The Pastor's Paradox: On Having Power and Giving It Away

Intro

In American Christianity, the most influential religious demographic remains white evangelicalism—a reality that would likely perplex a Middle Eastern, brown, Jewish prophet who spent his ministry challenging religious power structures. The loudest Christian voices—overwhelmingly white and male—have aligned themselves with Christian nationalism and authoritarianism. Think of any sort of meaningful social reform, and white evangelicalism likely opposed it.

This presents an uncomfortable tension for someone like me—a white, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied man serving as the (co) lead pastor of a Christian church. If I genuinely believe that God stands with the oppressed and marginalized (which Scripture repeatedly affirms), and if I believe that the marginalized should be centered in leadership (which liberation theology compellingly argues), then what am I even doing here?

Liberation theology points us toward leadership from the margins. The Biblical narrative consistently shows God working through the overlooked and oppressed—from Hagar to Ruth to Mary—rather than through the powerful. In our current context, this would suggest prioritizing leadership from those who have been historically marginalized in American Christianity: BIPOC folks, particularly women of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, disabled, neurodivergent, and others who exist at various intersections of oppression.

Think of any sort of meaningful social reform, and white evangelicalism likely opposed it.

Yet here I am, taking up space in leadership. I don't believe the answer is to simply disappear or abandon whatever privilege and platform I have. That is merely abdication of responsibility. But it also cannot be to simply acknowledge my privilege while continuing to monopolize power indefinitely. That's like a "Coexist" bumper sticker on a tank.

We need a more nuanced approach that recognizes both:

1. The necessity of dismantling unjust power structures; and
2. The possibility of remaining engaged contributors to the work of liberation.

This requires moving beyond performative allyship into genuine power redistribution.

Jesus himself, while divine, chose to empty himself of privilege and power (Philippians 2:5-8). This kenosis—this self-emptying—provides a theological framework for understanding how those with privilege might approach leadership. It's not about performative self-flagellation or passive withdrawal, but active engagement in dismantling systems of oppression while elevating marginalized voices.

The path forward requires careful navigation between the Scylla of maintaining oppressive power structures and the Charybdis of abandoning our responsibility to participate in their transformation. It demands both concrete action and continued self-reflection, all while maintaining a sense of experimentation about our own awkward attempts at getting it right.

Beyond Performative Allyship: Concrete Steps Toward Power Redistribution

It's tempting to try to solve the tension of privileged leadership through symbolic gestures—occasionally sharing the microphone while maintaining control of the sound system, so to speak.

True transformation requires concrete changes to systems and structures. From my own context at The Table Church, we've attempted to move beyond performative allyship into genuine power redistribution.

When I arrived, the governance model was highly pastor-centric, wrapped in the appearance of accountability but maintaining centralized control. The by-laws allowed the lead pastor to select the elders, the trustees (who cared for finances), and even the external accountability board meant to provide oversight.

My first task had to be divesting myself of that consolidated power. While most people don't love getting in the weeds of governance models and bylaws, governance has an outsized effect on the potential health of an organization. Therefore we moved to a single elder board nominated by the congregation that is legally obligated to regularly evaluate me. We hired an associate pastor that we knew could become a co-lead pastor. That hire—(Rev. Tonetta Landis-Aina, a queer, Black woman)—was with the intention of sharing authority. Pastoral leadership and decision making no longer rested in one person, but was—through written policy—structured to be collaborative. We established co-director positions throughout ministry areas to prevent power from concentrating in any one individual.

It's tempting to try to solve the tension of privileged leadership through symbolic gestures—occasionally sharing the microphone while maintaining control of the sound system

The preaching schedule now reflects this commitment to diverse voices. I speak less than a third of the time and don't control the teaching calendar. In reality, these aren't dramatic gestures—they're practical steps toward distributing power more equitably. But they also fly in the face of how most pastors are taught (formally and through cultural osmosis) to build influence, platform, and power.

This kind of structural change often faces resistance, not just from those in power but sometimes from those who benefit from proximity to power. It's like that moment in "The Matrix" when Cypher decides he'd rather have the comfortable illusion than the difficult reality. The system we know, however flawed, can feel safer than the uncertainty of transformation. Apologies for the dated movie reference.

But genuine allyship requires moving beyond comfortable gestures into uncomfortable change. It means creating systems that don't depend on the benevolence of privileged leaders but instead distribute power structurally. It's the difference between occasionally letting someone else stay over at your place and actually co-signing the lease.

These changes aren't perfect, and they're not complete. They're steps on a longer journey toward more equitable leadership structures. The goal isn't to create a new kind of tokenism or to simply flip who holds power, but to fundamentally reimagine how power operates in our communities.

Create systems that don't depend on the benevolence of privileged leaders but instead distribute power structurally.

This work requires constant evaluation and adjustment. It means being willing to hear criticism, acknowledge failures, and continue pushing toward greater equity. It's messy, imperfect work—but it's necessary work if we're serious about moving beyond performative allyship into genuine transformation.

The Path Forward: Neither Domination Nor Disappearance

The journey of divestment isn't complete and my conscience tells me, at some point, I likely need to step fully away from lead decision-making roles.

But this reveals another tension—the false dichotomy that suggests privileged people must either dominate or disappear entirely. It's like assuming the only two options for addressing climate change are either continuing to burn fossil fuels or returning to a pre-industrial hunter-gatherer society.

We need a more nuanced understanding that acknowledges multiple ways to take up space and contribute meaningfully. This isn't about creating a new kind of theological participation trophy where everyone gets to be equally centered all the time. Rather, it's about recognizing that leadership and contribution can take many forms:

1. Speaking from places of weakness and woundedness rather than authority
2. Using education and skills in service of collective liberation
3. Leveraging privilege strategically while actively working to dismantle it
4. Contributing specialized knowledge without demanding centered attention

The goal isn't for white men to never speak or lead—it's to break the assumption that our voice must always be centered. As Ruth Bader Ginsburg famously noted about women on the Supreme Court

"When I'm sometimes asked 'When will there be enough?' and I say 'When there are nine,' people are shocked. But there'd been nine men, and nobody's ever raised a question about that."

This reframing allows us to see leadership through a lens of service rather than control. It means recognizing that sometimes the most powerful leadership move is to step aside and support others. It's about understanding that our gifts and talents don't disappear when we're not in charge—they just get deployed differently.

Consider the example of John the Baptist, who had built quite a following but understood his role was to decrease so another could increase. He didn't stop contributing to the movement—he just shifted how he contributed. Or think of Barnabas, whose name literally means "son of encouragement," who moved from being a prominent leader to supporting and encouraging others.

This approach requires a kind of holy flexibility—being willing to show up differently in different contexts. Sometimes that means speaking truth to power from our places of privilege. Other times it means amplifying marginalized voices. Sometimes it means leading from the front, other times from the middle, and often from the back.

The path forward isn't about erasing ourselves or our contributions. It's about reimagining how those contributions can serve the greater work of liberation. It's about being willing to be wrong, to learn, to change, and to grow. It's about understanding that our value doesn't come from our position but from our participation in the work of justice and transformation.

Practical Tensions: Navigating Real-World Complexities

Let's be honest about the material realities at play—because pretending they don't exist is about as helpful as pretending calories don't count during the holidays. Yes, I want to divest power, but I also need to support my family. Yes, pay is a form of power, but I could make more money in a non-ministerial role with less authority. These aren't theoretical considerations—they're kitchen table conversations about mortgages, healthcare, and our kids' future.

These tensions don't invalidate the work of dismantling unjust systems. But they do require us to be honest about the complex intersection of ideals and practicalities.

I also must acknowledge that my ability to even consider these questions comes from a place of privilege. Many people don't have the luxury of philosophical debates about power—they're too busy dealing with its concrete effects in their daily lives. This acknowledgment shouldn't paralyze us with guilt but should instead motivate us toward responsible action.

The question becomes: How do we navigate these tensions faithfully? Here are some practical considerations:

1. Regular power audits: Consistently examining where we hold power and how we're using it
2. Intentional succession planning: Actively preparing others for leadership roles
3. Transparent compensation structures: Addressing pay equity proactively
4. Clear accountability systems: Ensuring we're answerable to those we serve
5. Ongoing education: Committing to learning from marginalized voices

The goal isn't to flagellate ourselves for having privilege, but to actively use whatever privilege we have to create more equitable systems. It's about being willing to sacrifice some comfort for the sake of justice, while recognizing that martyrdom isn't the answer either.

Many people don't have the luxury of philosophical debates about power—they're too busy dealing with its concrete effects in their daily lives.

This work continues. It's messy and imperfect. Sometimes we'll get it wrong. Sometimes we'll face criticism from both those who think we're going too far and those who think we're not going far enough. But we keep moving toward justice, even when the path forward isn't entirely clear.

In the end, the goal isn't to resolve all these tensions perfectly but to navigate them faithfully. It's about doing the next right thing, even when we can't see the entire path ahead. It's about trusting that the work of justice is worth the discomfort it brings.