Blaming The Holy Ghost
Part Two—Because There’s A Lot Of Blaming
Alright—you pushed me. I didn’t want to write this one, but you people left me no choice. You are to blame for what follows.
I told Richie Wilkerson Jr.—the GOAT, one of the greatest preachers in the world, and yes, that’s not sarcasm—that I don’t like sermons that are 90% shouting. (Pause for pearl-clutching.) Maybe you’ve seen the Apostolic guys. I didn’t grow up on that flavor, btw—my parents did. The guy they sat under was a shouter. A bellow-from-the-diaphragm, red-faced, vein-popping, sweat-flinging, “If you’re not screaming, are you even saved?” kind of shouter.
And look—I’m not saying there aren’t moments to shout. I’m not saying a righteous roar doesn’t have its place. Some truths should be delivered like a lion has just torn its way through the sanctuary doors and you’re preaching in the midst of blood and chaos. There are moments in a sermon when the roof should come off. Fine. Granted.
But read the fine print here before you light the torches and gather a mob: I don’t like it when a sermon is ninety percent shouting. There. That’s my thesis. Take it or leave it.
Anyway, I mentioned this to Richie. Along with some other shenanigans I don’t particularly enjoy. And just so you know, I didn’t grow up in a quiet, entreating Anglican parish where civilized men sip Earl Grey, adjust their spectacles, and form compelling arguments (or at least they used to). I know Spurgeon was a thundering character, but he didn’t deliver his sermons at a permanent ten.
What I was trying to tell Richie—what I was feeling—was that I’ve lost my taste for all the shouting and the performative crying, the Depression-era theatrics that we Pentecostals inherited like a mothball-scented family heirloom nobody wants to throw out because “it’s tradition.”
Then I went a step further: “It’s just weird when a dude is one way offstage and an entirely different human being onstage.”
Richie smiled at me—Richie, all charisma and dimples—and replied, “I still go to the theatre.”
Ah yes. That’s the standard Pentecostal response to anyone who dares whisper, “I don’t like Pentecostal preaching.” The theatre defense. The idea that sermons are, in fact, dramatic performance art, and we’re all here to be entertained, edified, and emotionally wrung out like a wet rag.
I let it go at the time. Richie was smiling. It wasn’t the moment to unpack it.
But mark my words: the next time we’re sitting in his backyard sweat lodge—pouring water on the coals, slapping each other with eucalyptus branches, inhaling steam like born-again Vikings—I’m gonna say to him:
“Richie—I’ve spent a great deal of money on Broadway. A disturbing amount, actually. And not once—not one blessed time—has anybody screamed at me like James Cagney doing an exorcism.”
And here’s the truth: I’m at the point now where I’m watching stand-up comedians and thinking, “I wish our preachers were as down to earth, as engaging, as expressive, and as fully themselves as these guys.”
Because comedians—at their best—aren’t shouting. They’re not playacting. They’re bleeding. They’re telling you their deepest insecurities and darkest observations in a way that makes the room vibrate with laughter and recognition.
And I can’t help but wonder: when did we decide that vulnerability in preaching wasn’t enough? And more so—why are we frozen in time? Why is Hitler’s Berlin address the method we are convinced “got oil on it?”
Why is screaming for an entire sermon “the Holy Ghost?”
Look I know some of this is cultural, I’ll just admit it: I’m a white Canadian. So I’m not coming at cultural issues here. But I’ve seen Black and Hispanic preachers that don’t shout 100%. And there’s a difference between shouting and projecting your voice.
My buddy Alex Sagot is a perfect example. Projects his voice with enthusiasm (lol) but then has moments where he is shouting. I love those bits. He rides the fader.
Dipping my irreverent toes again into the historic complaint, consider that the Apostolic’s that you see sweatin’, two-stepping, and dressed like Old Order Amish are your Pentecostal ancestors. They haven’t changed haircuts since Azusa, nevermind how baseball radio announcers delivered a ballgame. That’s literally how American Pentecostals still preach.
Dude I don’t care—you do you. I have some friends that are brilliant communicators with a touch of that old sauce. They do it well.
What I’m most interested in is speaking the common parlance of the audience we have. And I think comedians are the new rockstars, the new peak communicators who excel when they find their own voice. Every pastor should study these guys.
Here are five things comedians do that Pentecostals should consider incorporating into their homiletic approaches:
