On Sunday morning, I'm not nervous... I can't wait to tell what

Charles Stanley, the preacher of steadfast faith, once declared with humility and fire: “On Sunday morning, I’m not nervous… I can’t wait to tell what God wants me to say.” These words, though simple, flow with the strength of conviction, the assurance of one who no longer speaks for himself but as a vessel of divine truth. They reveal the mystery of courage that arises not from the self, but from surrender; not from ambition, but from obedience.

The mention of Sunday morning is not accidental. It is the hour of gathering, when believers assemble with hearts weary from the week, searching for hope, guidance, or strength. Many men would tremble at the weight of addressing souls hungry for eternal words. Yet Stanley confesses no trembling. Why? Because his confidence does not rest on eloquence or charisma, but on the certainty that what he speaks belongs not to him but to God. In this lies the secret of boldness: when the message is not yours, fear fades, for you carry the voice of something greater.

This echoes the spirit of the prophets of old. Jeremiah, who felt too young and unworthy to speak, was told, “Do not be afraid, for I am with you; I will put my words in your mouth.” Moses, who stammered, stood before Pharaoh because he trusted that the divine would guide his speech. Charles Stanley’s words belong to this ancient lineage: the preacher does not invent, but delivers; he does not fear, because the weight of truth is carried by the One who gave it.

History offers us other witnesses. Consider Martin Luther, standing before the Diet of Worms, accused and threatened, yet he declared, “Here I stand, I can do no other, so help me God.” Though the might of an empire pressed against him, he was not nervous, for he knew he carried a word beyond himself. Or think of Mother Teresa, who spoke before powerful nations with simple words of love and sacrifice. Her courage was not her own, but drawn from the conviction that she was voicing what God had placed in her heart.

The deeper meaning of Stanley’s confession is that true freedom comes when a man ceases to live for himself. Anxiety thrives in self-centeredness — the fear of failure, of judgment, of insufficiency. But when the heart is surrendered, when one’s only task is to pass on what has been entrusted, then fear gives way to eagerness. Thus he can say, “I can’t wait” — for the message is a gift, and to share it is a joy, not a burden.

The lesson is clear: whether preacher, teacher, leader, or parent, if you carry truth with sincerity, you need not tremble before men. Do not live for applause or fear rejection, but live to be faithful in delivering what is right, what is just, what is sacred. When you know your words serve a higher purpose, your voice will carry power, and your heart will know peace.

Practical action flows: before you face the tasks of the day, ask yourself, “Am I speaking and acting for myself alone, or for something greater?” Anchor your purpose not in vanity, but in service. Prepare your heart in devotion, as Stanley did, so that when your moment comes — whether on a stage, in a meeting, or around your family table — you will not be nervous, but eager. For to carry truth with love is to carry the very breath of God.

Thus Charles Stanley’s words endure, echoing like the voice of the ancients: “On Sunday morning, I’m not nervous… I can’t wait to tell what God wants me to say.” Children of tomorrow, remember this: courage is not found in self-reliance, but in surrender; strength is not born from pride, but from obedience. When you speak the words of truth, do so with eagerness, for you are not the author, only the herald of something eternal.