Why Did Jesus Let People Walk Away?
What if one of the most surprising things about Jesus was his refusal to force a response?
Welcome to today’s reflection.
Each weekday, paid subscribers receive an exclusive reflection designed to offer a thoughtful pause in the middle of ordinary life. My hope is that these brief pieces create a little space for curiosity, contemplation and wonder amid the noise of the day.
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Now, on to today’s reflection.
Every minister knows the temptation.
When people react badly to something you have said, there is an almost irresistible urge to explain yourself and clarify what you really meant. To soften the edges and smooth over the tension. We want to be understood, and we certainly do not want people to leave because of something we have said.
I remember preaching a sermon that I knew people would not like.
The church I was serving had been declining for years. Attendance had fallen steadily over the course of a decade, but very few people wanted to talk about it. The figures were available to anyone who cared to look, yet there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that things would somehow work themselves out. Perhaps people hoped growth would return on its own. Perhaps it simply felt easier not to face the reality.
That Sunday, I decided to address it directly.
I shared the numbers. I talked about the trajectory we were on. Then I said something that felt uncomfortable even as it left my mouth. If nothing changed, I explained, the church would probably cease to exist within ten years.
The atmosphere afterwards was unlike anything I had experienced before.
People were polite, but unusually quiet. Conversations were shorter than normal. Some avoided the subject altogether. A few left quickly, trying to avoid me at the door. Driving home that afternoon, I wondered whether I had made an enormous mistake.
Perhaps I had been too blunt.
Perhaps I had said something that was true but unhelpful.
For weeks afterwards, I questioned myself.
Then something interesting happened. Slowly, conversations began to emerge. People started discussing the future. Questions that had previously been avoided were finally being asked. Difficult realities began to be acknowledged. The discomfort had not disappeared, but it had started to serve a purpose.
Looking back, I realised the silence had not been a sign that nobody was listening.
It was a sign that something had landed.
That experience remained with me, but not for the reason you might expect.
What lingered was not the discomfort itself. It was the realisation that I could not control what people did with what they had heard. I could speak as clearly as possible, but I could not make anyone agree or force a response.
The decision remained theirs.
