Permit me to reflect, in the briefest of moments, on the recent kerfuffle surrounding this Episcopalian preacher, Mariann Budde, who, by her own calculations, has adjudged her thirty-seconds of fame worth the price of both decorum and propriety. The stage, or rather the pulpit, on which she chose to perform her soliloquy was one of those inescapable, self-congratulatory “interfaith” services that have become, in this increasingly secular age, a predictable exercise in tedium — less a worship of God, and more an obligatory bow to the spirit of the time, and an opportunity to elevate one’s self by engaging in political posturing disguised as spiritual counsel.
And so it was that President Trump found himself a captive audience at this particular event, when Ms. Budde decided to make the moment not about bringing people to Christ, but about calling attention to herself by accusing the president of the usual litany of defamations from the left: he’s terrorizing immigrants, and gays, and refugees who aren’t even here yet, and causing them to “fear for their lives” and whatever else. Good grief. At least be original.
Let us dispense with pleasantries and address the matter directly. The function of a church is not, has never been, and should never become, a venue for self-promotion. The moment a clergyperson — let us use the term loosely here — uses their pulpit to curry favor with the zeitgeist or to cultivate applause at the expense of those in attendance, that pulpit ceases to serve its higher calling. It becomes instead a soapbox, unbecoming of both its purpose and its pretense.
One does not need to be a theologian to see the crux of the matter: when a church service becomes less about God and more about its officiant’s sense of self-importance, it ceases to be a church service at all. It becomes a spectacle — shallow, transient, and unworthy of the sacred space it occupies.
It is here that we must part company with those who cheer such displays as bravery, or worse, as prophetic witness. For prophecy, rightly understood, does not manifest itself in the clever barbs of a sermon-turned-soundbite but in the quiet and uncompromising declaration of eternal truths. What we witnessed in this episode was not a defense of righteousness but an exhibition of self-righteousness, garbed in the language of moral superiority, and aimed squarely at securing the applause of the gallery.
One is reminded, in such moments, of the timeless warning against the Pharisees, who prayed ostentatiously on street corners to be seen by men. Their reward, Scripture tells us, was the fleeting applause of their fellow mortals—but nothing more.
Let us dispense with the sophistry that Ms. Budde’s actions constituted some higher moral duty. The role of a pastor is not to grandstand for applause but to shepherd a congregation toward divine truth. That responsibility is undermined the moment the preacher’s words begin to reflect her own ego and political lies, rather than the Word of God and His truth.
The temptation to pander to the political whims of the moment, to trade reverence for relevance, to achieve celebrity and congratulations, is a potent lure. Yet, for those of us still inclined toward the belief that worship ought to exalt the divine rather than the self, this episode serves as a cautionary tale.
In the end, the measure of any preacher, indeed of any church, is its fidelity to its sacred mission. The moment that fidelity is compromised for the sake of self-aggrandizement, the church ceases to be about God and becomes little more than a platform for human vanity.
Those who celebrate this episode will doubtless accuse me of cynicism or partisanship, as if the truth of a principle depends on its political utility. But let us leave aside such trifling charges and focus instead on the enduring lesson of this affair: when the pulpit becomes a podium, it is not the politician or the president who is diminished, but the pulpit itself.
Beware of those who use the language of faith to advance their personal and political brand. Their kingdom is not of heaven but of this earth, and, as such, is destined for dust.