The Baron
At first glance, he looked like a perfectly ordinary chap. I had no idea he was so immensely powerful. He had developed the ability to control an army without so much as a word. No barked commands needed from him, no parade-growl yell of intimidation. Just a raised eyebrow. A frown. The shake of a head, and they all knew, and would respond accordingly. Obedience without question or hesitation. I glanced again. He was the king of a kingdom.
Scanning the otherwise responsive congregation as I preached, now he stood out like a very sore thumb. Seated six pews back on the left – the place where, I later learned, he always sits, his pew – he didn’t look too happy. Either he was fighting to digest some food that had passed its sell-by date or he struggled to agree with what I was saying. Finding his stony expression a little disconcerting, and battling a niggling anxiety that I had inadvertently uttered something quite heretical, I made the mistake common to many preachers, as I tried in vain to draw him into my sermon. Hoping for the merest hint of a smile, or even a nod of affirmation, I looked his way as I spoke. But he just stared straight ahead, arms folded and locked, a grim statue of a man.
Then it dawned on me that I was not the only one interested in his expression. A good number of the congregation were listening to me, but had one eye on him. Some were actually leaning forward to catch a glimpse of his reactions. I wondered. Why the fascination with him and his facial arrangements?
That’s when I realised that they, like me, were tensely waiting for a cue. Obviously quite a significant player in that church, this man’s opinion was esteemed, his influence heavy, and so his response to this new speaker – namely me – was a matter of great importance to almost everyone in the place. If he looked unamused, then their expressions turned frosty. If he appeared concerned, raising a perturbed eyebrow or offering even a hint of a frown, then where his eyebrows went, others followed. Whatever he did, they followed suit. I guessed that if he had smiled, then they would have relaxed, sighed with relief, and smiled too. I said I guessed. He never did get around to smiling.
Inwardly, I made a diagnosis, which later conversation proved to be right. He was a baron.
Barons are everywhere. You’ll find them in every social context; committees, parent-teacher associations, clubs, families, and of course, churches. Barons are control freaks on steroids. They like their coffee, their homes, their marriages and their churches to be neatly arranged around their preferences, their environment neatly designed to their precise specifications. Some are recognised leaders, most are not, but all of them certainly know how to get people to follow them.
Barons will use a variety of tactics to get exactly what they want.
Some are gifted exaggerators, spinning stories of mass discontent to create fear. Often they claim to represent the majority, insisting they have a mandate for their opinion. ‘Everyone’s leaving the church,’ said one baroness to me, who boasted a PhD in control.
‘Really?’, I enquired, genuinely alarmed at the potential exodus, but wanting to know exactly who was about to leave. ‘Well’, she nodded gravely, as if the place was emptying even as we spoke, ‘lots of people are leaving the church.’
‘May I enquire as to exactly who is leaving?’
‘Two or three people ...’
‘Please tell me who.’
‘Well, I don’t like what’s going on here, and if it doesn’t change soon, I am leaving the church.’ I resisted the temptation to do a little joyful dance.
Some control by undisguised bullying. If they’re leaders, they hiss that any dissent is divisive disloyalty, and an opinion contrary to theirs is a betrayal, an insult to their integrity. The statement, ‘You’re a threat to our unity’ is as devastatingly effective as ‘You’re a witch’ was once to an unfortunate soul strapped into a ducking stool by a river.
Still other barons use quiet, meek stealth, controlling as they don an apparently fragile demeanour. Concerned that confronting them would destroy them, everyone creeps around them, and the crunch of eggshells underfoot is deafening. And then there are the baronial control freaks who use syrupy pleasantness to get their way. They smile, and seem impossibly kind; to cross them would feel quite wrong, they seem so nice.. But behind the smarmy grin is a calculating mind.
And church barons have the ultimate weapon. The G-factor. G for God.
When control freaks produce the God card from up their sleeve, they usually hold a winning hand. When you insist God has spoken to you, or you’re definitely representing what He thinks, you play the ultimate trump card. Few will challenge you, and those that do don’t stand much chance of winning.
But even though barons may be powerful, they are not usually brave in battle. When they’re in danger of losing an argument, they often cancel the conversation by jumping up and walking out. This is an ingenious device, giving the impression they are being highly principled in their retreat, when they’re actually just running for cover. So what if it’s a cowardly stunt? Whatever works.
Barons. Perhaps you know one. Perhaps you are one.
Meanwhile, back at the church where I was preaching, the baron sat rigidly unmoved, and the people around him were becoming tenser by the moment. Barons. They control, confuse and create havoc in churches, in marriages, in friendships. Don’t be one.