Why I Don’t Trust Pastors Who Never Swear

There are moments in church that never leave you.

I once heard the late, great preacher Tony Campolo speak at a youth conference I attended as a teenager. It was one of those big Christian events — lights, loud music, hyped-up energy, and a carefully curated lineup of safe, inspiring speakers.

At one point, they got Tony up to do a plug for child sponsorship through World Vision. He walked on stage holding one of those little laminated cards with the photo of a kid — big eyes, thin arms, living in a place most of us couldn’t find on a map. The room quieted. People expected a gentle plea, a few touching stats, and a call to “prayerfully consider” donating.

But Tony just stood there. Quiet for a beat. And then said into the mic: “I think the fact that there are starving children in the world is really shit.”

Silence. One thousand evangelical sphincters clenched at once.

He let it hang there.

Then he leaned in and dropped the hammer: “And you know what I think is more shit? The fact that there are people here more upset that I just said the word ‘shit’ than they are about the fact that there are starving children in the world.”

The room didn’t know whether to gasp, laugh, or start repenting. The problem was that Tony Campolo was absolutely right.

Unfazed by the tension in the room, he held up the sponsorship card and delivered the final blow: “Sponsor one of these kids. Or you’re gonna go to hell.”

And he walked off.

No altar call. No soft piano. No tidy ending. Just the raw, offensive truth.

And honestly?

That moment has never left me. Because Campolo’s point wasn’t about swearing — it was about how deeply warped our spiritual priorities can get. And I’ve never fully trusted pastors who can’t stomach a little mess in their message ever since.

The Cult of Clean Speech

I grew up in a world where “bad words” were treated like spiritual landmines. You could gossip, shame people, ignore the poor, and subtly manipulate others — just don’t say shit, or you were clearly “not walking with the Lord.”

The verse I heard quoted most was Ephesians 4:29: “Let no unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up…”
And I get it. Words matter. I’m not here to glamorize foul language or pretend that weaponized speech doesn’t hurt. Some words tear down, and some words leave scars.

But let’s be honest — in a lot of Christian spaces, this verse didn’t form a call to integrity. It became a call to niceness. And niceness can be lethal.

Because while we were policing language, we were ignoring lives.

People would quote James 3 about blessing and cursing coming from the same mouth. But they rarely talked about the blessing part. They didn’t bless the single mum. They didn’t bless the kid in the youth group who got outed. They didn’t bless the doubter or the burnt-out leader or the person who couldn’t tithe because they were behind on rent. But if someone accidentally let an F-bomb slip? Suddenly, there was a prayer chain.

I’ve come to believe that sanitised Christianity is far more dangerous than swearing because it teaches people to perform righteousness instead of pursuing justice.

Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann once wrote that the role of the prophet was not to be polite, but to pierce the numbness. Prophets didn’t say things nicely — they said things truthfully. Loudly. Offensively, even.

Tony Campolo was a prophet.

Becoming All Things to All People

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 9 have stayed with me for years. He said, “I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.”

It’s a radical kind of empathy. A deep willingness to meet people where they are, not where we wish they were. And lately, I’ve been wondering: What if “all possible means” sometimes includes raw language? What if the language of love includes an occasional F-Bomb?

I’m not talking about swearing for shock value. I’m not talking about being edgy just to prove a point. I’m talking about those moments when pain is so deep, or injustice so outrageous, that the only honest words are the ones we were taught not to say in church.

Like when a friend tells you their child has just been diagnosed, or when someone finally opens up about the abuse they’ve carried for decades, or when a man looks at the wreckage of his marriage and whispers, “I think I’ve ruined everything.”

Or when your wife gets cancer.

In those moments, polished language feels hollow. The clichés don’t land. And sometimes, the only way to honour the weight of what’s been said is to speak in the language of real life.

Not everyone needs that, but some people do.

And if I cling to a version of faith that’s so sanitized, so scrubbed clean, that it can’t bear to speak plainly, then maybe I’m not reaching them. Maybe I’m just protecting myself.

To become “all things to all people” means I don’t insist on my preferred vocabulary. It means I learn to speak in the dialect of pain, of urgency, of truth. And sometimes, yes — it might include a word that would make my childhood Sunday school teacher clutch her pearls.

But that word might also be the first moment someone believes I’m not just giving them a performance. That I actually see them. That I’m not afraid of their pain—or my own. This isn’t about being crude. It’s about being available and putting connection ahead of comfort, love ahead of language.

Because what if the one thing that breaks through someone’s numbness… is one honest, unsanitized sentence that says, “You’re right. This is completely f**ed. And I’m here for you!”

Speak So People Know You Mean It

Look — I’m not out here handing out permission slips for profanity. That’s not the point.

This isn’t a defence of crude language for its own sake. It’s a defence for speaking in a way that actually lands with people who are hurting, doubting, or just done with anything that feels fake.

If our faith can’t make room for plain speech, it probably won’t make room for real people either.

What I’m saying is: speak in a way that meets people where they are. If you’re with someone who’s just lost their job, their partner, their health — they don’t need polished theology. They need a voice that matches the gravity of their pain. They need someone who isn’t afraid to sit in the dark with them, without rushing toward a tidy resolution.

You don’t have to swear. But you do have to care more about connection than presentation. You have to be willing to drop the churchy script and say what’s actually true.

So here’s the takeaway: Say what needs to be said. Say it with love. Say it like it matters. Say it in a way that someone might finally believe you mean it. If necessary, say it with a swear word.

That’s not profanity.

That’s integrity.

The First Time I Felt It

“Alright gentlemen, let’s cut the bullshit.”

The first time I sat in a men’s circle, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d been around churches my whole life — small groups, Bible studies, accountability groups — but this was different. No Bibles on laps. No folding chairs in a church hall. Just a fire, some dirt, a group of men, and a facilitator who sat down, looked around, and opened with five words I’ve never forgotten:

“Alright gentlemen, let’s cut the bullshit.”

And just like that, the air shifted. Not because of the language — but because of the permission it carried. Permission to be honest. Permission to leave your polished answers at the door. Permission to speak in a language that didn’t filter pain into clichés or force your story into a moral.

It was one of the first times I felt something I’d rarely felt in church: I don’t have to perform here.

That moment taught me something sacred: language has the power to lower walls. Not by being crude, but by being real. By meeting people where they actually are. And sometimes, what breaks through isn’t a perfectly worded prayer — it’s a rough-edged sentence that cuts straight to the truth.

So no, I don’t trust pastors who never swear because when we’re too afraid to speak plainly, we risk not speaking at all.

And if we can’t speak honestly, we can’t love honestly either.

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This post was previously published on Backyard Church.

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