It’s 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night, and I am wide awake.
Usually my kids are to blame for this sort of thing. They had a bad dream. They want something to eat. They forgot to tell me a funny joke they heard at school. Urgent stuff. But not tonight. Tonight is worse. What has awoken me is not my kids but my anxiety about a conflict at the church I co-pastor with my husband, Ike. Someone we love and are close to, someone who knows our family and our kids and who has been on mission with us for the gospel, doesn’t like a decision we made. They are so upset that they’re threatening to leave.
As soon as my eyes pop open in the darkness, the thoughts that have been churning for days resume:
Maybe if I explained this Scripture passage to them…
Maybe if I came at it from this theological perspective…
Maybe if I shared the wise counsel we received from experts in our congregation…
Maybe if they heard the stories of hurting people in our church…
And on and on it goes.
Throughout my time in ministry, I’ve experienced the occasional conflict-induced sleepless night—but, like many pastors, there’s been a marked uptick over the past two years. In 2020, as church leaders faced the triple whammy of the pandemic, nationwide racial tension, and a polarizing presidential election, the climate inside our churches changed with it. Our sanctuaries’ air became polluted by deep partisanship, which meant every decision, every statement, every sermon, and every social media post coming from pastors was interpreted through a political filter.
Because the risk of misunderstanding was so high, my husband and I gave a lot of time and attention to explaining ourselves. We taught through the Scripture that was guiding our decisions, and we were transparent about the wise and knowledgeable voices we were listening to. We knew this was necessary to instill trust in our people—and usually it did—but this approach also taught us a hard lesson.
What we’ve learned over the past two years is that no matter the scriptural exegesis you use, no matter the theological backing you appeal to, no matter the data, the experts, or your own record of integrity, you cannot convince people of something they do not want to believe.
Why? Because information is not nearly as powerful as we think it is.
In A Failure of Nerve: Leadership in the Age of the Quick Fix, author and family therapist Edwin Friedman described our limited influence this way: “The colossal misunderstanding of our time is the assumption that insight will work with people who are unmotivated to change.”
As much as we wish it were otherwise, information has far less influence than we give it credit for. Downloading the “facts” into others’ brains is not going to magically change their minds, but I will be the first to admit this hasn’t stopped me from trying. Whenever individuals in my church or personal life “need to be corrected” (according to me), I’m off to the races with all the arguments I could employ to persuade them. In seconds flat, I can summon a hundred different talking points to convince them of the truth, if I could just sit down with them to explain it.
But God is showing me that I’m not merely attempting to guide them—I’m actually trying to control them. I am relying on knowledge, information, and the truth of God’s Word to function like the reins on a horse, instantly directing others in the direction I want them to go.
But time and experience are teaching me that I am severely overestimating my own power to convince. Jesus himself hinted at the limited power of our arguments by concluding some of his hardest teachings with the statement “Whoever has ears, let them hear” (Matt. 11:15). The implication is that some will not hear. They will not understand—not because they cannot but because they will not. No amount of convincing, no matter how compelling the evidence or airtight the logic, will move them. Not if they do not wish to be moved.
Research has shown this to be true. When we use information to change someone’s opinion, it can, in some instances, have the reverse outcome. The backfire effect is a term used in psychology to describe the doubling down that occurs when people are presented with information that contradicts their own beliefs.
Rather than view the evidence objectively and adjust their beliefs accordingly, some people entrench their misbelief all the more. Further studies have shown that this phenomenon is especially likely to occur when belief is tied to identity. When new information feels like a threat to one’s identity or way of life, one is much more motivated to reject it.
Thanks to the past several years of ministry, Ike and I have learned to discern those who are receptive from those who are not. Bad-faith assumptions about our motives or a lack of genuine curiosity about our decisions are both sure-fire signs that our explanations will be wasted.
Yet even discerning a lack of true receptivity doesn’t always curb my illusions of influence. Against all experience to the contrary, I still have a deep-seated belief in my own ability to convince. I can spend days ruminating about the perfect argument with all the facts and perspectives that I am convinced cannot be refuted. But if I were to do this in real life—come at people like an attorney instead of a pastor—it would backfire horribly. And it has. Like all forms of control, it doesn’t work. It only feeds anxiety in me and strains my relationship with them.
Identifying this struggle with control has helped me greatly in two specific ways. The first is captured well by the phrase “When you name it, you tame it.” Tension in my neck, back, and jaw; the spiraling of my anxious thoughts; and the insomnia that follows are telltale signs that I am trying to control something God has not given me to control. Naming this temptation helps me reframe what is really happening: I am not merely trying to shepherd my people; I am trying to control them.
Second, this realization about control has emphasized the priority of listening as key to pastoral ministry. Our culture has become increasingly polarized partly because we are experiencing the backfire effect on a societal scale. When we try to control one another with arguments or attempts at persuasion, we often push our dissenters even farther away. In a loud environment like this one, the practice of being “quick to listen, slow to speak” is not just biblically faithful (James 1:19) but also a missional imperative.
In both structured and spontaneous ways, Ike and I are seeking to intentionally listen to our congregants—especially to those who may be disgruntled or angry. These times of focused listening serve as a countercultural witness in a society fractured by its issues with control.
Facing off with the ongoing temptation to control has been crucial for my own spiritual health as a pastor. We cannot control our people—and attempting to do so will only do damage. When we encounter the limits of our influence, we can do one of two things: resist, or recognize this as an opportunity to lay down a burden we were never meant to bear. The limits of our persuasion are not always a sign of the Fall. Often they’re a sign of the right order of things. They remind us that it is time to take up the lighter yoke and to fully trust the Spirit—the one true mover of hearts and enlightener of minds—to do the heavy lifting for us.
Sharon Hodde Miller leads Bright City Church in Durham, North Carolina, with her husband, Ike. She earned a PhD researching women and calling. Her latest book is The Cost of Control. Portions of this article are adapted from The Cost of Control by Sharon Hodde Miller (Baker Books, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2022). Used by permission.
This article is a part of our fall CT Pastors issue. You can find the full issue here.
