7 Steps to Make Christians Believe ‘Absolutely Anything’

My Dear Skivvy,

I have long been impressed by the remarkable digestive capacity of the average Christian mind. It can swallow ideas of the most extraordinary shape and texture with almost no chewing whatsoever. Present the thing with sufficient solemnity, garnish it with a respectable number of Bible verses, and down it goes like a spoonful of custard.

The mechanics of the operation are really quite simple. All one needs is a small stack of verses, preferably detached from their natural habitat, arranged in a pleasing order like flowers in a vase. Deliver them slowly, with the tone of a man who has just returned from a long walk with the apostle Paul, and you may then proceed to guide an entire room of believers toward whatever theological destination you have in mind.

And they will come along most obligingly.

With the right tone of voice and a suitably pious expression, you could steer a barge-load of Christians straight downriver and over Niagara Falls, and a good half of them would still be nodding appreciatively, less impressed by the depth of the gorge rushing up beneath them than by the apparent depth of your insight.

All one needs is a preacher willing to unwittingly (or otherwise) comply with us, and we can lead him through the following steps.

The first rule in convincing Christians of absolutely anything is wonderfully simple — never begin with the truth if the truth is likely to cost them something.

Truth has a rough grain to it. It catches in the throat. It does not always go down neatly. It demands repentance, humility, submission, courage, patience, self-denial, and other such unpopular vegetables. Falsehood, by contrast, can be buttered. It can be sweetened. It can be trimmed and seasoned until it slips into the soul.

Of course, the skilled persuader is far too intelligent to suggest that these virtues are entirely unnecessary. That would be amateur work. The real art lies in convincing people that they are already practising them quite admirably. In this way, the virtues remain safely intact like a treadmill one primarily uses to hang clothes.

This is why the successful religious charlatan does not usually begin by denying Christianity outright. That would be far too crude, rather like attempting to sell a cow by insisting it is medium rare. No, the skilled deceiver begins by affirming nearly everything the audience already wants to hear. He says that God loves them, which is true enough as far as it goes, but then omits all the inconvenient ways in which that love rearranges a man’s life. He is far too seasoned to avoid the dangerous doctrines altogether. Repentance, holiness, obedience, and death to self all make cameo appearances, like minor characters in a film about someone else’s success. They wave politely, receive a round of theological applause, and exit before anyone realises they were meant to be central to the plot. Meanwhile the sermon proceeds confidently toward blessing, influence, and breakthrough.

Having ensured that the truth will not be permitted to cause undue discomfort, the next step is to create an atmosphere in which “thinking” begins to feel slightly impolite. This is achieved not through argument, which can be messy, but through “feeling”, which is wonderfully cooperative. Feelings, unlike doctrines, do not need footnotes. They do not require context. They simply bloom in the room like scented candles, and before long everyone is breathing more deeply and asking fewer questions.

The experienced persuader therefore learns to construct moments. There will be pauses. There will be softer tones. There may even be a story about a difficult season, preferably involving an airport, a late night, and a surprising word from the Lord delivered somewhere near Gate 6B. By the time the narrative concludes, the audience is no longer considering whether the teaching is sound. They are considering whether they themselves have ever felt quite so moved. Once a belief has been warmly experienced, it becomes rather awkward to examine it too closely. Anyone who attempts to find doctrinal clarity while the keyboardist is ascending, note by note, toward a moment of unmistakable spiritual importance, will find himself regarded in much the same way as a man who brought a tax audit to a picnic.

And so the congregation leaves not necessarily persuaded, but deeply reassured that persuasion has occurred. The experience lingers like a pleasant fragrance. The doctrine, whatever it was, travels home unnoticed in the glove compartment.

At this point it would be unwise to proceed without a proper appreciation of the material at hand. Persuasion, like tailoring, depends greatly on measurements. One must know where the seams lie, which buttons are purely decorative, and which topics are liable to cause the entire garment to split at the back halfway through singing “Way Maker”.

Churches, like all respectable tribes, have their preferences. They enjoy being encouraged, and not examined beyond a point. They are fond of depth, provided it can be expressed in phrases suitable for their spoilt children. The competent persuader therefore conducts a quiet reconnaissance. He observes which verses produce nodding. He notes which themes generate sighs. He learns the precise volume at which the word revival must be spoken in order to produce a visible stirring. In time he develops the instincts of a seasoned waiter who can tell, at a glance, whether the table requires steak, salad, or a push for the dessert.

This knowledge proves invaluable. The message must be adjusted to the appetite. Where there is a hunger for destiny, one serves destiny. Where there is a thirst for affirmation, one pours generously. And season in the odd call to holiness and seriousness to give the appearance of some anchoring on Scripture.

It is also helpful to remember that congregations, like orchestras, respond best to familiar cues. Understand not only what people believe, but what they would very much like to believe. Once this has been established, the rest is largely a matter of presentation.

Having secured the goodwill of the audience and arranged their emotions into a cooperative formation, the next danger to be addressed is the Bible itself. Left unattended, Scripture has an unfortunate tendency to mean what it says. This can prove deeply inconvenient. The solution, naturally, is not to avoid the text altogether. That would look suspicious. Instead, one must approach the Bible like a man packing for a short holiday, taking only the essentials, leaving behind anything heavy, complicated, or things most likely to raise questions at customs.

Context, in particular, must be treated with caution. Context asks questions. Context introduces qualifications. Context brings relatives to the party who were not on the original guest list. A perfectly serviceable verse about blessing may suddenly find itself surrounded by remarks about obedience, suffering, endurance, or the alarming possibility of being misunderstood (or understood). Such developments are rarely good for morale. The experienced persuader therefore learns to extract verses the way one might harvest flowers for a bouquet. A sentence here, a phrase there, trimmed neatly at both ends, and before long one has assembled a doctrinal arrangement of considerable beauty. No one enquires too closely where the stems came from. The fragrance is quite sufficient.

Should an earnest individual attempt to restore the missing context, he must be handled gently. This is not the moment for confrontation. One simply thanks him for his passion for Scripture and moves swiftly along before the rest of the congregation realises that the passage had a beginning, a middle, and, most regrettably, an end. In this way the Bible remains present, respected, and safely contained, rather like a large and dignified uncle who is invited to family gatherings but never allowed near the beer.

Once doctrine has been softened, context respectfully sidelined, and the audience properly understood, the next task is to provide something memorable, preferably something that cannot be verified afterwards. Ideas fade but experiences linger like the smell of an expensive perfume.

The accomplished persuader therefore must learn to curate moments. Lighting may be adjusted. Voices lowered. Instructions given that involve closing one’s eyes, lifting one’s hands, or turning gently to the person on one’s left and affirming their destiny. A well-placed anecdote about a dramatic breakthrough in a distant town may also prove helpful. By the time the room begins to hum with collective anticipation, it becomes entirely possible to produce what appears to be a significant spiritual event using nothing more than repetition, suggestion, and a ‘worship leader’ with good instincts.

This is theatre of a higher order. For once people have felt that something has happened, they become remarkably resistant to the idea that nothing in particular may have occurred. Memory, after all, is a loyal employee. It will happily embellish the story in the weeks that follow. What began as a mild stirring becomes, with time, a life-altering encounter that no one can quite describe without using the phrase “you just had to be there.” Thus the persuader acquires a powerful ally, nostalgia. Few things are more intoxicating to the Christian mind than the memory of a powerful experience.

Naturally, no manufactured experience can reach its full potential without proper musical support. Songs, when selected with care, possess an extraordinary ability to remain shallow while feeling deep. Properly deployed, a chorus can give everyone the agreeable impression of having waded into theological waters while never getting above the ankles.

The trick is not to choose songs that clarify truth. That would be unnecessarily demanding. One must instead select those that amplify atmosphere, extend emotion, and repeat key phrases with the cheerful persistence of a doorbell. A well-timed chorus can achieve what three sermons could not. Doctrinal uncertainty melts. Intellectual resistance loosens its collar. Entire congregations may be guided toward profound agreement simply by the strategic introduction of a bridge section that invites everyone to sing the same line fourteen times while swaying gently.

Tempo is also important. A lively number early on helps establish momentum. A slower, more reflective piece later allows feelings to mature like a simmering cup of coffee. And should conviction threaten to appear, one may always return to a triumphant refrain about breakthrough, victory, or stepping into one’s season, thereby restoring morale with admirable efficiency.

In such conditions, persuasion becomes less a matter of argument and more a matter of acoustics. People leave humming. The tune stays. The teaching, whatever it was, follows discreetly behind like a well-behaved pet.

At some stage, persuasion requires a flourish. Emotion will carry you far. Context may be tactfully subdued. Experiences can be arranged for maximum comfort. But for the final touch, the ecclesiastical equivalent of releasing doves, dimming the lights, and producing a theological rabbit from an unsuspecting hat, one must learn the strategic use of smoke.

Greek, of course, remains a trusted favourite. Nothing settles a room quite like the sudden rearrangement of the alphabet. The moment a speaker leans forward and observes, “In the Greek, this word actually means…,” pens rise instinctively, brows knit in respectful concentration, and a thin mist of scholarly inevitability begins to drift across the proceedings. Accuracy is desirable but not essential. Confidence will do.

But Greek is only the beginning. The truly accomplished persuader understands the importance of atmosphere in every sense. He appears deeply pious when among the pious, slower speech, softer eyes, the occasional upward glance as though checking in on the congregation most endearingly. Among the energetic, he is brisk and visionary. Among the cool, he becomes disarmingly casual, sprinkling insight between jokes like parsley on some mashed potato. He is, in short, all things to all people, though not always for the reasons that darned Apostle intended.

This versatility creates the agreeable impression that God’s hand is uniquely upon him. Doors seem to open. Invitations multiply. Stories circulate of remarkable favour in distant places. One hears of conferences, breakthroughs, and surprising moments in hotel lobbies where something unmistakably spiritual is said to have occurred. The details remain delightfully vague. The conclusion, however, is firm, this man must be onto something.

References to ancient manuscripts, church fathers, or a seminary professor who once nodded thoughtfully during a buffet may also be deployed to thicken the air. These elements function much like theatrical smoke, obscuring the stage just enough to make the performance appear grander than the set actually allows.

In this way theology acquires the agreeable glamour of stage magic, and the audience, having applauded the trick, rarely enquires where the smoke machine was plugged in.

And there you have it, my dear Skivvy, a perfectly serviceable guide for leading vast numbers of well-meaning Christians into agreeable confusion without so much as raising your voice.

Follow these steps with confidence, and you will find that persuasion is far less about truth than it is about timing, atmosphere, and the careful management of expectations. With a little practice, you will be able to produce the kind of conviction without clarity that is quite sufficient for most ecclesiastical purposes.

You will also find it helpful to remember that sincerity is an excellent disguise. One need not always intend to mislead in order to do so effectively. A man who believes he is helping people feel better about God can accomplish remarkable things, particularly if he has a microphone.

Still, there are risks. Occasionally, very occasionally, someone will insist on opening the Bible in context. Someone may ask an inconvenient question. Someone may even suggest that truth, though rather less fashionable, has a stubborn way of surviving our attempts to improve it. In such moments, composure is essential. Smile warmly. Change the subject. Introduce a song.

And yet, between ourselves, it must be admitted that truth also has an irritating tendency to outlast every performance. Long after the lights are dimmed, the smoke has cleared, and the choruses have faded into memory, it remains standing quietly in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged.

But that, my dear Skivvy, is a concern for another day.

For now, do carry on. There are audiences to reassure, experiences to curate, and entire congregations who would much prefer inspiration to examination.

Yours in the noble art of agreeable persuasion,
Your Affectionate Co-Conspirator
W. Smoothface