Can a leopard truly change his spots?

That question from Jeremiah 13:23 presses on every parent, grandparent, teacher, mentor, pastor, and friend who has ever prayed for someone they love to change. We long for our children to grow in wisdom. We long for our students to walk in self-control. We long for adult children to return to Christ. We long for cold spouses, wandering friends, and weary church members to be renewed in faith. But wanting change and being changed are not the same thing.

This is one of the great humbling realities of parenting and spiritual parenting. We can create routines, enforce rules, give consequences, and provide structure. These are good and necessary gifts. Children need instruction. Students need correction. Families need boundaries. Churches need discipline. But the deepest problem in the human person is not a lack of information, structure, or rules. The deepest problem is the heart.

That is why Deuteronomy speaks so powerfully to every generation. Moses stands with Israel on the edge of the Promised Land and restates the covenant. He reminds them who God is, what God has done, and how God’s people are called to live. Deuteronomy functions like Israel’s covenant constitution. It gives the people a charter for life with God in the land.

Everything God commands is good. Everything God reveals is true. Israel knows what obedience looks like. They know the blessings and the curses. They know the call of Deuteronomy 6: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.”

But a deeper question remains. What will make stubborn people love the Lord?

That is the problem running beneath the surface of Deuteronomy. Israel does not merely lack information. Israel has a heart problem. Deuteronomy 9:6 says, “Know, therefore, that the Lord your God is not giving you this good land to possess because of your righteousness, for you are a stubborn people.” Then Moses commands them in Deuteronomy 10:16, “Circumcise therefore the foreskin of your heart, and be no longer stubborn.”

There is a command that exposes our helplessness. Circumcise your heart. Cut away the stubbornness. Love the Lord fully. But how can stubborn people make themselves new? That question reaches into our homes, our churches, and our relationships.

Much of parenting is spent confronting a loved one’s inability or unwillingness to listen. Every parent and spiritual parent knows the ache of asking, “Why will you not just listen? Why will you not change?” But underneath that daily frustration is a deeper spiritual question: What am I actually hoping will happen here?

Do I only want compliance? Do I only want quiet? Do I only want the room cleaned, the dishes done, the attitude adjusted, or the public embarrassment avoided? Or do I want something deeper? Do I want their heart to love what is good? Do I want them to hear and love the Lord?

If we want something deeper, then we must be honest: rules can restrain behavior, but rules cannot resurrect the heart. Consequences can expose foolishness, but consequences cannot create love for God. Methods can help shape the home, but methods cannot make a child new.

This does not mean we abandon rules, discipline, or structure. Scripture never calls us to a lawless home or a careless church. The answer is not to throw away these tools. The answer is to put them in their proper place.

They are tools. They are not saviors. Only Christ can take a stubborn heart and make it soft.

The Limits of Power

Parents and spiritual parents often reach for power tactics because we desperately want quick results. We see foolishness, disobedience, disrespect, selfishness, laziness, or rebellion, and we want something that works. So we reach for fear, rewards, or shame.

Fear uses volume, anger, or threats to produce compliance. It may work for a moment. A child may stop, quiet down, or do just enough to avoid punishment. But fear cannot form love for God. It often teaches children to hide their sin rather than confess it.

Rewards are not always wrong. Encouragement, celebration, and blessing have a place in family life. But rewards become manipulation when we use them to purchase obedience. The child begins to calculate: “Is the reward worth the behavior?” Parenting becomes negotiation, and over time, the price goes up.

Shame may be the most subtle tactic of all. “What is wrong with you?” “When I was your age, I would never have done that.” “Do you know what you have put us through?” These words may sting, but they do not teach a child what is good, true, and beautiful. Shame often reveals that the parent is more concerned with comfort, reputation, or control than with the formation of the child’s heart. God is not content merely to control us. He wants our hearts.

That is both humbling and freeing. We can admit our powerlessness. We cannot change the hearts of those we love. We cannot force love for God into existence. We cannot produce new birth by fear, pressure, reward, or shame. But God can.

The Goodness and Weakness of the Law

Because rules cannot save, we may be tempted to dismiss them altogether. But Scripture does not allow us to do that. God’s law is good. It teaches, protects, restrains, and exposes.

Paul says in Romans 7:7 that if it had not been for the law, he would not have known sin. The law gives us a standard. It shows us what righteousness looks like. It teaches children what is true and false, wise and foolish, right and wrong. It provides guardrails between children and destruction.

A lawless home does not produce freedom. It often normalizes selfishness, pride, and folly. But the law cannot transform the heart.

Deuteronomy 29:4 says, “But to this day the Lord has not given you a heart to understand or eyes to see or ears to hear.” The problem was not that God had failed to speak. The problem was that Israel lacked the heart needed to obey.

This is true for every generation. Children are not born as morally neutral blank slates. Scripture gives a deeper diagnosis than immaturity or bad behavior. The problem is sin.

No parent has to teach a child to lie, grab, hide, blame-shift, envy, demand, or say, “Mine.” These things come naturally because sin comes naturally.

And this should humble every parent. We are sinners trying to disciple sinners. We are spiritually needy parents raising spiritually needy children. We do not stand above our children as the righteous fixing the unrighteous. We stand beside them as those who also need grace.

We correct their selfishness while protecting our comfort. We rebuke their impatience while losing our temper. We confront their pride while refusing to admit when we are wrong.

If we misunderstand the problem, we will reach for the wrong solution. If the problem is merely behavior, more rules may seem sufficient. But if the problem is the heart, then only God can bring the change we truly desire.

The law is good. Instruction is necessary. But the law is not a Savior.

The Promise of a New Heart

This is where the hope of Deuteronomy shines. After exposing Israel’s stubbornness and warning them of judgment, Moses gives a promise.

Deuteronomy 30:6 says, “And the Lord your God will circumcise your heart and the heart of your offspring, so that you will love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, that you may live.”

What God commanded in Deuteronomy 10, he promises to do in Deuteronomy 30. God will cut away stubbornness. God will awaken love. God will give life. This promise ultimately leads us to Jesus Christ.

The law could tell us what righteousness required, but it could not make us righteous. It could command love, but it could not create a new heart. So God sent his Son.

Romans 8:3 says, “For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do.” Jesus came not merely to teach us how to live, but to redeem us from the curse of the law. Galatians 3:13 says, “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us.”

Jesus obeyed where we failed. He bore the judgment our stubborn hearts deserved. He hung on the tree as the cursed One so that sinners might receive the blessing of God. Through faith in Christ, sinners are redeemed. Through faith in Christ, we receive the promised Spirit. Through faith in Christ, stubborn hearts are made new.

This means our children, students, spouses, friends, and loved ones need more than better habits, stronger rules, or external pressure. They need Christ. They must be born again. They must be redeemed from their sin and brought into the joy of salvation.

Our calling is clear: we point them to the only One who can change a stubborn heart. We point them to Jesus Christ.

Gospel Tools for Parents and Spiritual Parents

If only Christ can change the heart, what should parents and spiritual parents do?

First, we preach and model the gospel. Our deepest desire should not merely be that our children behave, succeed, impress others, or avoid embarrassing us. Our deepest longing should be that they love Jesus. We want them to surrender their lives to Christ and know everlasting joy in him.

But we cannot make them love Jesus. We cannot control their hearts. We cannot produce new birth. Our responsibility is not to force heart change. Our responsibility is to faithfully bring the gospel near.

Every correction can become an opportunity. Every disappointment can become an opportunity. Every conflict between siblings, every anxious moment, every failure, and every ordinary Tuesday can become a moment to point our children to the grace of God.

We help them see that their behavior is not random. Their actions flow from their hearts, and their hearts need more than correction. They need Christ.

But we must not only speak the gospel. We must model it. Our children do not need perfect parents. They need dependent parents. They need to see mothers and fathers who confess sin, ask forgiveness, receive grace, practice patience, pursue gentleness, and live as children under the care of a gracious Father.

Second, we have gospel-shaped conversations. Discipleship is rarely one dramatic moment. More often, it is the accumulation of many small conversations over time. Bedside conversations. Car conversations. After-school conversations. Conversations after discipline. Conversations after disappointment. Conversations after church.

In these moments, we help our children build a biblical worldview. We help them understand that the world is broken because sin has affected everything. We help them see that envy, anger, selfishness, anxiety, and pride are not merely problems “out there,” but problems in the heart. Then we help them see the beauty of Christ, who frees sinners from guilt, renews our desires, and gives us grace.

We do not merely send children to their rooms to “think about what they have done.” We help them think with the gospel. We help them see themselves truthfully and Christ beautifully.

Third, we pray fervently for salvation. Proximity to the gospel does not regenerate the soul. Growing up in church does not automatically make someone alive in Christ. Attending Christian school does not create saving faith. Having believing parents does not guarantee a new heart. Sitting under faithful preaching does not save.

Only the power of God can change the heart of a sinner. So we pray. We pray for our children. We pray for our grandchildren. We pray for the children running through the halls of the church. We pray for anxious students, wandering young adults, cold spouses, and adult children far from the Lord.

We pray because we believe God can do what we cannot do. Lord, save the next generation.

What Our Children Need Most

There is a subtle temptation for parents to make their children’s success the great goal of parenting. We want them to get into good schools, win awards, make teams, earn scholarships, build careers, marry well, and live comfortable lives.

Those desires are not necessarily wrong. But they can become counterfeit parenting goals. They can reveal that our identity is too deeply tied to our children’s success. But our children need something greater than success. They need redemption.

Pushing children toward physical, social, educational, and reputational success while neglecting their souls is like painting a tomb. It may look beautiful on the outside, but inside, there is still death.

Every generation needs a new heart. And when our identity is found in Jesus Christ, our children no longer have to fill what is missing in us. They are free to be children. We are free to be parents and spiritual parents who point them to Jesus, model humble dependence, speak the gospel in ordinary moments, and pray that God would do what only God can do: Circumcise their hearts, give them life, and make them new in Christ.

There are certain moments when the past refuses to stay in the past. A mistake becomes more than a memory. It becomes a warning. A failure becomes more than regret. It becomes a teacher. A decision made in fear, pride, unbelief, or apathy can echo long after the moment itself has passed.

This is one of the great burdens of parenting, and even more broadly, of spiritual responsibility. None of us enters the work of discipling the next generation as a finished product. We come with our own failures, our own foolishness, our own inconsistencies, and our own need for grace.

I feel this most acutely as a father. I am not a perfect dad. I raise my voice too often. I demand when I should disciple. I correct behavior while neglecting the heart. Like Paul in Romans 7, I often find myself asking, “Who will deliver me from this body of death?”

And yet, in the middle of that honesty, two truths offer hope. God can redeem our foolishness, and God alone can change the hearts of our children. Those two truths sit near the heart of Deuteronomy.

The book opens with Israel standing on the plains of Moab, looking toward the land God had promised. Behind them were graves. Before them were giants. Around them were children who had grown up in the wilderness because their parents had refused to trust the Lord.

Moses does not rehearse Israel’s history as a mere record of events. He retells it as a reckoning. He brings the people back to Kadesh-barnea, the tragic turning point where one generation stood on the edge of promise and chose fear instead of faith.

The journey from Horeb to Kadesh-barnea was only eleven days. The land was close. The promise was within reach. God had already delivered Israel from Egypt, carried them through the wilderness, and spoken his law to them at Sinai. Yet when the spies returned and the people saw the size of the enemies in the land, they believed their fear more than the word of God.

Their fear did not merely make the giants look bigger. It made God look evil. They said, “Because the Lord hated us he has brought us out of the land of Egypt.” That is the voice of the foolish heart. God had rescued them, but they accused him of cruelty. God had carried them, but they accused him of hatred. God had promised them life, but they believed he was leading them to death.

This is what unbelief does. It distorts reality. It rewrites mercy as malice. It turns the Father who carries his children into a suspect enemy.

The consequences were devastating. An eleven-day journey became a forty-year funeral march. Israel wandered until the unbelieving generation passed away. Their children grew up in the shadow of their parents’ fear.

This is one of Deuteronomy’s sobering lessons. Folly never stays private. It always goes viral with pain.

That does not mean children are doomed by the failures of their parents. Deuteronomy does not teach fatalism. In fact, it teaches the opposite. After the wilderness generation perished, the Lord spoke again. He brought the next generation back to the edge of the land. Their parents’ failure did not cancel God’s promise. Their years of wandering did not exhaust God’s faithfulness.

That is good news for every parent, grandparent, pastor, teacher, and church member who looks back with regret. Your past can be confessed. Your sins can be forgiven. Your foolishness can be redeemed. And by the grace of God, even your failures can become warnings that help the next generation walk a wiser road.

But repentance must become more than regret. It must become renewed faithfulness. That is why Deuteronomy 4 begins with the words, “And now, O Israel, listen.” After Egypt, after the Red Sea, after Sinai, after Kadesh-barnea, after graves in the wilderness, God speaks again.

And now. That phrase matters. It means the past is real, but it is not ultimate. It means failure must be remembered, but it must not be obeyed. It means today is a place of decision.

Will Israel listen to the God who made them, rescued them, sustained them, and brought them to this moment? Will they receive his word as life? Will they refuse to add to it or subtract from it? Will they stop seeking second opinions from their fears, their idols, and the surrounding nations?

This remains the question before Christian homes and churches today. We are living in a deeply formative age. Children are not waiting until adulthood to be discipled. They are being discipled now. They are being formed by screens, songs, friends, algorithms, sports, entertainment, family rhythms, church practices, and the ordinary habits of the adults around them.

The question is not whether the next generation will be formed. The question is who or what will form them.

Many Christian parents fear social media, entertainment, cultural influencers, and ideological confusion. We should not be naïve about any of those pressures. But they are not ultimate. Children are still watching the people they know, trust, and rely upon. They are watching what we love. They are learning what matters. They are seeing whether our faith is credible.

This is why nominal Christianity is so dangerous. A faith that is present on Sunday but absent in ordinary life rarely appears compelling to the next generation. Proximity to Christianity does not change hearts. Children do not drift into lifelong faith because they grew up around religious activity. They need the gospel spoken. They need the gospel modeled. They need to see adults confess sin, repent honestly, worship joyfully, pray dependently, and live as though Christ is actually Lord.

In Deuteronomy 6, Moses gives Israel the central pattern for generational faithfulness:

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.”

Before God tells Israel to teach their children diligently, he tells them to love the Lord wholly. The words must first be “on your heart.” Only then are they to be taught in the home, along the road, at bedtime, and in the morning. This is not a program. It is a way of life.

The next generation needs more than religious information. They need spiritual formation. They need to be taught the existence of God: that he is real, supreme, near, and worthy of worship. They need to be taught the character of God: that he is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness. And they need to be taught the plan of God: creation, fall, redemption, and restoration.

Moses imagines a child asking, “What is the meaning of the testimonies and the statutes and the rules that the Lord our God has commanded you?” The answer is not, “Because we said so.” The answer is a story.

We were slaves.
The Lord delivered us.
He brought us out.
He gave us his commands for our good.

Christian discipleship must do the same. We tell the next generation the truth about the world: God made it good, sin has broken it, Christ has come to redeem it, and one day he will make all things new. We do not merely give children rules. We give them reality. We give them the story in which their lives make sense.

When they are afraid, we tell them God is near.
When they sin, we tell them Christ saves sinners.
When they feel shame, we tell them there is mercy.
When the world lies to them, we tell them wisdom begins with the fear of the Lord.
When they suffer, we tell them resurrection is coming.

This is the way. Not because a church slogan says so. Not because a parent’s preference demands it. But because Christ himself is the way, the truth, and the life.

This also means the church must recover the calling of spiritual parenthood. The responsibility for discipling children belongs first to parents, but it never belongs only to parents. The covenant community has always had a generational responsibility. Grandparents, single adults, empty nesters, young adults, pastors, teachers, and church members all have a role to play.

A spiritual parent is someone who takes an active role in relational discipleship. It may mean serving in children’s ministry, leading students, mentoring a young believer, praying for families, opening your home, learning children’s names, or simply becoming the kind of adult whose life makes faith visible.

The church does not need spectators watching the next generation drift. It needs spiritual parents willing to step toward them with truth, love, patience, and joy.

This begins in ordinary places. Open the Bible. Pray at the table. Sing in the car. Memorize Scripture. Read good books. Use catechisms. Confess sin when you fail. Ask forgiveness when you wound. Talk about Christ in the normal rhythms of life. Let children see that what is taught is also lived.

And when you fail, do not hide behind pride. Repent. The next generation does not need adults who pretend to be flawless. They need adults who know where forgiveness is found.

My own testimony begins this way. My father came to a critical moment in his early twenties. Separated from his wife and son, he called out to Jesus Christ to save him. Christ transformed his life. From that moment forward, he began leading his family to love the Lord. He brought us to church. He opened his life to the gospel. He took responsibility for the spiritual direction of his home.

When I was nine years old, I heard the gospel and believed it. My siblings grew up in the overflow of a decision my father made before they were even born.

I stand here, in part, because my father listened to the gospel at a critical moment. That is the power of today.

Today is not just another day. Today is a place of decision. The failures of yesterday can be confessed. The mercy of God can be received. The word of God can be heard again. And by grace, faithfulness today may become the testimony of the next generation.

The future of the church will not be secured by panic, nostalgia, or better programming alone. It will be shaped by ordinary Christians who hear the Word of the Lord, repent where they must, trust Christ today, and commend the gospel to the next generation with their words and their lives.

By God’s grace, may our children and our children’s children know the Lord, trust his redemptive plan in Christ, and walk in the way of life.

In season 5 episode 4 of The West Wing, the President asks his staff what the price of a gallon of milk is. It is a small detail, but it exposes something significant. He is concerned that the White House may be out of touch with the basic concerns of ordinary Americans, whom they have been tasked to serve.

We learn, however, that one member of the president’s staff knows the price quite well. Charlie Young, the president’s personal assistant, knows the price immediately. He tells him $2.69, $2.89 in Georgetown, and $2.54 with a coupon from the paper. He knows it because he has to know it. His mother died in the line of duty as a police officer, and he was left to help raise his younger sister. He knows what a gallon of milk costs because he lives close enough to need to know. He even knows the price with a coupon. The president is stunned by Charlie’s answer and orders everyone in the White House to be aware of the price of a gallon of milk.

The brief scene in a political drama reveals an essential question about leadership. Do leaders know the burdens of the people they are called to serve? Or have they become so insulated by wealth, power, and status that the struggles of ordinary people barely register? That question feels especially urgent right now.

When President Trump recently said he does not think about the financial situation of average Americans while discussing Iran, it reveals more than a policy position. It reveals a troubling distance between the leader and the led. At a time when many Americans are feeling the strain of rising costs, high gas prices, grocery bills, debt, and instability, such a statement lands with a certain coldness.

It makes me wonder. Does the president know the price of a gallon of gas?

Not in the abstract. Not as a talking point. Not as a number, some aide could hand him before a press conference. But does he know it the way a single mother knows it when she has to choose between filling the tank and buying groceries? Does he know it the way a working-class father knows it when every commute cuts deeper into the family budget?

Wealthy and powerful people can easily become detached from ordinary problems. They may speak about inflation, war, wages, and gas prices, but these things do not press on them the way they press on the people they govern. Their lives are often protected from the consequences of their own decisions.

This has always been one of the great dangers of war. The people who declare wars rarely fight them. The people who escalate conflicts rarely bury their sons. The people who speak in grand terms about strength, patriotism, or national interest often do not feel the weight of the bodies, the bills, or the broken homes left behind. When leaders lose touch with the struggles of the people, they lose the ability to lead them well.

In ministry, we often say that shepherds must smell like sheep. A pastor cannot faithfully shepherd people he does not know. If he is ignorant of their fears, wounds, temptations, griefs, and burdens, how will he apply the gospel to their lives? How will he comfort the afflicted, confront the proud, strengthen the weak, or guide the wandering?

The same principle applies to leadership everywhere. A leader who does not understand the suffering of his people will eventually begin to use them.

This is part of what makes Putin’s war in Ukraine so horrific. With staggering Russian casualties since 2022, he continues to send men into war. Citizens become pawns in the service of one man’s ambition. Their lives are spent for his vision of glory.

That is the dark logic of corrupt leadership. People become tools.

George Orwell captures this brilliantly in Animal Farm. At first, the animals are enslaved by man. By the end, they are enslaved by the pigs. The faces have changed, but the system has not. The pigs and the men become almost impossible to distinguish.

That is what happens when leaders forget the people. Citizens become mules for the master’s agenda. Church members become cogs in a pastor’s machine. Employees become instruments of a CEO’s ambition. Soldiers become expendable. Families become statistics. The people exist for the leader, rather than the leader existing to serve the people.

But Jesus shows us a better way. Jesus knew the anguish of the people. He saw the hungry. He touched the unclean. He welcomed the overlooked. He wept with the grieving. He had compassion on the crowds because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.

He did not use people to build his platform. He humbled himself and served them. He washed the feet of his disciples. He bore the burdens of sinners. He submitted himself to death on a cross for the redemption of his people.

The greatest leader who ever lived was not aloof from suffering. He entered into it. That is the mark of true leadership.

Leaders must know the burdens of their people. They must pay attention to their fears. They must understand the cost of milk, the price of gas, the weight of medical bills, the ache of grief, the strain of war, and the exhaustion of ordinary life.

A good leader does not stand above the people in detached self-interest. A good leader sees them, serves them, and knows the price of a gallon of gas.

In February 1984, David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross premiered at the Goodman Theatre in Chicago. The play follows four real estate salesmen who are desperate to outperform one another with the leads handed down by office manager John Williamson. The men live under the tyranny of a sales board. First prize is a new Cadillac. Second prize is a set of steak knives. Everyone else is disposable.

In the 1992 film adaptation, Alec Baldwin appears in a scene written specifically for the movie as Blake, a ruthless representative from the downtown office, Mitch and Murray, the shadowy power behind the entire operation. Blake arrives not to encourage the salesmen, but to humiliate them. He threatens their jobs, mocks their weakness, and reduces their value to their ability to close deals.

His famous line, “Always be closing,” is more than a sales slogan. It is a creed. It is a way of measuring human worth.

Before Blake delivers that line, the blackboard tells the story. Ricky Roma is at the top with $97,000 in sales for the month. Moss has $27,000. The other men are in a drought. They have sold nothing. In this world, the numbers do not merely reveal performance; they define identity.

Blake makes that clear when he tells Moss that he is a better man because he is more successful. His proof is material: an $80,000 BMW, a $10,000 Rolex, and a nearly million-dollar income. Then he says the quiet part out loud: “That is what I am. You are nothing.”

This is where the speech turns darker. Blake treats character, fatherhood, marriage, and ordinary faithfulness as distractions from the only thing that matters: closing. In his world, nobody cares whether you are a good husband, a present father, or an honest man. Your worth is displayed by the car you drive, the watch you wear, the income you earn, and the deals you close.

Shelly Levene embodies the desperation this system creates. He is a man trying to outrun irrelevance. In the opening scene, he begs Williamson for better leads, offering money and a cut of his commission. By the end of the story, we discover that Levene has stolen the leads and sold them to a former colleague. Moss had already floated the same plan. Roma misleads a client who wants out of a sale. The point is clear: when production becomes identity, character becomes negotiable.

These men are trapped in a system where the end justifies the means. Honesty, integrity, and compassion are liabilities. “Always be closing” becomes the law. If you are not winning, you are losing. If you are not producing, you are nothing.

That world is not as far from the church as we might want to believe. I have heard versions of Blake’s speech in ministry settings. The words may be softer, but the message is often the same: if you want to be a good father, find another profession. If you want to be faithful to your family, do not expect to be impressive. If you want to rest, you lack drive. The system rewards the work addicts, then quietly hands them divorce papers, anxiety, burnout, and hidden addictions as consolation prizes.

One sin we rarely discuss honestly in men’s accountability groups is the fear of man. We talk about lust, anger, and pride, but we often ignore the deep craving to be accepted, admired, platformed, and respected by the right people. We want to know: Do the impressive men see me as one of them? Am I respected in the room? Am I successful enough to belong?

I have wrestled with this sin personally. Shamefully, I suspect that part of my desire to pursue a doctoral degree was tied to a longing to be seen as an equal among former seminary classmates. That craving for acceptance did not begin in adulthood. Since middle school, I have struggled to feel like I fit. I was decent at sports but never the star. I was a quiet student who rarely raised his hand. In high school, I often felt like the new kid in a small town who never truly belonged.

Later, I planted a church and felt ignored by other pastors in my region. I began to realize something painful: success does not always bring acceptance. Sometimes it only creates new forms of comparison.

That is because the American vision of manhood often teaches men to win above all else. Other men are not brothers; they are competition. Glengarry Glen Ross exposes this world with brutal honesty. The working man lives among wolves, and wolves win at any cost. Everyone else is a sheep to be devoured. It is not personal. It is only business.

But the Christian life offers a better word.

I am always struck by Jesus’ words in Matthew 18. While his disciples are debating greatness, Jesus places a child in front of them and says:

“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”

The greatness of Christ’s kingdom is not the greatness of Blake’s sales floor. It is not dominance, swagger, intimidation, or ruthless ambition. The greatest man in the kingdom is not the killer in the office, but the humble servant who knows his need before God.

And yet, many American Christian men struggle to believe this. We may admire Jesus’ words, but we often live by the philosophy of Glengarry Glen Ross. We still measure men by visible success, public strength, platform, productivity, and power. We may speak the language of humility, but we often reward the men who can close, conquer, build, win, and dominate.

Jesus overturns that entire system. In his kingdom, the way up is down. Greatness is not found in proving ourselves before other men, but in humbling ourselves before God.

We are not defined by our wins and losses. We belong to Christ. Our value is not established by sales, salaries, degrees, platforms, attendance numbers, sermon responses, or social media reach. We are servants of Christ, called to bear the fruit of righteousness. Our character matters more than our trophies.

That means a sale must be made honestly. A sermon must be preached faithfully. A family must be shepherded tenderly. Work should be pursued with excellence, but the results must be entrusted to the Lord. Our hope is not in how others view us. Our hope is in Christ.

I have spent years wrestling with acceptance. That struggle still ebbs and flows. But over time, the opinions of others have begun to lose their power. I cannot control who likes me. I cannot force certain people to respect me. I cannot secure every invitation, platform, or opportunity. What I can do is refuse to live under a system that contradicts the way of Christ.

I hope people will recognize the good qualities God has formed in me. I hope they will show grace toward my weaknesses. But I will not chase approval as though my worth depends on it. And if faithfulness means I am not invited into certain rooms, then I can be at peace. Because the goal is not to always be closing. The goal is to be faithful.

There is a strange and painful way bad leadership thrives. The best people leave.

That was the central insight behind a recent Economist article on emigration and bad rulers. The article focused on Hungary, where Viktor Orbán has remained in power for nearly sixteen years. As Hungary faces political corruption, economic decline, and weakening democratic norms, many of its educated, ambitious, and reform-minded citizens have begun to leave. Young professionals, scientists, entrepreneurs, doctors, lawyers, and other skilled citizens are moving elsewhere in Europe or even to America in search of better opportunities and freer societies.

On one level, this makes sense. If a country becomes oppressive, corrupt, or hopelessly mismanaged, people will look for a better future somewhere else. They will ask: Why stay? Why keep fighting? Why keep speaking when no one in power will listen?

But that is where the problem becomes complicated. When the very people most likely to challenge bad leadership leave, their departure can unintentionally help bad leaders survive.

The Problem of Brain Drain

We often describe this kind of departure as “brain drain.” A country loses its doctors, lawyers, professors, entrepreneurs, business owners, and young professionals. This affects the economy, weakens institutions, and limits future opportunity.

But the loss is not merely economic. It is moral. A country does not simply lose talent. It loses courage and discernment. It also troublingly loses the voices of opposition. It loses people who might have organized reform, demanded accountability, exposed corruption, and challenged the lies of those in power.

When good people leave, pressure is removed from the system. The opposition becomes thinner. Fewer people speak up and ask hard questions, which decreases the demand for change. Those who remain may become more isolated, more dependent, and more afraid.

Bad leaders can then point to the absence of critics as proof that all is well. They can say, “The troublemakers are gone. The divisive people left. We are more unified now.” But sometimes what looks like unity is not unity at all. It is simply silence.

When This Happens in the Church

This same dynamic can happen in churches, businesses, institutions, and ministries. People leave churches for many reasons. Some leave because of preference. They do not like the music, the preaching style, the programs, the Bible translation, or the way certain decisions are made. Those frustrations may be real, but they are not always matters of biblical principle.

But other people leave because they have tried to speak up about serious concerns: dishonesty, manipulation, lack of accountability, misuse of authority, spiritual pride, hidden dysfunction, or leaders who refuse to listen. And often, the people who leave are not the least committed in the church.

They are often among the most faithful. They served. They gave. They volunteered. They organized. They cared. They loved the church enough to ask hard questions. They were not trying to tear the church down. They were trying to help the church become healthier, more honest, and more faithful to Christ.

But after a while, they got tired. They got tired of being dismissed. They got tired of being labeled divisive. They got tired of watching leaders protect themselves instead of protecting the people. They got tired of raising concerns that were never addressed.

So they faced a painful question: Do I stay and keep speaking, or do I leave and build somewhere else?

When Bad Leaders Benefit From Departure

Here is the painful irony: bad leaders often benefit when faithful people leave. Once those people are gone, leaders get to tell the story.

They can say, “They were never really committed.”
“They did not respect authority.”
“They were not aligned with the vision.”
“They were divisive.”
“They wanted their own way.”
“We are better off without them.”

And sometimes people believe it because they never hear the full story. The concerns remain. The dysfunction remains. The lack of accountability remains. But the people who were willing to name those concerns are no longer in the room.

This is why the departure of faithful people can create a false sense of peace. The church may seem quieter. The staff may seem more aligned. The congregation may seem more unified. But quiet is not always healthy.

A silent church is not necessarily a unified church. A peaceful institution is not necessarily a faithful institution. Sometimes the silence simply means the courageous people have left.

The Cost of Losing the Faithful

When faithful people leave, the loss is deeper than one less family, one less volunteer, one less giver, or one less person in the room. The church loses wisdom. It loses people who might have protected the vulnerable.
It loses people who could have helped leaders see what they refused to see.

This is not to say that everyone who leaves is right. People can leave for sinful reasons. People can exaggerate concerns. People can be divisive. People can confuse preferences with principles. But leaders should be very slow to assume that every departure is rebellion.

When people leave, wise leaders ask better questions. Were they trying to tell us something? Did we listen?
Were we approachable? Did people feel safe bringing concerns? Did we mistake loyalty to leadership for loyalty to Christ? Did we say we wanted accountability while resisting actual accountability? Did we protect the people, or did we protect ourselves?

Those are not easy questions, but they are necessary ones.

Preferences or Principles?

For those wondering whether to stay or leave, one of the most important questions is this: Am I standing on biblical principle or personal preference? Preferences matter, but they are not ultimate. Music style, carpet color, programming decisions, and secondary ministry strategies may frustrate us, but they are not always matters of faithfulness.

Biblical principles are different. Truth matters. Honesty matters. Accountability matters. Justice matters. The dignity of people matters. The spiritual health of the church matters. The protection of the vulnerable matters. The authority of Scripture matters.

No one is called to obey another person’s preferences. Christians are called to obey Christ. So if you are speaking up, speak from Scripture. Speak with humility. Speak with clarity. Speak with love. Do not gossip. Do not stir up division for selfish reasons. But do not confuse silence with faithfulness either. Truth-telling is not gossip when it is aimed at light, repentance, protection, and health.

The Identity Crisis of Leadership

Bad leadership is often tied to a deeper identity problem. Leaders in politics, business, and the church can begin to measure themselves by what is visible: attendance, giving, election victories, economic numbers, sales reports, social media platforms, public praise, and institutional success.

Those things are tangible. They can be counted. They can be displayed. They can make a leader feel secure. But they do not reveal the heart.

For Christian leaders, the real measure is not platform, power, or numbers. The real measure is faithfulness to Christ.

A leader whose identity is rooted in Christ does not have to treat every concern as an attack. He can listen. He can repent. He can evaluate criticism honestly. He can ask, “What is best for the people?” rather than, “How do I protect my position?” That kind of leadership is rare because it requires security in Christ rather than security in control.

The Mission Is Not Ours to Invent

For the church, this all comes back to mission. The church does not invent its own mission. Pastors do not create their own ultimate vision. God has a mission, and God has a church to accomplish that mission. We partner together in the gospel. We partner together to disciple God’s people in the Word. We partner together to teach all that Christ commanded. We partner together to send people, resources, and gospel witness to the ends of the earth. That is the mission.

Leaders are not owners of that mission. They are servants of it. This is why congregational responsibility matters. A healthy congregation is not a mob demanding its own way. A healthy congregation is a body of believers who love the church, love the gospel, and are willing to ask, “Are we being faithful to Christ?” Pastors should love that question.

Faithful leadership should welcome wise correction because the goal is not the protection of the leader. The goal is the faithfulness of the church.

Stay or G