Why Do Preachers Sound So Weird?

This might seem like a trivial quibble. Surely there are more important issues to raise about the state of modern preaching than the tone of voice they use. There is an abundance of articles on what preachers say, whether they have captivating illustrations, or follow the sequence of law to gospel, but very few are interested in how the speaker sounds to the listener. Should a proclaimer of the gospel sound like a motivational speaker, a drill sergeant, a poet, or a politician? Should they speak slowly or fast, animated or in a flat timbre? The answer to these questions is far from inconsequential. When delivered in an angry growl, the message of grace becomes its opposite. It’s not just what you say, it’s also how you say it.

If you’ve heard enough sermons across the variations of Christianity, you’ll find that every cul-de-sac has its own expectations for what a good preacher sounds like — almost comically so.

Reformed preachers often strive to convey the gravitas of a college professor with a dry austerity. No excitement, no drama, just the cold, dead truth. By contrast, Baptists and Pentecostals tend to trade in intensity, punctuating their points with accelerating volume, speed, and an unusual lengthening of vowels, only to then instantly slow to a whispered crawl. Behind every preacher of this type there is a nervous sound technician with his hand on the volume control. Anglicans (in the U.S.) tend to try and  sound like a cross between T.S. Eliot and Rowan Williams. They speak in an ethereal voice, offset by frequent modulations in tone and pregnant silences. Bonus points if one’s accent becomes questionably British in the process. Then there’s the life-of-the-party pastor, whose timing and cadence mirrors the comedian George Carlin (minus all the cursing, of course). Still others present themselves as TED Talk speakers, a laid-back delivery marked by unnatural pauses and shifts in tone, volume, pace, and intonation.

There are plenty of other kinds of voices: the football coach preacher, the story time preacher, the pistol shooting preacher, and the therapist preacher, to name a few. I’ve used a few of these myself over the years. A missiologist might say that each has its advantages, depending on the context. Or an ecumenicist might laud the diversity of expressions as a testament to the multicultural body of Christ. And they wouldn’t necessarily be wrong. Yet the mimicry of it all can betray a great deal of performative inauthenticity — which acutely raises the question of what preaching is in the first place.

When I went to seminary and then later taught as a professor, the instruction for aspiring preachers was the same: “Find your voice.” This advice has always struck me as odd. Everyone already possessed a perfectly adequate voice they have used daily for decades. How must we find it? Without fail, the demand to “find your voice” had the opposite effect. The discovery of one’s voice became a practice of stagecraft. Good preachers, to many, are those whose style and manner conform to existing ideals. And so, a student would ascend the pulpit, clear their throat, and then imitate the voice of their favorite preacher. I wish I could say that these impersonations were merely the first steps of novices, but it’s difficult not to hear even the most experienced speakers playing a part. The spotlight turns on, and in its glow the preacher’s normal speech patterns become transformed into what they believe the audience wants to hear.

In his book, On Christian Doctrine, the early fifth-century bishop Augustine of Hippo offered extensive comment on how, when, and in what ways Christian preachers should employ rhetorical skill. The former professor of rhetoric recognized how it can be employed for either good or evil, and he encourages the reader to speak both wisely and eloquently in service of the gospel. As Rowan Williams summarizes, “Preaching must be beautiful, not as a matter of impressive ornament but through its appeal to what most deeply attracts, the self-giving love of Christ.”[1] Augustine believed that Christian preaching should never be a boring slog of warmed-over doctrinal truths that do not move the hearers. He heard enough bad sermons to know how woefully insufficient it is for a preacher of the gospel to simply repeat the “right” words.

Amid the bishop’s passionate pleas for carefully crafted sermons directed squarely at the heart, one could easily be left with the impression that the preacher should be a kind of actor who puts on a commanding performance. And in a time when attention is the most valuable commodity, it would be tempting for the preacher today to respond to the many falsities broadcast across the dopamine-hungry algorithms with sermons that aim for attention-grabbing sparkle — to put on a show more enrapturing than the one people carry in their pockets. The sermon, however, runs in the opposite direction of such a theology of glory. It does not aim for attention, but conversion.

While Augustine repeatedly praises the efficacy of eloquence and commends the use of varied rhetorical approaches, the beauty he aims for bears no resemblance to the theater. “Nothing can be called eloquence,” Augustine contends, “if it be not suitable to the person of the speaker.” To him, pastors cannot ultimately persuade anyone if they are not being persuaded by their own words. In this way, the preaching voice sacrifices sincerity for eloquence, one that can leave the listener wondering whether all the impassioned declarations are just part of the show. The less a preacher sounds like a real person, the more their words become sequestered to the ever-shrinking realm of the spiritual.

As Augustine sees it, a sermon is neither a polished speech, nor is it the performance of a dead script in need of enlivening. It is one desperate sinner speaking from their heart to the hearts of other desperate sinners, a fellow traveler who guides with meekness and humility. Those with the authority to proclaim forgiveness do not exalt themselves over others with a powerful voice, but speak with the powerlessness of a servant. One cannot proclaim a crucified God with the voice of an angel, but with weakness, fear, and trembling speech.

The good preacher tells of the freedom they themselves possess, the comfort they need, and the hope they yearn for. A theologian might say that all proclamation is really a form of prayer to God, but the sterile piousness of that doesn’t quite capture the risk. Preaching is, instead, like open heart surgery, with the speaker strapped onto the operating table and God wielding the scalpel. The preacher of the cross bears its wounds for all to see and hear. It is an agonizing, public humiliation on the slight off chance that this testimony might resonate with a fellow sufferer — a beautifully messy vulnerability that lacks any affectation, mimicry, or manufactured drama. The words of the preacher may not be their own, but the voice is their own and never another’s.

[1] Rowan Williams, On Augustine (London: Bloomsbury Continuum), 56.