Nine Marks of a Healthy Paragraph: Practical Suggestions for Improving a Pastor’s Writing
June 3, 2026
June 3, 2026
Abstract: Matt Smethurst offers nine practical suggestions to help pastors improve their writing. While not all pastors aspire to be published authors, all pastors should seek to communicate clearly and compellingly, including in their writing. God has chosen to use the written word to communicate truth in ways that are powerful and beautiful.
Pastor, you may have no intention of ever publishing a book or an article, and that’s fine. But you’re already a writer.
You write sermons, emails, Sunday school lessons, elder updates, notes of encouragement, and maybe the occasional devotional or article for your church. (Did I mention emails?) Some of your writing is public. Most of it is ordinary and unseen. But all of it uses words to serve people. And each of us can grow in that.
So let me offer nine marks of a healthy paragraph—shorthand for words people will want to read. Writing is an art form, which means taste and judgment are involved. So these are not laws. They’re simply lessons I’ve picked up through editing, practice, and making plenty of mistakes along the way.
I’m aiming especially at pastoral writing—not literary fiction, academic prose, or the generic thing we often call “content.” In other words, the kind of writing that’s targeted at serving people’s souls.
If people don’t know what you’re saying, it doesn’t matter how stylishly you say it. Cleverness can be a gift, and a memorable phrase can help something stick. Just think of famous written phrases like “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose,”11 .This saying is taken from the writings of Jim Elliott, a missionary who was martyred while attempting to reach the Auca Indians with the gospel in the jungles of Ecuador in the early days of 1956. or “God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in him.”22 .This saying from John Piper figures prominently in his preaching and writing, including especially his book Desiring God: Meditations of a Christian Hedonist (Crossway, 2025). But cleverness can also take over and overwhelm clarity. This happens when you use a phrase because it sounds good, even if it sends the paragraph sideways.
Before you write, simply ask, What am I trying to say? If you can’t answer that clearly, then your reader certainly won’t be able to either. As pastors, we often write from an overflow of concern. We see the angles. We anticipate objections. And feeling the need to say everything, we can fail to say something—or at least fail to say it well.
One of the easiest ways to improve a paragraph is to ask, How can I make this more concrete? Pastors can drift into religious language that’s accurate but abstract. We write about “faithfulness in the Christian life” or “gospel-centered community” or “a culture of this or that.” Those phrases are fine—but just know they hover above the ground. Try naming the actual thing. “A tired mom opening her Bible before the kids wake up.” “A member choosing not to repeat what he heard.” “An older saint writing a note to a discouraged college student.” Concrete words are your friends. They give the reader something to see.
This is why examples are crucial. If you write, “The redeemed people of God should encourage one another,” that’s true. But if you write, “So walk across the room after church. Send the text. Write the note. Tell the weary saint, ‘I see God’s grace in you,’”—now people are visualizing obedience.
Often the best way to make a sentence stronger is to make the action clearer.
If you write, “There is a need for Christians to have a greater awareness of the importance of prayer,” that sentence is true—and stilted. Just try: “Christians need to pray.” Maybe that’s too blunt for your final version, but at least it’s crystal clear.
Much clutter hides inside phrases like “there is,” “there are,” “it is important,” “we need to be aware,” “in light of the fact that,” and so on. These phrases aren’t always wrong, but they often signal too much scaffolding. Find the actor. Find the action. Put them near each other. “Christ comforts sinners.” “Members bear burdens.” “Shepherds know their sheep.” Or as Jamie Dunlop has written, “Elders lead ministry. Deacons facilitate ministry. The congregation does ministry.”33 .Jamie Dunlop, “Deacons: Shock-Absorbers and Servants,” 9Marks, March 31, 2010, https://www.9marks.org/article/deacons-shock-absorbers-and-servants/.
Perhaps you worry that active verbs will make your writing feel simplistic. In truth, they’ll simply help it move. And that matters in pastoral writing because we’re often dealing with weighty truths that need clean sentences, not inflated ones.
Once you know what you’re trying to say, you still must decide how to arrange it. This is where a lot of pastoral writing gets messy. We care about the topic. We see every side road. We keep finding one more illustration, one more quote, one more paragraph to squeeze in. Soon the piece has more furniture than the room can hold.
Outline what you’re writing, even if it’s loose. What comes first? What must be explained before the next thing will make sense? What belongs here, and what belongs somewhere else—some other paragraph, some other piece, or maybe just between you and the Lord?
A good paragraph should have one job. If you’re trying to explain the problem, answer an objection, give an illustration, and land the plane, it probably needs to be broken up.
So much writing takes too long to start. You can almost feel the writer warming up on the page. “In our day and age, there are many important issues that Christians need to think through carefully.” Okay, sure, but that sentence could introduce almost anything.
Consider starting closer to the pressure point. Instead of, “The reality of the matter is that it’s easy for many Christians to struggle with prayer,” maybe write, “Most Christians feel guilty about prayer.” Instead of, “Conflict is, without doubt, one of the most difficult realities that local churches face in a fallen world,” maybe write, “Some church conflicts begin with sin, but many begin with unclear expectations.”
I’m not saying every opening sentence needs to grab the reader. But it should do something: create interest, establish direction, or put pressure on the question you’re trying to answer. Sometimes your real beginning is buried in paragraph two or three because you had to write your way into the piece.
There is a musicality to good writing. You may have seen an image of Gary Provost’s paragraph about writing, with each sentence color-coded based on length. Even without the colors, his point is worth hearing:
This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety.
Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this; it is important.
So write with a combination of short, medium, and long sentences. Create a sound that pleases the reader’s ear. Don’t just write words. Write music.44 .This illustration is taken from Gary Provost, 100 Ways to Improve Your Writing (Penguin Random House Australia, 1985).
That may be a little overwrought, but the point is: mix it up. One of the best ways to check rhythm is simply to read your writing out loud. Your ear will catch what your eye excuses. You’ll hear the repeated word. You’ll feel the sentence that starts to drag. You’ll notice the phrase that sounds officious and stuffy rather than pastoral and clear.
Here’s a little tip. If you’re going to list two or three or four things—adjectives, for example—try putting the one-syllable word at the end. It helps the sentence land with a little more force. A few sentences ago I said, “You’ll notice the phrase that sounds officious and stuffy rather than pastoral and clear.” I could have switched the last two adjectives and said, “rather than clear and pastoral.” But that kind of fizzles since you’re moving from one syllable to three. Instead of “clear and pastoral,” say “pastoral and clear.” Or rather than writing “Jesus is full of love, compassion, and mercy,” say “Jesus is full of compassion, mercy, and love.” Do you hear the difference? It’s not an ironclad law, but it’s usually a good instinct.
This one matters a lot for pastors. We write on behalf of elder boards, churches, and ministries—and before long, we can start sounding more institutional than pastoral.
Of course, careful language is vital. But careful doesn’t have to mean clinical. Instead of saying, “The elders are prayerfully initiating a process of member care in response to prolonged disengagement,” you might just say, “The elders are trying to care for members we haven’t seen in a while.” Instead of, “Your attendance at our regular gatherings has been inconsistent,” you might say, “We’ve missed you, and I wanted to check in.”
The warmer sentence may not be the final sentence. Sometimes you do need more precision or punch. But start by trying to sound conversational, like a human being.
Give yourself enough time to come back to what you’ve written. Most first drafts are too long. Mine usually are. The magic is in the edit, because it forces you to ask, Did I already make this point? Is this sentence doing anything? Could I say this with fewer words?
When you edit, look for words that aren’t earning their keep. “At this point in time” can become “now.” “Due to the fact that” can become “because.” “In the event that” can become “if.” You can even shorten individual words to enhance flow. Instead of “however,” you can say “though.” Instead of “nevertheless,” you can say “nonetheless” (one syllable shorter!), or even better, “still.”
I’ve felt this most often as an editor. So many articles aren’t wrong; they’re just bloated. They carry one more illustration, quote, qualification, or paragraph the writer couldn’t bear to lose. Honestly, a lot of modern Christian books would be better if they were simply shorter—like, a quarter to a third shorter. (And don’t assume “shorter” means “thinner.” Not the same thing. Less is often more.)
When a piece of writing matters, ask someone to read it. Ask, Is the main point clear? Did anything feel confusing, too sharp, too long? Faithful are the wounds of a friend—especially the one who edits you. Good editing preserves a writer’s voice while saving a writer’s face.
Part of serving readers is learning to sound like yourself. Learn from writers you admire, but don’t become a bargain-basement version of them. If you’re funny, be funny when it fits. If you’re not, don’t force it. As with preaching, some of the worst writing happens when you’re trying to sound like someone else.
Immerse yourself in good writing. I’m not sure I’ve ever known a good writer who wasn’t a voracious reader. Read authors you find compelling. Listen to communicators who hold your attention. Ask, What about this works? Then adapt one or two things in your own way.
And then write. There’s no substitute for reps. Write out your sermons, even if you don’t bring a manuscript into the pulpit. Write Sunday school classes, devotional reflections, journal entries—even articles if you have the opportunity.
Don’t wait until you have something grand to say before you practice saying ordinary things well.
We traffic in words because God has chosen to work through words. From creation to salvation, from his perfect Word to our fallible ones, God loves to turn the lights on through written truth. That’s why we care about words: because we care about souls.
So let’s grow in being those who steward our sentences with care and humility. (And maybe you’re thinking, He should’ve ended with humility and care.)