There is a peculiar kind of tyranny, subtle as a feather’s fall and twice as dangerous, that resides not in proclamations or policies, but in the words we choose, and more tellingly, in those we do not.
You may think tyranny an awfully strong word for mere language, but consider this: I’ve known boardroom battles won not with declarations but with pauses; classrooms silenced not with punishments, but with a raised eyebrow and a particular turn of phrase. I’ve witnessed sermons that never thundered, yet somehow reshaped entire congregations through the warm cadence of inclusion—or, conversely, the frosty omission of certain lives from divine favour.
Words, you see, are the first tools of power most of us learn. Long before any of us are given authority over budgets, legislation, or liturgy, we are given narratives. Stories. And from those stories, we craft who belongs, who matters, who leads, and who must forever listen.
As a schoolboy, I was particularly taken by a teacher who referred to certain students as “capable young men” and others as “well-meaning.” One soon learned that “well-meaning” was a kind of death sentence in the academic hierarchy. It meant: not likely to trouble the university admissions office. It meant: kindly fade into the back row and try not to trip over your own verbs.
What’s astonishing is how quickly we internalised these cues. How language carved pathways in our minds—some ascending like cathedral staircases, others leading quietly to broom closets. And so we see: power often operates most effectively when it disguises itself as politeness, tradition, or simply ‘how things are said.’
In the world of theology, the matter grows even more complex. Divine pronouncements—once spoken—tend to echo through centuries, unchallenged by those who assume the language of the sacred is above critique. But sacred speech, too, is human speech, and therefore carries all the usual fingerprints of context, culture, and power.
I recall, not long ago, hearing a preacher refer to God exclusively in militaristic terms—Lord of Armies, Captain of Hosts, Conqueror of Sin. Stirring stuff, no doubt. But as I sat there in the pew, I wondered quietly whether God might also appreciate a more subtle PR strategy. Perhaps something a touch more nurturing. Perhaps a metaphor involving less artillery.
And therein lies the point: language both reveals and shapes our theology, just as it does our politics and pedagogy. The words we choose become not only reflections of what we believe, but instruments by which those beliefs become enforceable norms.
Now, none of this is to suggest we retreat into anxious silence or semantic hand-wringing. Rather, it is an invitation to wield language as one would a chisel—carefully, precisely, with a sense of both the beauty and the damage it can create.
If I might be permitted a practical suggestion, let it be this: listen closely to the metaphors you live by. When you speak of leadership, do you evoke shepherds or generals? When you describe the divine, do you default to kings and judges, or dare you venture into the terrain of midwives and gardeners?
And when you speak to others—staff, students, colleagues or congregants—are your words fences, or are they bridges? One of my most powerful and fond, memory of my grade four teacher, Ms Richardson of blessed memory, is when she praised my vocabulary in front of the entire class! It was the most empowering experience a ten year old could have and that one act and use of language charted a major trajectory of my life.
In the end, power expressed through language is not merely a question of diction but of direction. Are our words moving others toward freedom or fear, clarity or confusion, flourishing or containment?
We may not always control the grand structures of society, but we do command the sentences we speak. And sometimes, just sometimes, a sentence well-placed may do more than a law hastily passed.
