Leading from Silence

Our failure to listen, undermines our capacity to lead.

Some leaders bewitch us. Slick salespeople, they charm their way into our affections and confidence; promising this and speaking grandly about that.

Other leaders get the job because they speak well. They’re clear, articulate, compelling, funny, or entertaining. We’ll follow such people a long way.

Others have track-records of success and achievement. They get things done and let no one stand in their way. Their doggedness impresses us.

But in the Kingdom of God, a primary challenge for the leader is to listen…to both God and the people of God. Attentiveness, not assertiveness, stands as a primary quality. We lead others only where we ourselves are being led. We say to others only what we ourselves have first heard from the Lord.

Jesus declared, “I do nothing on my own initiative, but I speak these things as the Father taught me.” (John 8:28) Too few of us follow His example.

Most writers on leadership extol the virtues of vision-casting, people-management, fiscal responsibility, focus, and hard work. Few talk about leading from the silences—those quiet places and spaces in our lives where we stop and listen to the Spirit of God.

Leadership that emerges from busyness reflects the chaos of our culture. Not that our culture minds. If ADD/ADHD was once considered a psychological disorder, it has now become an honored value among leaders. Exhaustion for the Christian leader used to signal a life out of control; we now wear it as a badge of honor.

Leading from silence requires an uncommon level of security and humility. Some things will take longer; other things won’t get done at all. If we fear failure or the perception of failure, we’ll opt for frenetic leadership rather than faith-guided leadership.

Of course, this “leadership from silence” relates to not just pastoral staff in churches, but to spouses in marriages, parents in families, managers in the workplace, politicians in government, and student leaders in schools.  

Leaders listen, or should. They hear the cries and the pleas of the people. They also hear the Spirit of God. And like the prophets of old, they seek not to impress the people or exercise power over the people, but to connect the people with the One whose Word and words change our destiny.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Crisis of the Spirit

“Burnout is not a crisis of time; it is a crisis of the spirit.” (James Autry, The Servant Leader: 208)

Everywhere we look we see burnout. Once vibrant people—friends, family members, colleagues—mere shadows of their former selves. Even pre-teens and teens face the same crisis. Burdened souls; empty shells.

We attribute it to stress—high demands, high expectations, broken families, insufficient down-time, or lack of resources. We know the symptoms—impatience, irritation, sleeplessness, isolation, distraction, weight-gain, alcohol or drug-dependency, and more.

If we just had more time. If we could just get away for a while. If we just had some help.

Burnout is endemic. Souls that once roared into flame with dreams and hopes, with love and confidence, now look like smoldering embers.

Autry puts his finger on something foundational for us all. It’s not about how much money or how much time or how much distraction we can find. It’s a crisis of the spirit.

And spiritual crises require spiritual solutions.

Calvin Miller once noted that we ought to “talk more to God about the people than to the people about their problems.” It’s easy to descend into navel-gazing rather than star-gazing. We tend to look down much more than we look up. And in the process, our spirit becomes caged rather than liberated.

Yes, there’s a place for time management; for setting priorities; for establishing boundaries. But the illusion of “balance” which well-meaning friends keep advocating will serve only to frustrate many of us. I don’t need the perfect combination of work hours, family time, and personal space. What does the “perfect combination” look like?

I need a resilient spirit to handle whatever comes—the planned and the unplanned; the delightful surprises and the devastating shocks; the thrilling and the mind-numbingly mundane.

This spiritual strength derives only from a spiritual source.

Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Strange, isn’t it, how quickly we seek medical attention when the Physician stands beside us; how many advisors we consult without attention to the Counselor. My burnout may not reflect too much work or too much stress, but too little of Jesus. Maybe some things need to change?

Eye to Eye

Most of us can’t bear the deep penetrating look of love.

Recently, a colleague and psychologist invited an audience to turn to the person beside them and simply look intently at them for 30 seconds—eye to eye, no glancing away. Within moments, the room popped with nervous laughter and chatter. Few, if any of us, could do it. Eyes flickered up and down, side to side. Suddenly the rafters and the walls held peculiar interest! We all tried to avoid the tension that such intensity created. 

Interestingly, babies do just fine. They won’t break the gaze. If a parent looks longingly and lovingly at a baby and speaks soothingly, it will eventually break into a smile. But it rarely breaks the gaze. That’s usually left to the parent.

It seems that the older we get the less comfortable we feel with such intimacy. Sin, self-consciousness, shame, guilt, and fear make the rafters and the walls strangely appealing. And this has profound spiritual implications.

When did you last stop and make serious “eye contact” with Jesus?

We hastily highlight the distractions we face. We point to the chaos of our lives, and excuse our lack of intimacy with Christ on the grounds that we’re exhausted, stressed, or too busy. Too often we write off a close walk with the Lord on the basis of “life stuff.”

In reality, we are deeply uncomfortable with the gaze of God. We dare not stop and lock eyes with Him, because the older that we get, the more unnerving we find such intensity.

But unless we receive the love and affirmation of the Father, we find ourselves bouncing from pillar to post—never settled; never secure. Truth be told, our avoidance of His Presence is less a function of the clock than a function of our hearts.

And our nervous laughter and chatter—our insistence on the safety of superficiality—simply exacerbates the spiritual distance we experience.

Babies do it well. Can we?

Can we hold His gaze for a few minutes today? Just long enough to truly receive those life-giving words: “You are my son, my daughter, whom I love dearly and take great delight in.” Perhaps it will bring a smile to us, too.

Minimizing Mystery

Many of us love a good mystery. Nearly every film genre depends on it; the unexpected twist, the unforeseen turn, the surprising tweak. We love it. Mystery sustains our interest. It draws us in. It stimulates our imagination. It peaks our curiosity. It pumps our adrenaline. We love the uncertainty…as long as it is eventually resolved. We enjoy the ride of chaos for a short time, but not indefinitely.

Mystery in short doses is fun; in long doses it disorients us. It may intrigue us initially, but eventually the disequilibrium drives us to resist it. We like everything to have a place and be in its place.

This deeply impacts our friendships, workplaces, and Christian faith.  When mastery displaces mystery, boredom quickly follows.

Marriages suffer this fate all too often. Slowly but surely we pressure our partners to become predictable. Gradually—perhaps unconsciously—we squelch the creativity, spontaneity, and mystery that first attracted us. And it kills our interest. The “spark” disappears.

When it comes to Jesus, the more we figure Him out, the less He intrigues us. And the less He surprises us, the more indifferent we grow. We like the idea of someone who gently takes some loaves and fishes and feeds the crowd. But the wild-eyed prophet who leaps up in the middle of a storm and bellows at the wind and the waves to “Be silent!” is another matter. He rather scares us.

We think we prefer a Jesus who follows a routine and always responds the same way. We no longer want to be “surprised by grace.” Rather, we prefer (and create) a predictable Savior.

Ironically, our efforts to explain God so that others might find Him plausible or attractive, usually prove counter-productive. The more rational that we make Him, the less attractive He becomes. A god whom I can contain and explain, who functions only within the parameters I set and define, is domesticated and emasculated.

Our experience of God changes when we re-encounter and re-embrace His mystery.

Pray for some Holy Spirit surprises. Let God be God. Loosen the restraints. Return Him to the wild. Allow Him to surprise you. Break Him out of the box. Set Him free. Permit the wind to swirl in random patterns. And delight in it.

What We Affirm

As followers of Jesus, we are resurrection people.

Death holds no power;
God holds us fast;
Faith and hope define our lives. 
We will not be shaken.

Hardship will not discourage us.
Trouble will not dissuade us.
Stress will not overcome us.
Fear will not dominate us.

Our brokenness is being healed.
Our fallenness is being transformed.
Our tears will be wiped away.
Our heartache will be comforted.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God.
Nothing can rip us from the hand of God.
Nothing can keep us from the Presence of God.
Nothing can steal from us the blessing of God.

We are the resurrection people.

Our past is forgiven.
Our future is secure.

We do not dread suffering.
We do not avoid responsibility.
We embrace the cross of Jesus as our own.
We claim the victory of the resurrection for ourselves.

The Lord calls us, and we respond.
The Lord stands with us, and we rejoice.
The Lord strengthens us, and we rise up.
The Lord delivers us, and we celebrate.

Christ is our Savior.
He is our King.

We acknowledge our dependence.
We confess our commitment.
We declare our allegiance.

May the cross consume us.
May the empty tomb inspire us.
May Jesus guide us.
May His blessing rest on us.

We are the resurrection people.

The Loss of Wonder

Very little fills us with wonder any more.

We pursue thrills, excitement, laughter, comfort, and “good times”—but not wonder. Movie theaters, video clips, electronic gaming, sporting events, food, and vacation-getaways may absorb our attention but they rarely produce authentic or lasting wonder. They distract us but fail to enrich us.

Work generally diminishes wonder.

Wonder makes us aware of our smallness and God’s greatness. It leaves us breathless and speechless but for a soft “Yes” or “Wow” that we utter to God. It brings the soul to the surface and leaves us humble and grateful. It makes us better.

Jacob Needleman observed the launch of Apollo 17 in 1975 and later wrote:

“It was a night launch, and there were hundreds of cynical reporters all over the lawn, drinking beer, wisecracking, and waiting for this 35-story-high rocket [to lift off].

“The countdown came, and then the launch. The first thing you see is this extraordinary orange light, which is just at the limit of what you can bear to look at. Everything is illuminated with this light. Then comes this thing slowly rising up in total silence, because it takes a few seconds for the sound to come across. You hear a ‘WHOOOOOOSH! HHHH-MMM!’ It enters right into you.

“You can practically hear jaws dropping. The sense of wonder fills everyone in the whole place, as this thing goes up and up. The first stage ignites this beautiful blue flame. It becomes like a star, but you realize there are humans on it. And then there’s total silence.

“People just get up quietly, helping each other. They’re kind. They open doors. They look at one another, speaking quietly and interestedly. These were suddenly moral people because the sense of wonder, the experience of wonder, had made them moral.”

The loss of wonder hardens our spiritual arteries. When our hearts no longer leap at the glory of a newborn or the majesty of a sunset; when the beauty of a petal or the enormity of a mountain fails to stir us; when nothing moves us to godly awe and silence, we live on the brink of death—whatever our circumstances.

“I will tell of all Your wonders;
I will be glad and rejoice in You.”  (Psalm 9:1-2)

May the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit touch us again with wonder.

The Crisis of Insipidity

Insipid: adjective 1. without distinctive, interesting, or stimulating qualities;  2. without sufficient taste to be pleasing, as food or drink; bland.

My good friend Dr. Ken Logan and I have recently been chatting about the domestication of Jesus. Contemporary Christianity seems to have created a soft, palatable, controllable, predictable—insipid—Savior. The 21^st century Christ rarely seems to reflect the Jesus of the Gospels who defied storms, confronted demons, and thundered through the Temple.

Our Jesus waits meekly to help us if we have problems. He’s “on call” for us. We look to Him for happiness, health, and answers; to save us from suffering. He’s soft and silent. And as we domesticate Him—tame Him—we pay a high price.

Our faith lacks adrenaline.

We see Christianity more as a place of security and protection than adventure and risk. Our faith is more of a sedative for our nerves than a call to battle. And this insipidity has reached crisis proportions. The dictionary provides the perfect synonym—bland. 

It’s hard to say that we follow Jesus if we look nothing like Him. He owned nothing; we accumulate as much as possible. He did not seek fame; we jump at it. He hung out with the marginalized and neglected; we hob-nob with insiders and the well-connected. He confronted sin; we prefer to “judge not.” His Kingdom challenged the values of His day; we choose compromise and tolerance.

Many people walk away from the faith not because it is too hard but because it feels too tedious. We find ourselves overtaken by disinterest and boredom. Everything seems routine. The Cause seems too small. The fire is but a spark. Because we’ve domesticated Jesus.

The apostle John described the ancient church at Laodicea as lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—tasteless and bland. And the Lord said He would “spit them out of His mouth.” Our current crisis reflects an ancient condition.

Whenever we reduce Jesus to our level, whenever we treat Him casually or glibly, whenever we usurp His role as Lord in our lives, we diminish the vitality of our faith. And when our faith affects little more than the occasional moral choice, it eventually affects nothing at all.

How shall we once again stand before the Aslan of Narnia?