A reflection on the Southern Baptist Convention, theology, psychology, and the temptation of control

Over the past several weeks, I have followed the conversations surrounding Dr. Albert Mohler’s proposed constitutional amendment for the Southern Baptist Convention. As expected, much of the discussion has focused on biblical interpretation, denominational identity, church governance, and the role of women in ministry. Those conversations matter, and sincere Christians have arrived at different conclusions regarding these questions for many years.

As I have listened to the debate unfold, however, I have found myself thinking less about the amendment itself and more about the broader themes that seem to surface whenever conversations about authority emerge within religious communities.

Perhaps that is partly the result of my own background. As both a clinician and someone who has spent decades in church and ministry settings, I have become increasingly interested in the ways individuals and institutions relate to power. I have seen authority used to protect, heal, guide, and serve. I have also seen authority used in ways that create fear, exclusion, and harm. More often than not, the difference has little to do with the stated purpose of the authority and much more to do with the posture of the people holding it.

For that reason, this is not intended to be a point-by-point argument for or against Dr. Mohler’s proposal. Many thoughtful people whom I respect hold differing views on the amendment itself. Rather, I find myself drawn to a different set of questions.

Why do conversations about authority so often capture our attention?

Why do they generate such strong emotions?

Why do human beings seem so consistently drawn toward questions of who may lead, who may decide, who belongs, and who does not?

And what might theology, psychology, and the example of Christ teach us about those tendencies?

Those are the questions I have been wrestling with as the SBC prepares to gather this year.

The Strange Attraction of Power

When conversations about authority arise, we often assume they are primarily about power. In some cases they are. Yet from a psychological perspective, power is rarely experienced as power by the people seeking it.

Most people do not wake up in the morning thinking about how to control others. They are thinking about creating order, preserving stability, protecting what they value, or remaining faithful to their convictions. In their minds, the pursuit of authority is often connected to something they perceive as good and necessary.

This is one reason power can be so difficult to examine honestly.

Power rarely introduces itself as a desire for control. More often it appears in the language of certainty, responsibility, protection, righteousness, or faithfulness. We become convinced that if people would simply adopt the correct beliefs, follow the correct practices, support the correct leaders, or embrace the correct values, many of our problems would be resolved. The desire itself may begin with good intentions, but it can gradually shift from persuasion to control without us fully realizing it.

Psychologists have long observed that human beings are not particularly comfortable with uncertainty. Ambiguity creates anxiety. Complexity can feel overwhelming. As a result, we naturally look for ways to make the world more understandable and predictable.

One of the ways we accomplish this is by creating categories.

Categories are not inherently harmful. In fact, they help us organize information and navigate a complex world. Problems arise when our categories become increasingly rigid and begin carrying moral weight. Instead of simply describing differences, they start dividing people into groups that feel fundamentally distinct from one another.

Over time, we may begin to sort people into categories such as faithful or unfaithful, trustworthy or suspect, orthodox or compromised, insider or outsider. These distinctions often provide a sense of clarity and emotional security. They make a complicated world feel more manageable.

Yet there is also a cost.

The more invested we become in maintaining these categories, the easier it becomes to overlook the complexity of the people within them. Individuals become representatives of a position rather than unique human beings. Nuance becomes difficult to tolerate. Curiosity gives way to certainty. Understanding becomes less important than classification.

This dynamic is not limited to any particular theological, political, or cultural perspective. It is a deeply human tendency. Whenever anxiety rises, the temptation to create increasingly rigid boundaries often rises with it.

The challenge is that while those boundaries may provide a temporary sense of safety, they can also create distance. They can foster suspicion. And, over time, they can contribute to the process psychologists describe as othering which is the tendency to view people primarily through categories rather than through their shared humanity and God-given dignity.

That process is often subtle. It rarely begins with hostility. More often, it begins with the understandable desire to create order in a complicated world. Yet if left unexamined, it can gradually shape the way individuals, institutions, and even churches relate to those who are different from them.

The Psychology of Othering

One of the more concerning tendencies in both individuals and institutions is the process psychologists often refer to as “othering.” At its core, othering occurs when we begin to view people primarily through a category rather than through the fullness of their humanity. We stop encountering them as individuals with stories, experiences, strengths, wounds, and dignity, and instead begin relating to them as representatives of a group, position, belief, or identity.

This is not simply a religious problem. It is a human problem.

We see it throughout history whenever societies divide people into those who belong and those who do not. We see it in politics when opponents become caricatures rather than neighbors. We see it in organizations when loyalty to a system becomes more important than listening to the people within it. We see it in families when one person is assigned the role of “the difficult one,” “the problem,” or “the disappointment,” and every interaction is filtered through that lens.

Religious communities are not immune to these dynamics. In fact, because faith communities often hold deep convictions about truth, morality, and identity, they can be especially vulnerable to them.

What begins as a desire to preserve doctrine or protect tradition can slowly shift into something else. Instead of asking, “How do we faithfully care for people while holding our convictions?” the conversation can become focused on determining who is acceptable, who is suspect, who belongs, and who does not. Over time, the category begins to overshadow the person.

From a psychological perspective, this tendency often emerges when people experience uncertainty or threat. Human beings naturally seek clarity, predictability, and a sense of order. One way we create that sense of order is by sorting people into increasingly rigid categories. Doing so can temporarily reduce anxiety because it simplifies a complex world. The problem is that people are rarely simple.

When we reduce people to categories, it becomes easier to dismiss their experiences, ignore their perspectives, or overlook the impact of our actions on them. Most of the time this does not happen because people are intentionally cruel. Rather, it happens because they become convinced that they are protecting something important such as a doctrine, a tradition, a culture, a denomination, or an institution and in the process lose sight of the people affected by those decisions.

Theologically, this should concern us because Christianity begins with the belief that every person bears the image of God. Before someone is a conservative or a progressive, male or female, pastor or congregant, insider or outsider, they are an image bearer. When our categories become more important than the people themselves, we risk losing sight of one of the most fundamental truths of our faith.

Jesus and Power

One of the things I find most striking about Jesus is the way He related to power. This may sound like an odd observation given that Christians believe Jesus possessed all authority, but that is precisely what makes it so noteworthy. Throughout the Gospels, Jesus consistently demonstrates authority while showing remarkably little interest in controlling people.

He certainly confronted people when necessary. He challenged religious leaders, corrected His disciples, and spoke hard truths that often made people uncomfortable. Yet His ministry rarely seemed focused on securing influence, protecting status, or consolidating power. In fact, many of the tensions between Jesus and those around Him emerged because others expected Him to pursue power in ways that He simply did not.

His disciples frequently viewed the kingdom through the lens of status and position. They argued about who would be greatest. They sought places of honor. At times they appeared eager to establish clear hierarchies and determine who belonged and who did not. Yet Jesus repeatedly redirected their attention elsewhere. Rather than emphasizing rank, He emphasized service. Rather than teaching them how to exercise authority over others, He taught them how to love, serve, forgive, and sacrifice.

This theme appears throughout the Gospels. While many expected a political Messiah who would establish power through force and authority, Jesus consistently moved in a different direction. He spent time with those who held little social power. He welcomed people who were often marginalized by religious systems. He challenged assumptions about who was worthy of attention, dignity, and belonging. Even at the height of His public ministry, He seemed remarkably unconcerned with preserving His position.

From both a theological and psychological perspective, this is significant. Human beings often assume that influence is best maintained through control. We tend to believe that if something is important, it must be protected through increasingly rigid structures of authority. Yet Jesus frequently demonstrated a different kind of leadership rooted not in coercion but in invitation, not in domination but in service.

Of course, this does not mean that boundaries are unnecessary or that doctrine lacks importance. The New Testament clearly shows that truth matters. The early church wrestled with theological questions, ethical concerns, and questions of community identity. But there is a meaningful difference between clarifying what a community believes and becoming preoccupied with regulating who may hold power within it.

As I read the Gospels, I am repeatedly drawn back to the observation that Jesus seemed far more concerned with the condition of people’s hearts than with securing His own authority. The kingdom He described was not built through control but through transformation. It did not advance through dominance but through sacrificial love. And that distinction feels especially important whenever the church finds itself investing significant energy in questions of power, status, and control.

Trauma, Power, and Religious Systems

My work in trauma care has profoundly shaped the way I think about power. Over the years, I have sat with individuals, families, organizations, churches, and leaders who have experienced both the healing and the harmful effects of authority. What I have learned is that power itself is not inherently good or bad. Power is simply the ability to influence outcomes, establish priorities, make decisions, and affect the lives of others.

Used wisely, power can create safety. It can protect vulnerable people, establish healthy boundaries, provide structure, and help communities flourish. Healthy leadership requires some degree of authority. Parents exercise authority. Teachers exercise authority. Pastors exercise authority. Organizational leaders exercise authority. The question is rarely whether power exists. The more important question is how it is being used and whether those who hold it remain accountable to the people they serve.

One of the more challenging realities I have encountered in trauma work is that harm is not always the result of malicious intent. In fact, some of the deepest wounds people carry were inflicted by individuals who genuinely believed they were doing the right thing. They believed they were protecting their family, defending their church, preserving an institution, or standing for truth. Their intentions may have been sincere. Yet sincerity alone does not prevent harm.

What often concerns me more than bad intentions is unexamined certainty.

When individuals or institutions become deeply convinced that their position is unquestionably correct, curiosity tends to disappear. Listening becomes less important. Feedback becomes easier to dismiss. Questions are interpreted as threats rather than opportunities for understanding. Gradually, attention shifts away from the experiences of people and toward the preservation of the system itself.

This dynamic is not unique to religious organizations. It can occur in corporations, schools, nonprofits, political movements, and families. However, religious systems face a unique challenge because they often operate with moral and spiritual authority. Decisions are not merely framed as practical or organizational; they are frequently presented as matters of faithfulness, obedience, and divine conviction.

That reality can make self-examination more difficult.

If leaders believe they are protecting God’s truth, it can become tempting to view disagreement as rebellion, concern as criticism, or questions as threats to the mission. Over time, preserving the institution may begin to feel synonymous with protecting the faith itself. Yet those two things are not always the same.

Trauma-informed care encourages us to pay attention not only to our intentions but also to our impact. It invites us to ask difficult questions: Who benefits from a particular decision? Who bears the cost? Who has a voice in the conversation? Who feels safe enough to express disagreement? What happens to those who find themselves on the margins of the system?

These questions are not signs of weakness. They are signs of humility.

In my experience, healthy leaders and healthy organizations remain willing to ask them, even when the answers are uncomfortable. They understand that authority is best exercised in the context of accountability, curiosity, and care for the people entrusted to them.

For churches, this may be especially important. If we believe that every person bears the image of God, then our systems should never become so important that we stop paying attention to the people those systems affect. Faithfulness requires conviction, but it also requires humility. It requires the willingness to ask not only whether we are defending what we believe is true, but also whether we are reflecting the character of Christ in the way we exercise authority.

What Are We Focusing On?

As I have reflected on the proposed amendment and the broader conversations surrounding it, I find myself returning to a question that extends beyond this particular issue.

What are we choosing to focus our collective attention on?

Every organization has limited resources. There is limited time, limited energy, limited emotional capacity, and limited institutional attention. Because of that, the issues that repeatedly rise to the surface often tell us something important about what we perceive to be most urgent.

This is where I find myself wrestling.

Over the past several decades, both as a clinician and as someone actively involved in church life, I have watched the challenges facing individuals, families, and congregations grow increasingly complex. Many pastors are exhausted. Many churches are struggling to navigate cultural polarization. Anxiety, loneliness, depression, trauma, addiction, and relational disconnection affect people in nearly every congregation. Survivors of abuse continue to seek places where they can be heard, believed, and supported. Younger generations often express deep spiritual questions while simultaneously feeling disconnected from institutional religion.

These are not hypothetical concerns. They are realities I encounter regularly in my office, in churches, in training events, and in conversations with ministry leaders.

For that reason, I find myself wondering what it communicates when questions about authority structures repeatedly emerge as matters of denominational urgency.

To be clear, I am not suggesting that questions of church governance or theological conviction are unimportant. Every denomination must wrestle with questions of doctrine, identity, and practice. Those conversations are part of organizational life and theological stewardship.

At the same time, priorities inevitably communicate values.

When significant amounts of time, attention, and energy are devoted to determining who may hold authority, I think it is reasonable to ask what other conversations might be receiving less attention as a result.

What would it look like if we brought the same level of passion and intentionality to helping churches become places of healing for those carrying trauma?

What would happen if we invested similar energy in equipping pastors to lead in ways that are emotionally healthy and sustainable?

How might our communities change if we focused more deeply on addressing loneliness, strengthening relationships, supporting families, and helping people develop genuine spiritual maturity?

What if the church became known not primarily for its internal debates about authority, but for its capacity to reflect the compassion, wisdom, humility, and healing presence of Christ?

These are not competing concerns. Churches can and should care about both doctrine and discipleship, both theological clarity and human flourishing. Yet I believe it is worth asking whether our public priorities accurately reflect the needs of the people we have been called to serve.

The questions we return to again and again often reveal what we fear, what we value, and what we believe is most important. As I observe the conversations taking place within the SBC, I cannot help but wonder what our priorities are communicating, not only to those inside our churches, but also to those watching from the outside.

Are we known primarily for protecting positions and structures, or are we known for helping people encounter the transforming love of Christ?

That question seems increasingly important to me.

The Witness of Humility

As I have reflected on these issues, one thought continues to return to me: power is often easiest to recognize when it belongs to someone else.

Most of us can readily identify the ways authority can be misused by people with whom we disagree. We can see the blind spots in other movements, other organizations, other leaders, and other theological camps. What is much more difficult is recognizing our own relationship with power and examining the ways we may become attached to influence, certainty, status, or control.

This is one reason humility occupies such a central place in the Christian life.

Humility is not the absence of conviction. It is not indecisiveness, passivity, or a reluctance to speak clearly. Rather, humility is the recognition that our understanding is always incomplete, our motives are often mixed, and our need for God’s grace remains constant. Humility allows us to hold our convictions sincerely while remaining open to self-examination.

From both a theological and psychological perspective, this matters more than we often realize.

One of the recurring patterns I have observed in individuals and institutions is the tendency to evaluate ourselves according to our intentions while evaluating others according to their impact. We know the reasons behind our own decisions. We understand our motives. We are aware of the fears, concerns, and convictions that shape our actions. Others, however, often see only the outcome.

As a result, it becomes easy to assume that our use of influence is justified while viewing the influence of others with suspicion. We may sincerely believe that we are protecting truth, preserving faithfulness, or defending what matters. Sometimes we may be. Yet humility invites us to ask an additional question: How are our actions affecting the people around us?

I find this particularly compelling when I consider the example of Christ.

Jesus possessed an authority unlike any other, yet He consistently used that authority in ways that drew people toward restoration rather than domination. He confronted injustice, challenged hypocrisy, and spoke truth with remarkable clarity. Yet His life was marked by service, sacrifice, compassion, and a willingness to lay down privilege rather than grasp for it.

For Christians, that example should shape not only what we believe but also how we hold those beliefs.

The credibility of the church has never rested solely on the accuracy of its doctrinal statements. Doctrine matters deeply, but throughout history the church’s witness has been most compelling when truth has been accompanied by humility, compassion, integrity, and love. People are often drawn to Christ not merely because Christians articulate theological positions clearly, but because they see something of Christ’s character reflected in the way those convictions are lived out.

As Southern Baptists gather this year, I find myself praying less about the outcome of a particular amendment and more about the posture of our hearts. That prayer includes my own heart as much as anyone else’s.

I pray that we would be people who hold conviction without contempt, authority without domination, and confidence without arrogance. I pray that we would remain willing to listen, willing to learn, and willing to examine ourselves honestly before asking others to do the same.

Most of all, I pray that we would remember that the central question facing the church is not ultimately how authority should be distributed, but how faithfully we are reflecting the character of Christ.

In a culture increasingly defined by conflict, certainty, and the pursuit of influence, a humble church may be one of the most powerful witnesses we have to offer.