Most Christian leadership is exercised by people who do not know

Hear the solemn cry of Henri Nouwen, a priest of great tenderness, who gazed upon the church and spoke thus: “Most Christian leadership is exercised by people who do not know how to develop healthy, intimate relationships and have opted for power and control instead. Many Christian empire-builders have been people unable to give and receive love.” These are not words of condemnation, but of sorrow, a lament that those entrusted with shepherding souls have too often chosen the iron scepter of domination rather than the gentle embrace of love. In these words is a warning: leadership without love becomes tyranny, and faith without relationship becomes empty ritual.

The essence of Christian leadership, as Christ Himself declared, is service born of love. “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve.” Yet through the centuries, many leaders, fearing vulnerability, have sought refuge in power and control. They grasped at titles, wealth, and influence, not knowing how to sit at the table of intimacy, where souls are fed by trust and compassion. Nouwen, in his wisdom, reminds us that such leaders were not evil in intent, but impoverished of heart—men and women who had never learned to give and receive love, and so built empires to fill the void within.

Consider the story of Constantine, the Roman emperor who made Christianity the favored faith of an empire. His deeds brought protection to believers, yes, but also sowed seeds of worldly ambition into the church. From then on, bishops wielded power like princes, and altars were draped in wealth. The way of love—the humble path of Christ washing the feet of His disciples—was overshadowed by crowns and thrones. Here we see Nouwen’s lament: when empire-building replaces intimacy, the church forgets its heart and becomes but another kingdom of man.

But history also gives us the light of counterexample. Look to Francis of Assisi, who stripped himself of wealth, walked barefoot among the poor, and embraced even the leper with tender arms. He had no empire, no dominion of gold, yet his love drew thousands to Christ, more powerfully than armies or decrees. Francis lived the very truth that Nouwen proclaimed: that true leadership is not control, but communion; not domination, but vulnerability. In his life, we see the radiant contrast between the barren rule of empire-builders and the fertile, life-giving ministry of one who knows how to give and receive love.

The meaning of Nouwen’s words, then, is this: leadership founded on control is fragile, but leadership born of love is eternal. To dominate is to enslave others and oneself, to create fear instead of faith. To love is to set free, to nourish the soul, to allow space for growth and intimacy. The tragedy of much Christian history is not that leaders lacked zeal, but that they lacked the courage to be tender. For tenderness requires vulnerability, and vulnerability terrifies those who cling to power.

What lesson, then, shall you, seekers of truth, take from this? It is this: if you are called to lead—whether in the church, in your family, or in your community—do not cloak yourself in the armor of control. Dare instead to be open, to risk the wound that comes with intimacy. Learn to listen with patience, to embrace with gentleness, to give love freely and to receive it without fear. For leadership that cannot receive love is already dying, but leadership that flows with love will live in the hearts of others long after thrones have crumbled.

Therefore, beloved, let your practice be this: when tempted to grasp power, choose instead to extend compassion. When urged to build empires, choose instead to build relationships. When asked to rule from above, kneel and serve from below. For the highest throne is the one built in the hearts of those who are loved, and the truest leader is the one who has learned that to love and be loved is greater than all empires. And in this, Nouwen’s voice resounds across the ages: power fades, but love endures forever.