Word of Wisdom: Authority
“To punish me for my contempt for authority, fate made me an authority myself.” Albert Einstein
To be human is to have—somewhere, deep down—a disdain for authority.
In some of us it manifests externally, with frequency. Life is a continual sequence of collisions with people and parameters that we petulantly perceive to exist solely to annoy and antagonize us.
For others, it’s more of a slow simmer below the surface; we might go about our business, even in line with the dictates of an authority figure, all the while kvetching behind closed doors or venting under our breath.
Like the elder sibling of the prodigal parable, a deep resentment festers toward “the father” even as we diligently do our duty in keeping the estate running efficiently. “Authority” is to be obeyed—if not appreciated and enjoyed.
A collective embodiment of this is society’s love-hate relationship with “the police”—of whatever jurisdiction—from time immemorial. While on the one hand we citizens want someone out there to “protect the peace” from the vicissitudes of violence and anarchy, at the same time we quietly curse “the authorities” when the long arm of the law finds us out for some infraction. Those “authorities”, it seems to our minds, are capriciously toying with us, if not downright hostile to our pursuit of happiness.
Perhaps what lies beneath this is a sense—or, more likely, a fear—of powerlessness. An “authority” beyond us, above us, reminds us that we are not omnipotent; indeed, it draws our insecure attention to the reality that we are dependent on others, including the goodwill of some who have more “power”, in various contexts, than we do.
There’s a scene in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings that captures this fear profoundly, in print and on screen. As the fellowship, with a small army in tow, approaches the Black Gates, a menacing ambassador—“the Mouth of Sauron”—meets them, with deception and scorn. Each of those in the company resisting the Dark Lord has been battling their own insecurities—“Did I give wise counsel?”; “Do I have what it takes to lead?”; “Will I survive this?”—and the evil messenger seizes on each of those insecurities. Indeed, at the outset, he pierces their heroic but hesitant silence with this indicting inquiry: “Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?”
The question pierced them, because they were doubting whether they did. And many of us can relate to such a piercing probe.
The self-doubt the fellowship endured is familiar to us; to some degree, it is universal. “Imposter syndrome” reaches its peak in positions of leadership, when the rigors of responsibility increase and intensify. Whether we have adequate “authority” to meet the challenge is constantly in question, and seeing ourselves as a worthy “authority figure” is difficult. We doubt our strength because we know our own weakness. We doubt our wisdom because we know our own foolishness. We doubt our right to lead because no one has truly “authorized” us through affirmation and affection, leaving us to scrape together credentials and cling to positions of influence.
We do this (and we resist others’ influence) because we see authority as a means of control and security; we equate authority with dictatorial-like domination.
Perhaps, though, our equation is incorrect.
A prima facie assessment of the word itself begins to alter our understanding straightaway: at the root of the English term authority is the word author. When we think of positions of authority, titles like “president”, “general”, “commander”, “officer” come to mind—“author”, not so much (the maxim that the pen is mightier than the sword notwithstanding).
But as we dig deeper, more confounding truth emerges. The word author comes to us from the Latin term auctor, which means “a promoter, a builder, an historian, a teacher…a father”. Its literal meaning is, get this, “one who causes to grow”.
Far from a position of control and towering, intimidating status, the essence of authority is the act of intimately connecting, supporting, uplifting others—more a gardener on his knees with hands in the dirt than an untouchable potentate high above the grime of daily life.
Here, Tolkien’s Middle-earth is again instructive (perhaps one needs an author to understand authority, in more ways than one). In his creation myth at the beginning of The Silmarillion, the creator, Eru, involves his first created beings—powerful, archangel-like figures—in creation, declaring to them “a mighty theme” through music and inviting them to contribute to the theme in their own way. As the beauty and revelation progresses, the Lucifer-esque character begins to cloud the magnificent melody with divisive, discordant notes that create a despondent storm of sound among the others.
Here we would expect one “in authority” to offer rebuke and retribution; but far from it, the fictional creator weaves the sonic chaos back into a magnificent symphony with an ending even more beautiful than the first.
He authored a revised, redemptive masterpiece.
And so it is with the Father, who covers us after a fall. Who invites us to participate in the unfolding story. Who comes down into the garden to cause new things to grow. Who provides what is needed for the growth to be sustained. Who assures of the beauty of the conclusion even as the plot twists and thickens.
When we live as sons of this Father, we experience the freedom, the flourishing of what he authors—what he “causes to grow”, even after all seems lost. We experience the authority of One who makes all things new.
And when we live in that sonship, we can lead as fathers in that same authority, because it has already been given to us.
“And I will grant authority to my two witnesses, and they will prophesy for 1,260 days, clothed in sackcloth.” Revelation 11:3