A Third Thing — A companion to Leash or a Suitcase
Back at the Old YMCA
Many years ago, when I was a young man, I worked as a lifeguard at the old downtown YMCA. This was back before private gyms and fitness centres were everywhere. If you were serious about weightlifting, the YMCA was one of the places you went. Downstairs was the weight room, populated by some rather formidable specimens of masculinity. These fellows were huge, muscular, and occasionally temperamental. They would come upstairs to use the swimming pool or sauna, and part of my job was to ensure that everyone followed the rules.
Now, I wasn’t a particularly large fellow. In fact, compared with some of these men, I was rather small. But there were other patrons at the YMCA, too. Little children. Some of them were the sons and daughters of parents using the facilities. They were the usual assortment of rug rats, full of energy and mischief, and occasionally in need of correction.
And it occurred to me one day that I was in a rather interesting position. I could quite easily intimidate those little children. I was bigger, older, and carried the authority of a lifeguard. If I wanted to throw my weight around, they were easy targets. The weightlifters, on the other hand, were another matter entirely!
I could just as easily find myself intimidated by them. And I remember making a conscious decision, right there and then, that I would speak to those little girls and boys with precisely the same gentleness and respect that I would extend to those enormous men coming up from the weight room. I would not become a bully simply because someone was smaller than me, nor would I abandon my responsibilities because someone was bigger.
Looking back, I suppose the word for what I was learning was integrity. Not merely following the rules, but deciding what sort of man I intended to be, regardless of who happened to be standing in front of me.
The Rules Weren’t Mine
I’ve carried that lesson with me into my years as a school bus driver. There are rules on my bus, and I enforce them. I don’t play favourites, I don’t raise my voice, and I make a deliberate effort not to allow arrogance or contempt to creep into my tone. The children know that I didn’t invent the rules. They also know that part of my responsibility is to get them safely to their destinations.
And here’s something I’ve discovered over the years. Correcting a child’s behaviour doesn’t necessarily damage the relationship. Sometimes quite the opposite. Children can accept boundaries, even unwelcome ones, when they have reason to trust the person establishing them. They may not appreciate the correction at the time, but they can gradually come to understand that the adult is looking out for their welfare.
That doesn’t mean every correction is automatically loving, of course. Adults are quite capable of confusing their own irritation with righteous indignation!
And that brings me to something I learned through Adlerian psychology. As a parent, my responsibility isn’t simply to make my child behave himself while he’s under my authority. It’s to help prepare him for the world he’ll eventually have to navigate without me.
Consider the difference between these two approaches.
“Don’t you talk to ME like that!”
Or:
“One day, when you have a boss, how would you want to talk to him, d’ya think?”
The first makes the encounter about my authority and the child’s obligation to acknowledge it. The second invites him to think. How will this behaviour serve him when he leaves home? How might he approach disagreement with someone who has authority over him? What sort of person does he want to become?
I’m not trying to win a contest with a child. I’m trying to help him grow up. And there’s a considerable difference.
Good Medicine Doesn’t Always Taste Good
Hebrews 12:11 says:
“For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.”
Hebrews 12:11 (ESV)
That’s an interesting passage. Discipline isn’t necessarily pleasant. Neither is good medicine. But we don’t judge the value of medicine simply by whether we enjoy swallowing it. We ask whether it is doing us good.
The same question ought to be asked about correction. Is this helping the other person grow? Is it protecting them from harm? Is it preparing them to live more wisely and responsibly? Or am I simply irritated because someone isn’t doing what I want?
Hebrews speaks of God’s discipline, and I think we ought to be careful about borrowing God’s authority to justify our own behaviour. Not everything administered in the name of love is loving. The fruit matters. And so does the manner in which the correction is given.
A Leash, a Suitcase, and a Cup of Coffee
This brings me back to something I wrote recently, Leash or a Suitcase. The thought began with a rather cheeky observation. I don’t believe in leashes for dogs or wives. If someone wants to leave, I’m not going to hold them captive. There’s a suitcase available, and I’ll even help with the packing!
But if we both want to work things out, perhaps we could sit down over a cup of coffee and find some middle ground.
Now, before anyone gets too excited about that illustration, let me explain something. I am not suggesting that marriage is disposable, or that every disagreement ought to end with someone reaching for the luggage. Quite the contrary.
I intend to treat my wife with integrity and love, whether we’re getting along beautifully or struggling to understand one another.
That means I don’t get to become a bully when I’m angry. Nor do I get to manipulate her by threatening to withdraw my affection. It also means that loving someone doesn’t require me to surrender every conviction or boundary I possess. There is a balance here.
My wife is not my possession, and I am not hers. We have made promises to one another, and those promises matter enormously. But a marriage sustained by fear, intimidation, or coercion is a poor substitute for two people freely choosing to honour those promises.
Sometimes love means yielding. Sometimes it means standing firm. And sometimes it means putting the kettle on and listening long enough to discover that we haven’t understood one another at all. The important thing is that I remain responsible for how I behave, even when I cannot control how someone else responds.
That lesson from the YMCA hasn’t changed.
The Horses Know Where the Water Is
Someone once told me about horses roaming over an enormous ranch, perhaps twenty-five square kilometres. The property was fenced, but the horses had tremendous freedom to wander. How, I wondered, would the rancher ever find them?
Well, you look for the water.
And the salt lick!
The horses know where to find what they need, and they return to those places. There’s something appealing about that picture, especially when I think about relationships and the local church.
Rather than continually chasing people around, trying to keep them from wandering away, perhaps we ought to concern ourselves with whether we’re providing the things that make a community worth returning to. Friendship. Encouragement. Truthfulness. Belonging. The opportunity to be known and loved.
But animal illustrations have their limitations. A horse isn’t a church member, and a wife isn’t a dog! People aren’t livestock, and relationships aren’t exercises in animal husbandry. We must be careful not to turn a useful picture into a justification for managing other human beings.
Besides, the horses are returning to something that meets their needs. That doesn’t mean the rancher is entitled to mistreat them between visits to the watering hole. And if an animal is abused, the fact that it remains nearby is hardly evidence that all is well.
Sometimes frightened creatures stay because they have nowhere else to go. People can do that, too. Which brings me to the church.
Junior and Senior Members
Every congregation has its newcomers and its veterans. There are people who have been around for decades, who know the history, understand the customs, recognize the leadership, and have established relationships. And then there are the newcomers.
They don’t necessarily know how things work. They may be unfamiliar with the language we use, the expectations we carry, or the unwritten rules we’ve accumulated over the years. Some arrive with considerable spiritual maturity and experience. Others are just beginning to discover what following Jesus might mean. And some arrive terribly wounded.
Perhaps they’ve been hurt by another congregation. Perhaps their family is falling apart. Perhaps they’re lonely, frightened, ashamed, or simply exhausted. They come through our doors, and what do they encounter?
I think back to that young lifeguard at the YMCA. Will we treat the newcomer with the same dignity and consideration that we extend to the long-established member? Will we speak as gently to the person who has nothing to contribute financially as we do to the person whose generosity helps pay the bills?
Will we listen as carefully to the awkward young fellow who doesn’t know anybody as we do to the respected veteran whose opinion carries considerable influence? And what happens when either of them needs correction? Does our approach change according to their standing in the congregation?
It shouldn’t.
Seniority may bring experience, but it doesn’t confer greater human worth.
And being new doesn’t make someone a child who must simply learn to obey the grown-ups. We are, after all, members of one another. Romans 12:5 describes us as individually members of one another, and I think that ought to have considerable influence on how we behave.
We’re not customers competing for preferential treatment, nor employees trying to climb an organizational ladder. We’re brothers and sisters learning to live together.
When the Relationship Becomes a Hostage
Of course, relationships within a church aren’t always easy. People disagree. Sometimes quite strongly. And occasionally someone begins using the relationship itself as leverage.
“If you don’t do things my way, I’m leaving!”
Perhaps they’ll take their family with them. Perhaps they’ll withdraw their volunteer service or financial support. Suddenly the pastor or leadership team is confronted with a difficult choice. Do they make concessions simply to keep the person from leaving? Or do they remain faithful to what they believe is right, while allowing the individual the freedom to make their own decision?
I don’t think every person who leaves a congregation is being manipulative. Sometimes leaving is necessary. Sometimes the leadership has behaved badly. Sometimes a person needs to find a healthier community.
And sometimes the church itself has been holding people hostage through guilt, fear, or appeals to spiritual authority. The leash can be held from either end.
But I do think there’s something deeply unhealthy about making the continuation of a relationship conditional upon getting one’s own way. That’s not negotiation. That’s coercion. And it can happen between spouses, parents and children, friends, pastors and congregants, or congregations and their pastors.
Perhaps this is where the suitcase comes in. You’re free to make your decision. But the coffee is still available. We can disagree without becoming enemies. We can establish boundaries without humiliating one another. And we can sometimes discover a way forward that neither of us had considered.
The Pastor and the Hurting Person
I have considerable sympathy for pastors. People arrive at church carrying all sorts of burdens, many of which are invisible. Some need encouragement. Some need practical help. Some need friendship. Some need professional care beyond what a congregation can responsibly provide. And some need correction.
That’s where things become particularly delicate. A pastor may be tempted to avoid difficult conversations because he doesn’t want to lose people. Or he may go to the opposite extreme, exercising authority in ways that leave wounded people feeling even more wounded. Neither approach is particularly helpful.
The pastoral task, as I understand it, isn’t to make everyone happy, nor is it to establish unquestioned authority. It’s to care for people faithfully. That includes boundaries. A church must be a safe place. Behaviour that threatens, intimidates, exploits, or harms others cannot simply be excused in the name of grace.
But neither should correction become an opportunity for leaders to defend their pride or demonstrate their power.
Galatians 6:1 comes to mind:
“Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted.”
Galatians 6:1 (ESV)
Restore him.
Not defeat him. Not embarrass him. Not make an example of him. Restore him. And notice the warning to the person doing the restoring. Keep watch on yourself. That’s worth remembering.
The person administering correction is not somehow exempt from the possibility of behaving badly. A pastor needs humility just as surely as the person sitting across the desk from him. And a hurting person needs more than a lecture about the rules. They need to encounter someone who can tell the truth without abandoning gentleness.
The Same Voice
I keep returning to that afternoon at the YMCA. I was a young man, surrounded by people much bigger and much smaller than myself, and I had a choice to make. Would I allow their size, strength, or ability to intimidate me to determine how I treated them? Or would I decide, beforehand, what sort of person I intended to be?
That decision has followed me through marriage, parenting, work, and my relationships within the church. I’m still learning. There have been occasions when I’ve spoken too quickly, misunderstood someone’s intentions, or allowed my own frustrations to interfere with the very principles I claim to value.
Integrity isn’t a certificate we receive for having made one good decision many years ago. It’s something we must continue to practise.
And perhaps that’s what I want to say about all these relationships. I don’t want to be gentle merely because someone is powerful enough to hurt me. I don’t want to become harsh simply because someone is too vulnerable to resist. I don’t want to manipulate my wife into staying, intimidate a child into obedience, or pressure a fellow believer into remaining at church.
But neither do I want to abandon responsibility, avoid necessary correction, or pretend that love has no boundaries. I want to be the same man in each of those encounters. Not identical in my approach, because people and circumstances differ, but consistent in the values that govern my behaviour.
Fairness. Gentleness. Courage. Responsibility. And love.
In John 13, Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. He knew who he was, where he had come from, and where he was going. He didn’t need to establish his importance by making someone else feel small. And the same Jesus who washed their feet could also correct them when correction was needed.
His gentleness wasn’t weakness. His authority wasn’t bullying. I find that worth contemplating.
Perhaps the real question isn’t whether we ought to offer someone a leash, a suitcase, or a cup of coffee. Perhaps it’s whether the person standing in front of us, whoever they happen to be, can trust us to treat them with dignity.
Even when we disagree. Even when correction is necessary. Even when they decide to leave.
The same voice. The same integrity. The same love.
Part of the Third Things collection on Running Down Vimy.
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