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The Con and the Conversion, Grace and the Sincerity of the Preacher
In Brief
- Augustine held that a wicked minister confers the very same baptism as a good one, which strips the minister's character of any power to invalidate the gift.
- Devout critics of a salaried ministry, such as Edward M. Bounds, tied the efficacy of preaching to the preacher's heart, turning every exposed fraud into a spiritual catastrophe.
- Revivalists treated revival both as a gift of the Spirit and as a campaign to be planned, an ambivalence their own critics attacked as mere method.
- Moody and Ryle moved the test of conversion from the preacher's sincerity to the convert's conviction of sin and lasting repentance.
Few figures have been as easy to caricature as the preacher who lives by his preaching. When a revivalist turns out to have been a salaried performer, handling emotion the way a merchant handles stock, the instinctive conclusion is that the conversions he produced were as counterfeit as his piety. Protestant writing of the 19th and early 20th centuries is saturated with this suspicion, and it was voiced by freethinkers and devout pastors alike [1, 2]. Yet the suspicion rests on a premise that is far from self-evident: that the worth of a religious act is guaranteed by the inner state of the man who performs it.
Christian tradition held a very different answer, formulated long before any camp-meeting, when Augustine argued against the Donatists that a sacrament administered by an unworthy minister remains the same sacrament [3, 4]. Between these two positions—the objective efficacy of the rite and the subjective guarantee of the heart—runs a fault line that revivalism made acute. Revival preaching staked a great deal on the felt sincerity of the speaker and the felt change in the hearer, and its own practitioners disagreed over whether revival was poured down from heaven or organized by method [5, 6]. What the unmasking of a mercenary preacher refutes, then, is less conversion itself than one particular evangelical wager: that the messenger's heart must vouch for the message.
The hireling suspicion, money and the measure of a minister
The charge of mercenary motive came from two directions that rarely met. L. K. Washburn, a freethinking essayist, presented the pulpit as a comfortable career chosen by young men with a taste for books and an aversion to labor, and insisted that preachers select themselves rather than being chosen by God . The attack is economic and sociological: it treats the ministry as one occupation among others, subject to the same calculus of effort and reward. Its force lies in refusing the clergy any exemption from the ordinary analysis of interests.
Strikingly, the devout conceded much of the premise. James Stalker accepted that the ministry must become a livelihood, and that domestic pressures could turn a minister into what he calls a "hireling" absorbed in his wages [7]. Alexander Maclaren judged that any religious worker who approached the poor with the suspicion of pay about him was weakened by it [8], and a disillusioned preacher quoted in an 1880 periodical described a hired ministry as an evil that made honest preaching almost unbearable [9]. The gap with Washburn lies not in the diagnosis but in the remedy: the believers wanted to purify motive, not to abolish the office.
Edward M. Bounds pushed this logic to its sharpest form. For him, a professional ministry is by nature heartless, because salary and heart compete for the same space, and only what is sown with the heart can yield a harvest for God . The efficacy of preaching is here made directly dependent on the interior condition of the preacher. George MacDonald's novel dramatizes the same conviction through a young man who seeks popularity through the ministry, a profession in which, the novelist observes, everything is mere profession [10]. The wordplay is revealing: the term that names a career also names a declaration of faith, and suspicion of the first contaminates the second.
Not every voice accepted the equation of pay with corruption. Marcus Dods argued that men who give their whole time to the work must be paid, and that the modest stipends of his day made the pulpit an unlikely choice for anyone eager to grow rich [11]. M. E. Billings, whose book catalogs the misdeeds of clergymen, reversed the argument: the contempt of the business world for preachers stemmed partly from the shabby way they were paid, which reduced them to cadging [12]. Yet the same Billings located the deeper scandal elsewhere—in ministers who go on preaching creeds they no longer believe, and whom he expects to be dishonest outside the pulpit as well [13]. Money, in the end, mattered less than the distance between what was professed and what was actually held.
An older answer, the sacrament that does not depend on the minister
Against this growing demand for interior guarantees, Augustine's controversy with the Donatists—centuries older than any debate over salaried pulpits—offers a radically different model. The bishop of Hippo held that, as far as the validity of baptism is concerned, the wickedness of the minister makes no difference: a bad minister confers the very same sacrament as a good one . The argument is not a defense of bad ministers; it is a displacement of trust. What is given belongs to Christ, and remains holy even in sacrilegious hands [14].
Augustine sharpened the point by pushing his opponents' logic to absurdity. If the minister's holiness determined the grace received, those baptized by undetected sinners—cleansed, on that reasoning, directly by God or by an angel—would be better off than those baptized by visibly good men . The conclusion is that hope must rest neither on a corrupt minister nor on a holy one, but on the one who justifies the ungodly . Within this framework, exposing a fraudulent minister changes nothing about the gift he transmitted; it calls only for the correction of the man.
The evangelical current represented in the corpus moved in the opposite direction. A tract signed J. Church declares that unconverted, graceless preachers cannot profit the children of God, and that a preacher must first be inwardly taught by the Spirit before he can serve the Church [15]. The usefulness of preaching becomes a function of the preacher's own experience. The irony is sharpened by an anonymous pamphlet devoted to the "infamous life" of a John Church of St. George's Fields, a preacher who rejected all church government and unsettled every congregation that admitted him [16]. Whether or not the two texts concern the same man, together they expose the bind: a theology that makes the preacher's heart the condition of fruitful preaching leaves the congregation defenseless the moment that heart is exposed.
Some writers sought a middle way that neither abolished the preacher's interiority nor made it a guarantee. An 1861 essay in The Atlantic Monthly asked the earnest preacher to address himself as much as his hearers, rather than posing as a man above the sinners before him [17]. Albert Parker Fitch went further, describing the preacher as an artist, and suggesting that those who found the comparison profane were expressing either spiritual arrogance or a subtle skepticism [18]. The analogy is instructive: no one demands that a painter feel every emotion his canvas arouses. To treat preaching as an art is to admit craft, technique and even performance into the pulpit without conceding that what the art conveys is false.
Means or miracle, the revival as a technique
Revivalism complicated the question further because it was, among other things, a method. The biography of Andrew Jackson Newgent, the evangelist known as Uncle Jack, describes how he planned a revival campaign according to a deliberate strategy: begin where success is easiest, so that a first victory builds the confidence needed for later ones . A writer in The Chautauquan in 1884 urged ministers to make themselves revival preachers, as if the capacity were a skill to be cultivated [19]. In these texts, revival is a work organized by human agency, a means rather than a thunderbolt.
This instrumental view drew sharp criticism from within the movement. A. H. Newton, writing in 1910, insisted that no one can get up a revival, since the Spirit brings it down, and blamed the modern evangelist for imposing stereotyped methods on the church . Byron J. Rees mocked evangelists who, having lost their power, fell back on finger-raising and card-signing to swell their numbers [20]. Bounds, in a 1925 text, lamented that congregations relied on renowned outside evangelists rather than on the holiness of their own pastors [21]. Each of these critiques targets technique, yet none abandons revival itself: all want it to be authentic, and they locate authenticity in a spiritual condition that no method can simulate.
Yet even Newton described revival as governed by great spiritual laws that God's people must obey . The formula betrays an ambivalence at the heart of the movement: revival is the Spirit's gift, but a gift with conditions, which human beings can fulfill or neglect. Isaac Taylor, in his study of religious enthusiasm, added a complementary observation: no single preacher, not even an archangel, could renew a church unless the multitude echoed his words [22]. The effect is displaced from the speaker to the collective, and the preacher becomes a catalyst rather than a source.
The crowd, precisely, was what made revival suspect. W. H. Sparks's description of the camp-meeting at night, with its blazing fire-stands, swaying multitude and hysterical cries, conveys a fascination close to that of spectacle [23]. Norman Macleod voiced a deeper objection: theories of sudden conversion through any man's preaching tended to disparage the church and the family, the ordinary means appointed by God [24]. Macleod thereby rejoined, from another direction, the Augustinian refusal to bind grace to a particular person; what troubled him was not the preacher's possible insincerity but the very idea that conversion should hang on a preacher at all.
Judging the harvest, conversion tested by its fruits
If the source of a conversion could not be verified—neither through the sincerity of the preacher nor through the intensity of the meeting—revivalists turned to its consequences. Dwight Lyman Moody faced the problem candidly, recalling a minister who had received a hundred converts after a revival and could locate barely any of them a few years later [25]. Moody placed the weakness not in the preacher but in the absence of conviction of sin: a conversion professed without it, he warned, would not survive the first breath of opposition [26]. The criterion moves from the pulpit to the hearer, and from the moment of decision to its endurance.
J. C. Ryle, an Anglican voice wary of the excesses of revival, pressed the argument further: instantaneous conversion should be preached, but not as the only kind, and hearers should be told to repent as well as to believe [27]. G. H. Gerberding, writing for the Lutheran tradition, held that those who hate sin and cling to Christ are in a state of conversion whether or not they can name the time and place it happened [28]. These positions loosen the bond between conversion and the dramatic event—and with it, the bond between conversion and the man who staged that event.
The novelist William Hale White, through his narrator Mark Rutherford, offered a cooler account of what the Puritan sects meant by conversion: a supposed miracle of the Spirit whose essence lay in a change of emotions and a heightened vividness of belief, with moral improvement as a secondary consequence [29]. Written from the margins of that faith, the description explains why the preacher's sincerity became so crucial. If conversion is above all an emotional event, then the emotional honesty of whoever provokes it becomes the only available guarantee; once that guarantee is shown to be manufactured, the event seems to dissolve with it.
Billings, for his part, identified a danger that runs opposite to hypocrisy: the preacher so certain of his good motives that he no longer examines his methods, and will take crooked ways if they seem to save souls faster [30]. Sincerity, on this account, offers no protection; it can even license deceit. The observation undermines the evangelical equation from within. A sincere preacher can deceive, an insincere one can transmit what he does not hold, and the only test that survives both cases is the one Moody and Ryle proposed: the conviction and lasting repentance of the convert .
The scandal of the paid revivalist is therefore not a timeless constant but the product of a particular theological wager. Where grace was thought to pass through rites whose holiness belonged to Christ, as in Augustine's case against the Donatists, the vice of the minister was a moral fault but not a spiritual catastrophe . Where the efficacy of preaching was tied to the preacher's heart, as in Bounds or in the tract signed J. Church, every exposure of mercenary motive threatened to annul, after the fact, the conversions it had produced . The revivalists themselves oscillated between these poles, planning campaigns like strategists while affirming that the Spirit alone sends revival .
What remains open is whether a religion of experience can ever dispense with a guarantor of experience. Moody's and Ryle's turn toward conviction and repentance suggests one way out, shifting the burden of proof from the speaker to the hearer ; Fitch's comparison of preaching to art suggests another, accepting that craft and conviction need not coincide . Both imply that a conversion might be real even if its occasion was staged, and that the scandal of the impostor in the pulpit reveals more about what the faithful demanded of the preacher than about what grace was ever supposed to require of him.
