back from the power of sin to Jesus. The destruction of the herd of pigs not only demonstrates how destructive the power of sin is, but also how important a single lost human soul is to Jesus. The destruction of the pigs speaks of Jesus’ love, and the man’s deliverance speaks of Jesus’ power. The single, awe-inspiring message of the sermon unfolds in its final paragraph: as much as the power of sin is greater than man, so much greater is Jesus’ power over sin. In the end, whoever has felt the truth of this sermon almost spontaneously surrenders to its closing appeal: “fall down before this Jesus…”
The message of the sermon ultimately conveys the idea of two powers: the power of sin and the power of Jesus. Without didactically announcing this to the listeners in advance, the preacher simply presents before their eyes the power of sin through this story, and then presents before their eyes “the stronger one.” We must also note how precisely the three subpoints about the power of sin follow the dynamics of the text itself (1. the possessed man, 2. the chains, 3. the pigs). One message, grasped in multiple ways.

III. Sermon

The third sermon was delivered on September 11, 1955, with the title: I Was Blind… Now I See!^[8] The text of the sermon: John 9:1–38, The Healing of the Man Born Blind. The sermon refers back to the previous Sundays, to how, in a previous sermon, the congregation already saw through the story of Zacchaeus that in an encounter with Jesus, a person’s life is renewed. Here, he announces in advance that this story is also about the same thing: a man meets Jesus, and his whole life is renewed, for he, once blind, now sees. It is the dimension of this renewal that he now wishes to unfold in this sermon. Surprisingly, he begins by noting that this story is usually interpreted spiritually: as when someone’s eyes are opened in a spiritual sense, moving from spiritual blindness to sight, recognizing their own sin and God’s love revealed to them in Jesus. But he immediately indicates that he does not wish to show this otherwise true, spiritual meaning to the congregation now. Instead, he wishes to draw attention to how radically this man’s life was changed: he was blind, and now he sees. What an enormous change it must have been in the life of a man born blind when he began to see! What a “wonder-filled amazement” it must have been at the created world.

From this point on, this practically determines the theme and structure of the sermon. The first section shows how blind we are to the wonder of the created world and of life itself. The second section shows that whoever meets Jesus begins again to marvel at the world. In a creative and biblical way, he brings in the example of children: children still know how to marvel at everything, how to wonder at the world—adults do not. But whoever is born of God becomes a child again in the spiritual sense, learning again to marvel at the world. Such a person’s sight is changed. They marvel at the created world, and through the created world at its Creator. They also begin to be characterized by a creative vision, like that of Jesus. Where others see only a sinner, such a person can see what another may become and will become. This he calls creative vision. Interestingly, the sermon does not end with a strong imperative, but rather inspires, opening our eyes to this childlike, God-given vision, asking only in conclusion that the listener yield to it if something of it has stirred in their soul.

The message of the sermon is again clear and singular: whoever meets Jesus has their eyes opened to the wonder of life and the world. This sermon is less characterized by distinct structuring or by separable cognitive and affective sections. Rather, it resembles a dynamically flowing river, beginning with human blindness and moving toward childlike sight.

From the above sermons—selected at random—we can see that Sándor Joó sought each Sunday to deliver only one message, but he did so in creative ways. Sometimes with a threefold structure (The Foundation of Life), sometimes with a twofold structure (The Power of Sin), and sometimes in a flowing form (I Was Blind… Now I See!).

Finally, almost every sermon of Sándor Joó ends with a brief but all-encompassing reference to the life, teachings, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus. Accordingly, at the conclusion of this analysis of Joó Sándor, it is worth recalling that in Jesus’ own sermons, too, the principle of one message—if necessary, expressed in many ways—is perfectly traceable. The Beatitudes do not so much present eight separate important messages as they present one, expressed in eight ways: blessed is the one whose connection with the kingdom of God is unbroken, even if for this reason their connection with the world is broken. In the same way, Jesus’ interpretation of the Law is not a detailed commentary on the Torah, but one single message told in many ways: if you think you are righteous because you have not committed certain sins outwardly, you are not. Likewise, Jesus’ parables, as parables, typically point toward one clear focal point.
All this does not present an entirely new thesis in homiletics, but rather a timely reminder and a novel exploration through the preaching of an ethos such as Sándor Joó.

Bibliography

Aristotle: Rhetoric, in Jonathan Barnes (ed.): The Complete Works of Aristotle, trans. W. Rhys Roberts, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1984.

Cicero: De Oratore, trans. E.W. Sutton and H. Rackham, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942.

Cseri Kálmán: Száz éve született dr. Joó Sándor (1910–1970), in Kálvin Kalendárium 2010, Budapest, Kálvin Kiadó, 2009, 80.

Cseri Kálmán: Szentek–szolgák–katonák, https://cserikalman.hu/predikacio/51207366.

Joó Sándor: A hegyi beszéd, Budapest, Ajtony Artúr, 2006, 159–163.

Joó Sándor: Jézus követése, Budapest, Ajtony Artúr, 1996, 114–117.

Joó Sándor: Megragadott a Krisztus, Budapest, Ajtony Artúr, 1999, 142–146.

Quintilian: Institutio Oratoria, trans. H.E. Butler, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921.

References

1. Aristotle: Rhetoric, in Jonathan Barnes (ed.): The Complete Works of Aristotle, trans. W. Rhys Roberts, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1984, 1356a–1356b. ↑
2. Cicero: De Oratore, trans. E.W. Sutton and H. Rackham, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942, III.25–27. ↑
3. Quintilian: Institutio Oratoria, trans. H.E. Butler, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921, VI.2.1–3. ↑
4. Source: https://cserikalman.hu/predikacio/51207366; Date: 08.26.2025. ↑
5. Cseri Kálmán: Száz éve született dr. Joó Sándor (1910–1970), in Kálvin Kalendárium 2010, Budapest, Kálvin Kiadó, 2009, 80. ↑
6. Joó Sándor: A hegyi beszéd, Budapest, Ajtony Artúr, 2006, 159–163. ↑
7. Joó Sándor: Jézus követése, Budapest, Ajtony Artúr, 1996, 114–117. ↑
8. Joó Sándor: Megragadott a Krisztus, Budapest, Ajtony Artúr, 1999, 142–146. ↑