Quiet Preaching - Glenn Conjurske

Quiet Preaching

by Glenn Conjurske

It has been my observation for something in the neighborhood of a quarter of a century that the quietest preaching is often the best preaching. But I observe also that one of the popular errors of our times seems to be to suppose that the opposite is true. I do not mean to say that this is a popular error among the people, but it seems to be so among the preachers themselves. There are a great many who seem to assume that preaching and yelling are the same thing. Many others, who may never proceed to actual yelling, preach always in an elevated tone of voice. They no sooner begin to preach than they adopt an artificial pulpit tone, which is distinguished from their natural voice mainly by its vehemence and volume—-a kind of official, declamatory vociferation, which is as unnatural as it is loud. It is authoritative in manner, but not in fact. It seems to be their first principle that volume is the measure of unction, and their axiom that the Spirit of the Lord is not in the still, small voice, but in the great and strong wind, the earthquake, or the thunderstorm.

Now observe, I have nothing against volume. It is hardly possible to conceive of an earnest and authoritative preacher who does not raise his voice—-at times. We surely have nothing to say against this. We have nothing (on this score) to say against the preaching of Billy Sunday, for there was nothing artificial in the man or his preaching. Though his preaching was all vociferation and calisthenics, it was all earnest, and all natural. Yet he was certainly not a deep preacher, though a powerful awakener. We surely do not advocate that tame and dead preaching which is so common among many, particularly among those who fancy themselves expositors, or Bible teachers. We would, frankly, rather hear them shout. The preacher who never raises his voice is in as bad a way as the preacher who always does. I sat for four years under the ministry of a very tame and lifeless preacher. He had very little to say, and said it with very little earnestness. But once I heard him wax earnest over the condition of impenitent sinners, and he fairly thundered out, “YOU WILL DIE! YOU WILL DIE!” This was the nearest thing to eloquence which I ever saw in him, and the loud volume was certainly no detraction. We have nothing at all to say against raising the voice, where it is natural to do so. What we object to is the preaching of whole sermons in such an elevated tone. This is unnatural and artificial—-and just as monotonous, by the way, as the preaching which is always in a low and lifeless tone. When I hear a preacher begin to preach in the pulpit tone, I am tired as soon as he begins, though I may endure it to hear what he has to say.

Now there must be a reason why so many preachers preach so habitually in this artificial pulpit tone, but we can scarcely suppose that there can be any good reason for it. We have, rather, a very strong suspicion that this elevated tone is usually adopted as a compensation for real and felt weakness. Conscious of their lack of power, they put on an appearance of it. Conscious of their lack of matter, they make up for it by an official and authoritative manner. Twenty years ago a friend and I heard one of the most prominent of Landmark Baptist preachers. When he had finished preaching, my friend turned to me and said, “I never before heard a man preach so vehemently, and say so little.” Interestingly, I cannot remember even the subject of this vehement sermon, though we heard John R. Rice on the same occasion, and I remember both the subject and substance of his preaching. Fifteen years ago I visited a Southern Baptist church in Texas, which had been recommended to me as a “strong Fundamental work.” The preacher preached with volume and vehemence enough, but said nothing—-though he had twenty-five or fifty people to say “Amen” to every platitude which proceeded from his mouth.

I should find it rather difficult to escape the conviction that this elevated pulpit manner is nothing more than a compensation for felt weakness. Not that I would accuse these preachers of conscious hypocrisy. There is no need for this. The man who swears and mocks to compensate for the weakness of his cause does not necessarily do this consciously or purposely—-but he actually does so nevertheless. Though it may be unconscious force of habit, still he does not stoop to such shifts when he has the better end of the argument. So the weak preacher may quite unconsciously adopt a formal and forceful pulpit manner, but he would not do so if he were a real prophet of God. There would be no need for it. Real earnestness and real power can feel no need whatever for either volume or vehemence, though they may freely use either of them where it is natural to do so. A man may never be so earnest in his life as the first time he tells his sweetheart that he loves her, but he would never dream of yelling then, or of adopting any pulpit tone. He may never again be so conscious of power as he is then, for he may know full well that he is melting a heart and making a dream—-but the very consciousness of power will absolutely exclude anything of volume or vehemence. A whisper will serve much better than a shout.

Ah, beloved, there is something in the still, small voice which no elevated pulpit tone can ever equal. The two disciples at Emmaus say, “Did not our heart burn within us by the way, while he talked with us, and while he opened to us the scriptures?” He talked with them. He did not yell, nor declaim, nor bellow, nor vociferate. Nor did he adopt any elevated, official, authoritative pulpit tone. He merely talked with them—-but he made their hearts burn.

We do not, of course, recommend that a man speak no louder when addressing a congregation than when he speaks side by side with a friend. It is a simple necessity for a man addressing ten thousand souls in the open air to speak in a loud voice, but his manner may yet be quiet. It is not mere volume to which we object, but to an elevated and declamatory manner of speech, which no man ever uses outside the pulpit—-and which we can hardly suppose any man would ever use at all if he had more of true earnestness and emotion. Spurgeon speaks altogether to the purpose when he says, “as a general rule we may here note that it is the tendency of deep feeling rather to subdue the manner than to render it too energetic.”* Depth of heart feeling is much more likely to manifest itself in quiet conviction than in noisy declamation, and loud speaking is a very poor substitute for heart feeling. Depth of heart feeling is very much more likely to manifest itself in tears than in shouting or declamation—-and tears and declamation do not fit very well together. A man may shout or declaim by the hour, and really give us nothing at all, but the man who gives us his tears gives us his heart. “Quiet water runs deep,” an old proverb affirms, and though this is meant to apply to him who speaks but little, it may just as well apply to him who speaks with quiet conviction.

Ah, but quiet conviction is not so easy to manufacture as loud declamation. This is true, but preachers are not called of God to manufacture anything, but first of all to be something. As to those who must adopt an elevated pulpit tone to lend an air of authority to their preaching, we may legitimately question whether they are called of God at all.

Glenn Conjurske