‘Instruct, delight, and move’
Yesterday, I posted my comments on the Bishop of Washington’s sermon at the National Cathedral. I did so with great trepidation, more as a reflection than a critique. I felt I ought to since a great deal of my theological research and writing has been on the Church and rhetoric. If there’s is one thread running through my writing, it’s a plea for the Church to become more mindful of its vocation as a rhetorical community— shaped by the truths it utters and the manner in which it proclaims them.
Given the constraints of X and Facebook, I thought it might be good to flesh out my thoughts a little more. But, again, I’ll preface it by saying three things:
Before forming an opinion, please watch her entire sermon. Don’t allow the media’s frenzied focus on her final words determine how you view whole message.
Even if you disagree with her, Bishop Budde’s courage in speaking words she knew would provoke not only the President but also his allies, deserves respect. It’s part of a bishop’s job description to appeal or stand up to political leaders, though I suspect they’re less bothered by today’s successors of Athanasius, Ambrose, or Thomas Becket.
I make no comment on her actual views or positions. Where I praise her, it’s not necessarily because I agree with her; and where I critique her, it’s not necessarily because I think her wrong. That’s not the purpose of this essay.
Rather, I believe her sermon invites a broader meditation on what the Church must become in this age of division and acrimony. Ours is a time when rancour feeds rancour, and where the temptation is strong to speak primarily to those who already agree with us. Thanks to social media, the braying crowd forever surrounds us. The Church must resist its pull. Instead, it must try to be a community that reveals an alternative truth—a truth not forged in the fires of public argument but in the quiet, persistent work of turning hearts and minds toward the good.
An instant in Augustine’s early ministry bears some comparison. A brash young convert, perhaps overly impressed with his own rhetorical skills, Augustine offered to debate a Donatist publicly ‘in a useful and salutary manner.’ But whatever his lofty aims, Augustine quickly discovered that the crowds hadn’t attended to discover ‘wisdom and piety.’ Instead they came ‘for the spectacle of [a] quarrel, as it were, in the manner of the theatre…’ Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Later in his career, Augustine drew upon Cicero to describe the preacher’s task: they ‘should speak in such a way as to instruct, delight, and move their listeners’ (CT 4.12.27). To preach is to seek to persuade your listeners to some truth or action. In order to do that, you must grab and hold their attention, and then move them so that they find the truth pleasing. A little earlier, he writes,
Eloquent speakers give pleasure, wise ones salvation…We often have to take bitter have to take bitter medicines, and we must always avoid sweet things that are dangerous: but what better than sweet things that give health, or medicines that are sweet? The more we are attracted by sweetness, the easier it is for medicine to do its healing work. So there are people of the church who have interpreted God’s eloquent utterances not only with wisdom but also with eloquence (CT 4.5.8).
Preaching, then, is not merely to proclaim truth but to persuade—through the wise and careful use of words. To do this, one must first capture the listeners’ attention, then move their hearts so they find the truth not only understandable but desirable. Eloquence in the service of wisdom is a medicine made sweet, a balm that heals because it’s received with gladness.
Viewed through this lens, I found the first part of +Budde’s sermon more powerful than the clip that’s being shared. Her final appeal to mercy was unlikely to persuade Trump or anyone not already sympathetic and so were arguably words wasted. The subsequent responses tell the tale—embraced by progressives, rejected by conservatives, and unable to stir change where change was needed.
Yet in the remainder of her sermon, there was a vision that could soften even hardened hearts. She spoke with clarity, calmness, and a certain vulnerability, inviting listeners to envision a better way, a way rooted in the love of God and neighbor. This was no mere argument; it was an invitation to imagine the world anew. If the President could not hear it, others surely did, and they may have felt the tug of truth pulling them toward something greater.
Moreover, it appealed to our imaginations and aspirations. It was an effective appeal to our highest selves, to our shared longing for goodness. Like Martin Luther King, they dared us to dream, and insofar as that dream was rooted in love of God and neighbour, it was an articulation of the Kingdom. It was a way of making people become more receptive to truths they might otherwise find bitter.
I urge preachers, and all who bear the Church’s message, to aim for something a similar lofty goal.If we limit our witness to staking claims on one side of the world’s dividing lines, we allow the world to dictate the terms of our proclamation. In doing so, we risk eloquence without wisdom and fail to speak the truths that might open ears and hearts. Our task is not to shout more loudly but to speak more deeply, seeking the hearts of all, friend and foe alike.
This is the challenge of Gospel-telling: to invite others into the story anew, not as a posture of argument but as an offering of grace. This telling must challenge us as much as it challenges others, reshaping how we see the world, our neighbours, and ourselves. It is a task beyond human strength alone. We need the Spirit’s guidance, the true eloquence of God, to place on our lips a sermon worthy of the Gospel we’ve been called to proclaim.
