Talkin’ God and Football

Paul Finebaum is known as “the mouth of the South,” but he does a lot of listening. This is the secret to his success as the host of a call-in show focused on college football in the Southeastern Conference, or SEC. Regular callers such as Legend, Squirrel, Jim from Tuscaloosa, and I-Man trade boasts and insults, fall out and reconcile. The most notorious Finebaum caller, an Alabama fan known as Al from Dadeville, called in to the show in 2010 to announce that he had poisoned the hallowed Toomer’s Corner oak trees at the rival Auburn University. He offered the memorable explanation: “I just had too much ’Bama in me.”

College football is serious business, whatever non-fans may think, and discussions of it naturally shade into other weighty matters. Callers talk about their surgeries, addictions, prison stints, and custody fights. And they talk about God—sharing prayer requests, giving thanks for his blessings, and encouraging each other to turn to him. This is the most distinctive aspect of The Paul Finebaum Show, which is broadcast on radio and on television on the SEC Network, an affiliate of ESPN. Within the structure of legacy media, it is a non-partisan, non-sectarian space wherein religion is discussed as something positive, shared, and unifying.

There are no recent data on how religious American journalists are, but a Pew study in 2007 found that only 8 percent of journalists at national outlets attended religious services weekly, compared with 39 percent of the general public. It’s reasonable to assume that America’s newsrooms remain more secular than the country at large. This fact is reflected in programming. Religion, when it is discussed in the news media, is often presented as threatening or quaint.

Not so on The Finebaum Show. Paul Finebaum actually listens to what Americans have to say, and as a result he hears a lot of God talk. On a recent show, Legend—known for his bravura calls and the fifteen years he spent in prison for murdering his cousin—reassured listeners that he was fine after being unceremoniously ejected from the SEC’s media days. “I’ve actually really been being blessed by the Lord. He’s really blessed me. I’ve gotten a personal trainer, and I’ve lost ten pounds,” he said. He also admitted that he may have been at fault for the recent dustup. “Pride and ego, those are horrible things. I asked God to deal with me.”

The religious vocabulary is generally low-church Protestant. Thirty-one percent of Southerners are white evangelical Christians, and an additional 9 percent are black Protestants. Though these two groups set the tone of the show, many of the callers are Catholics (some cheer for Notre Dame), and Finebaum is Jewish. This latter fact rarely seems to make any difference. The vibe is broadly ecumenical, Judeo-Christian with a Southern twang. I recall one moment when a caller mentioned the Ten Commandments, before significantly adding that Paul, of course, knew all about those. More frequently, though, callers speak as though Finebaum simply shares their faith.

In a way, he does. As is true for many Americans, Finebaum is more sure about the existence of God than about how he should worship him. “I believe in God and very strongly in faith,” Finebaum told The Athletic in 2025, “but it has been a challenge to find my way.” Along with his wife, Linda, who was raised Methodist, Finebaum has considered becoming Catholic.

Finebaum’s respect for the Catholic Church is evident in his annual tradition of bringing Joseph Marino, a Catholic archbishop, Vatican diplomat, and native of Birmingham, Alabama, onto the show to answer questions from listeners. Marino’s appearance last year was typical. Tim in Atlanta asked the archbishop how he could overcome his hatred for his late father, who hadn’t left him a dime. Mitch in Texas informed the archbishop that he “became an Alabama fan and a Catholic almost within the same year.” Joe in New York City talked about his addiction and said he really wanted “people to come back to the Catholic Church.” Tre in Tuscaloosa asked the archbishop how he could do exactly that and requested prayers for an Alabama victory over Indiana in the College Football Playoff. (Alabama was blown out, 38–3.)

Of course, most of the time it is Finebaum who responds. And though he can be curt or sarcastic with his callers, at other times his role is almost clerical. On one recent afternoon, Booker from New Jersey called in to announce that he had fractured his neck. He then apologized for saying “Go Buckeyes” on an SEC show. Finebaum, in priestly mode, replied, “We’ll grant you that absolution.”

In recent years, Christians have debated the possibilities for promoting public Christianity under the headings of Catholic integralism and Protestant Christian nationalism. But any renewal of public Christianity in America would likely look a lot more like what one gets on The Finebaum Show: muddily ecumenical, Protestant-inflected, at times Catholic-tending, and Jewish-friendly. (When Finebaum considered running for Alabama’s open Senate seat, he was warned by a consultant that his Jewishness could hurt him; he strongly disagreed.)

It is significant, of course, that this form of public faith comes from the margins rather than the center. Finebaum is not out there propounding a religious philosophy. He is simply giving room and voice to the religious sentiments already present in his audience. His approach reflects a venerable tradition, with deep roots in the American South. When Tennessee, where Finebaum grew up, set up a state government, delegates declined to require a profession of faith from officeholders. Andrew Jackson, who was present at the state convention, was a leading opponent of the idea. His stance reflected his populist spirit—“The world is governed too much” would become the motto of the most important Jacksonian newspaper—as well as his pragmatism, which recognized the reality of religious pluralism on the American frontier.

Finebaum shares that populist spirit. His show is devoted to amplifying the voice of the common fan, who frequently excoriates the high and mighty of the football world. His show has something to teach our media, which frequently shrink from discussion of faith. Religion need not be divisive; it can be a point of connection even among people with profound religious differences. Indeed, any media organization that aspires to shape and reflect American public opinion must make room for expressions of religious belief.

Conservatives also have something to learn from Finebaum. When Viktor Orbán was still the prime minister of Hungary, some on the American right cheered the annual St. Stephen’s Day drone show, in which drones formed a cross to celebrate the country’s thousand-year Christian history. This display was fitting for Hungary. But religious expression in America typically takes a less centralized form. One can see it in the religious road signs, sometimes mixed with commercial appeals, that dot the sides of American highways. (Bible Road, a book by the photographer Sam Fentress, collects many striking examples.) And one can hear it on The Paul Finebaum Show, where faith in God mixes with the desperate hope that your team might be better next year.