The Truth About Church Work for Professional Classical Singers
Why so many classical singers are exhausted, exploited, and spiritually overdrawn for mostly never enough income to begin with.
The Unpaid Amen
Brace yourself.
As a classical baritone, nearly every year I have a reason to sing that “the people that walked in darkness have seen a great light.”
Now, I’m choosing to be that light—for my fellow singers who may feel like they’re relegated to a career of singing in darkness.
But let’s be honest: You don’t have to be a singer to know what it feels like to be over-relied on and under-recognized.
I’ve coached artists, executives, and business owners alike—and the same pattern shows up everywhere:
The top performer who’s never paid what they’re worth.
The business owner quietly leading with resentment.
The gifted professional who keeps discounting their brilliance just to be liked.
Different titles. Same system.
What I haven’t always shared is that I’ve been on a bit of a break from all professional singing—church work included.
Not because I lost my voice—long and short Covids aside—and not because the music stopped meaning something.
But because over time, the math—emotional, structural, and financial—stopped adding up.
Even the most meaningful moments were being asked to run on fumes. And I realized I was pouring sacred energy into systems that didn’t know how to sustain it—let alone replenish it.
This piece isn’t coming from burnout. It’s coming from clarity.
And from a desire to finally say what too many of us have been swallowing for too long.
Let me begin by affirming a truth we all need to remember as we embark upon our singing career dreams—or any career that asks for more than it gives:
There’s no guarantee of reciprocity for free and underpaid labor.
I’ve lived and worked long enough to know that’s true—and I can take solace in knowing I have nothing to lose from the very people in positions of power this post might trigger the most.
Because here’s what I’ve learned:
When brilliant people get structurally undervalued and emotionally overleveraged in high-expectation, low-integrity environments, they don’t just burn out.
They start to believe that being exhausted is part of their identity.
And they start calling survival a calling.
The reality of trying to be a professional classical singer.
Most singing gigs don’t pay anywhere near enough to live on. Period. Full stop.
You’ll need other income sources.
That’s not rare—it’s the norm.
And that’s how underpaid church work becomes a trap.
It gives just enough affirmation to feel like your career is “on track.” Just enough ritual to feel like you're still doing the thing you trained for. Just enough weekly applause and admiration to quiet the voice that keeps asking whether any of it is actually sustainable for the long term.
But for far too many, it’s often not. Not financially. Not vocationally. Not emotionally. And over time—not vocally, either.
Because it conditions you to keep showing up—week after week, year after year—for a role that doesn’t grow with you, doesn’t pay you more as you evolve, and doesn’t acknowledge the depth of your experience.
Eventually, it becomes less of a calling and more of a treadmill.
One that prioritizes conformity over growth and silence over self-worth.
Now let me be clear: I’ve had a few church jobs that were like literal gifts from God in terms of the pay and the opportunities they created. There were a few places where I was genuinely loved, appreciated, and seen; and that appreciation was backed up by actual money. And if you’re reading this, you know who you are—I love you, and I’m eternally grateful for how you’ve been a great light in a line of work that can so often make you feel like you’re walking in darkness.
But for far too many of the others out there?—and I see it everyday in low-pay sub gig announcements and anonymous posts by singers scared to ask for even a modest cost-of-living increase—
Most church jobs are not structurally designed to support a classical singer’s long-term professional career development, nor vocal development.
I have a Doctor of Musical Arts degree in voice. And yet, at nearly every church I’ve worked in or auditioned for since earning that degree—particularly where the role was mostly choral singing and some cantoring—asking for even a tenuous amount of higher pay based on such an obvious qualification would have gotten the same predictable reply:
“Well, we can’t afford to pay all the singers more.”
Translation: You’re all equally invisible.
It’s rare to find a situation where your skills, education, and lived experience actually move the needle on your pay as a classical singer. Part of that is because so many are now overqualified with multiple degrees.
But another part is more insidious:
In many churches, compensation stays flat no matter how much experience, training, or vocal maturity a singer brings. A few too many lean on the cheapest labor available—often students, recent grads, or anyone for whom music ministry means martyrdom. Except to maybe be the director some day, there’s no economic ladder—just a rotating cast of underpaid talent, where even the most credentialed professionals have no voice.
Which makes you wonder: does someone else’s salary go up the longer the singers’ pay stays the same?
All of this is to say:
Unless you’re singing in a church that is your actual faith community—a place where you feel spiritually nourished and artistically respected—be careful. And don’t get too attached.
Too many church gigs are not sustainable career components.
At best, they’re side gigs. At worst, they’re emotional and financial sinkholes dressed in stained glass and guilt.
And too often, the stress, drama, and scheduling chaos required just to make it work isn’t even offset by the money—because the money simply isn’t enough to matter in the real math of your life.
So if you’re singing for a reason beyond the paycheck, that’s valid, and everyone should respect that. But know the cost. Otherwise…
Do it for the networking.
Do it to grow your audience—if you’re lucky enough to be in a church where the congregants will support your Patreon or follow your work.
Do it if the director truly advocates for you and supports your growth.
BUT…
Don’t mistake the praise for pay.
Don’t confuse the applause for a contract.
And don’t hesitate to leave if it starts to turn toxic—because a few too many of them do if you stay long enough.
Why I Can Say This Out Loud
I’m able to say this not because I’m bitter, but because I’ve built something outside of this system.
I’m not writing this post while hoping to get picked for next Sunday’s gig. I’m writing it as someone who’s spent the past few years building a business, serving clients, and helping others reclaim their voice, worth, and income.
That doesn’t make me better. It just means I’m not dependent on staying silent to stay employed.
And that’s what makes this worth saying:
I’m not waiting for a gatekeeper to approve this message.
I’m not angling to get rehired next Christmas.
I’m not hoping this keeps me in good standing with the people who’ve stayed quiet.
I’m saying what I wish someone had said sooner—back when I still believed that underpayment was just part of “the call.”
And For Anyone Thinking “Just Get Another Job…”
Before you scroll past this or say, “No one’s forcing you to do this”—read this first.
You’re right… I’m not forced to sing for churches.
I’m also not forced to call out exploitative systems that spiritualize underpayment and pretend it’s righteousness. But I am. Because pretending otherwise only protects the people who benefit from our silence.
Telling artists and musicians to “just get another job” is a lazy dodge.
It ignores the fact that this was supposed to be the job—the one trained for, the one studied for, the one delivered faithfully week after week.
Don’t confuse our capacity to pivot with your permission to underpay.
And here’s the deeper truth—one that’s bigger than just music:
If our Christian faith is going to preach dignity, worth, stewardship, and fairness, then it should be the gold standard for how we treat and pay people doing sacred labor.
But too often, it’s not even close.
And the gap between the sermon and the paycheck?
That’s the real moral crisis.
And because this conversation needs more than a post…
📜 Here’s a full manifesto…
📜 95 Theses for Pro Church Singing
A Manifesto for Reclaiming the Dignity, Compensation, and Self-Worth of Professional Singers in Religious Spaces
Don't preach abundance if your music budget says scarcity.
Exposure doesn’t pay rent—it doesn’t fit in the collection plate either.
“A worker is worthy of their wages.” That’s Luke 10:7. Not an optional program note.
If the music is “the best part of church,” it shouldn’t be the cheapest.
A voice degree isn’t a cute credential—it’s thousands of hours of vocal grind.
If it’s “ministry,” then treat it like sacred labor—not a churchy favor.
“We’re a family” is code for “don’t ask questions or we’ll guilt you.”
If the sermon puts them to sleep but the choir wakes the dead, we know who’s carrying the service.
“Trusting God for the budget” isn’t cute when your singers are trusting GrubHub tips for their sustenance.
A solo isn’t a spiritual snack—it’s paid performance. Pay accordingly.
Singers who ask to be paid to afford to live in God’s Kingdom aren’t unholy.
If the average nearby house is >$500K, the average Sunday pay should be way more than $50!
Blending in the choir shouldn’t have to mean “shut up and don’t shine.”
Naming injustice isn’t bitterness. It’s what happens when silence stops working.
No theology justifies dragging yourself to a gig while sick because you’re afraid of losing it.
Guilt-based volunteering is just soft-core servitude.
Rehearsals aren’t warm fuzzies. They’re unpaid labor unless otherwise noted.
Your livestream counts as marketing. And if singers are in it, they should be on the budget line—and paid royalties.
Don’t shame singers for leaving right after the anthem. Pay them enough to stay.
Breathing, blending, and tuning isn’t magic—it’s skilled labor. Pay it.
If your singers need to plead poverty to get a raise, it’s already too late.
“We can’t pay everyone more” means “we never intended to.”
Hiring college kids because they’re cheaper is called labor manipulation, not mentorship.
If one voice leads everything every Sunday, it’s not ministry. It’s a karaoke residency.
Flowers get more budget than singers. And you can’t even harmonize with a tulip.
“Sorry we can’t pay you this week” = the church just overdrew on grace.
“Love offerings” are not a payment model.
Gratitude doesn’t cover gas. Nor groceries. Nor rent.
Show up early, warmed up, in concert black? That’s labor. Invoice it.
“Just one more time” is unpaid overtime in a hymnal disguise.
“We’re just a small church” = “We expect full service on a shoestring and no questions.”
Musicians shouldn’t be the last to be paid and the first to be blamed.
Full loft, empty budget? Someone’s lying.
Asking for fair pay isn’t greedy. Expecting free labor is.
A “stipend” that doesn’t cover gas = spiritual breadcrumbs.
If your sacred labor is unpaid, it’s still unpaid labor.
Guilt isn’t a currency.
Neither is shame.
Churches often teach self-erasure as virtue. That’s not faith. That’s conditioning.
Church shouldn’t be where singers first learn their voice doesn’t matter.
Ministry ≠ martyrdom.
If your director never asks for raises on your behalf, they’re not your advocate—they’re HR for the budget.
A solo-hoarding director is just a mic-hog with a God complex.
High standards + low pay = exploitation, not excellence.
Smiling while singing doesn’t mean we’re economically OK.
“It’s not about the money” is easy to say when you’ve got it.
If the choir’s unpaid, stop saying it’s a “core ministry.”
If you want your choir to sound like angels, stop treating them like ghosts in the payroll.
If my voice can move mountains, you can move the decimal.
“Nice tone” doesn’t cover late checks.
Singing about the divine still counts as labor.
If the anthem stirs more hearts than the sermon, match it in the paycheck.
No one should be both your emotional support singer and your financial martyr.
Late checks aren’t “divine delays.” They’re just late.
When people stop asking to be paid, they’ve given up on your integrity.
Unpaid labor isn’t holy—it’s unpaid. Even the devil pays his house band.
Choir robes don’t shield against burnout. They’re polyester performance anxiety.
If you won’t budget for music, stop expecting miracles from it. It’s a choir, not a loaves-and-fishes trick.
“Just one more verse” = scope creep with a melody and a smile.
Faith doesn’t mean pretending money doesn’t matter. That’s not faith. That’s a tax write-off.
If someone quits quietly, they’re probably tired of screaming in harmony.
If the guest preacher gets paid and the singer doesn’t, we see your theology—and your math.
Your singers are real people with names; they’re not “the help.”
While God may love a cheerful giver, He didn’t say anything about underpaying the choir.
Scarcity isn’t gospel. It’s just dressed up as fiscal humility.
If you use singers and don’t pay them, you’re not frugal—you’re the kind of ‘holy’ that hollowed out the church.
The free food at the pot-luck coffee hour isn’t a complimentary compensation package component.
A $10 gift card to Panera Bread is worse than the pot-luck coffee hour—especially if the singer is on a low-carb or gluten-free diet.
“Church gig” shouldn’t mean “weekly emotional mugging with a side of gaslighting.”
No, I don’t “have to do this.” Having to choose between doing what we're trained for and being paid fairly is exactly the problem.
When your singers leave, don’t call it flakiness. Call it freedom.
A church that preaches unconditional love but writes conditional checks is running a theology pyramid scheme.
Choirs are often your most prophetic voice. And you’ve been hitting mute.
Beauty costs. That’s why God didn’t make Handel work retail.
If they’re not in the budget, don’t put them in the bulletin. Or the prayers.
Rehearsals are worship too. Unless you think tuning is a sin.
If the organist gets paid and the cantor doesn’t, your church has a hierarchy of sound and a theology of excuses.
If you love the music, pay the people. If you don't, stop pretending to.
You can’t preach dignity while normalizing servitude. That's not a sermon—it's a scam.
If the preacher gets paid to talk about justice, start by paying the singer who made the sermon tolerable.
“Sounds like angels” is a nice compliment, but it’s not a currency.
Don’t ask musicians to pray for provision while you’re sipping lattes on the missions committee.
Staying despite underpayment isn’t holiness. It’s hustle culture in a cassock.
If someone leaves for a better gig, it’s not a betrayal. It’s self-rescue.
If you’re offended by a raise request, you weren’t planning on integrity in the first place.
“You’re lucky to be here” is a line belongs in a cult manual, not a choir room.
Maybe you could solve the serious clergy shortage by paying your singers like ministry is serious work—I could’ve been a bishop by now!
Hip fonts and LED walls don’t cancel out the low pay. That’s just expensive hypocrisy.
If everyone actually tithed 10% of their net worth, everyone could get a real salary and benefits—with enough left over for the pastor to still drive a Lambo.
Do you really think the person who flipped tables over money in the temple is cool with this?
If my Uber driving could earn more during the call times, the pay is not enough.
If you think I should already have a high-salaried “day job,” HIRE ME!
If you think I should have a rich spouse, MARRY ME!!
If you think I should have a trust fund, PUT ME IN YOUR WILL!!!
You don’t need to pray for it. YOU NEED TO PAY FOR IT!!!!
So yes—Today is April Fools’ Day.
But the real joke?
It’s how many places of worship are still running on unpaid or underpaid labor while preaching about dignity, stewardship, and the value of every voice.
And the truth?
Is that speaking up about it isn’t foolish.
Staying silent about it was.
I’m not writing this as someone hoping for the next church gig. I’m writing this as someone who has already done the work to reclaim their voice, their power and their prosperity. And I’m now on a mission to help others do likewise.
Godspeed,
The Rev. Brian Charles Witkowski, DMA
P.S. That signature isn’t a joke.
I’m ordained through the Universal Life Church.
So if you’re planning a wedding, a funeral, or a memorial service for toxic church culture—I’m available.
Rates are Reasonable. Cassocks optional. Integrity is non-negotiable.
To clarify what this piece is—and isn’t:
It’s not just about the pay—or lack thereof. It’s also a call to examine the frequent lack of reciprocity that often surrounds it.
Most professional singers aren’t asking for Carnegie Hall rates. But we are asking why so many sacred and institutional roles still expect excellence, reliability, and emotional labor—without offering advocacy, visibility, or any other support in return. We show up prepared, polished, and professional—yet once the service ends, the vast majority don’t ask how we’re doing, and they express little interest in the human behind the harmony.
The truth is, far too many of us can no longer afford to serve the very traditions we grew up in and actually want to be part of. Not because we’ve lost our calling—but because the structures haven’t evolved.
This isn’t about ego. It’s about the quiet normalization of depletion. The moral expectation that we stay small, stay grateful, and stay silent.
And if these roles are truly as sacred as we claim, then we should be doing more—not less—to ensure the people filling them can actually survive without sacrificing their future.