A Reflection on The Performance of Power in Public Life
The first time I stood at a podium, I felt as though I were borrowing someone else’s shoes—and they were a size too large and auspiciously polished. It was a school assembly, and I, fresh from being elected Head Boy (an honour I still suspect was the result of a clever joke gone too far), was to deliver a thank you on behalf of the student body to our retiring Headmaster, a luminary in academic circles, in front of more that two thousand students, teachers, parents and the media!
I remember quite clearly that my seventeen year old self said very little of substance—but I said it with an air of such practiced gravity and panache that several teachers nodded solemnly and one mother dabbed a tear. Thus, I was introduced not only to public speaking but to a curious truth I’ve observed ever since:
Power, when made visible, is always a kind of performance.
Whether you are a priest in a pulpit, a politician on the hustings, or a professor at the lectern, the role demands more than content—it demands posture, tone, rhythm, control of the room. You are not merely saying something; you are becoming someone. Power in public life is, quite literally, a persona—the “mask” worn before the crowd, designed to persuade, to inspire, or, at times, to obscure.
Now, don’t mistake me: this is not always a bad thing. We do need leaders who can rise to the occasion, who can hold the emotional centre of a room. A parent fumbles for the right words when explaining death to a child, and becomes—if only for a moment—more than just a parent: they become the first theologian in that child’s life. A teacher, standing before a restless class, summons the quiet charisma that turns a lesson into an awakening. A minister, rising to speak after tragedy, must channel not only their own voice but the silence of those who grieve.
All of this is performance in the noblest sense—a public act of meaning-making.
But of course, performances have their dangers. The most obvious is the slide into spectacle. Power performed too well becomes detached from substance. The speaker begins to believe in their own theatre. Words swell, gestures inflate, and soon you have a leader whose authority rests on their capacity to enthral rather than to serve. What was once a calling becomes an act; what was once leadership becomes mere showmanship.
There is another danger, more subtle: that those watching the performance will forget it is one. They mistake the office for the man, the tone for the truth, the robe for the righteousness. We see it in politics, in the cult of charisma; in theology, in the unquestioned pronouncements of spiritual leaders; in education, when eloquence passes for insight.
The antidote, I think, lies in a paradox: to perform power with sincerity, while also exposing its artifice. The best speakers I know—the best leaders—are those who speak not just from the front, but from within. Who allow glimpses of their doubt, their struggle, their humanity, even as they carry the weight of public responsibility.
Some years ago, I witnessed a minister deliver an address to a divided congregation. He began not with pronouncements, but with confession: “I am unsure how to heal this, but I stand before you because you asked me to.” The effect was electric. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was real. The performance served the truth, rather than concealing it.
So, let us not be ashamed of the performative nature of public power. Let us embrace it responsibly, with a touch of irony, a dash of humility, and an ever-present awareness that no robe, podium, or pulpit ever fully contains the person who stands within it.
As always, we return to the question whispered through this series: How might power be held in a way that ennobles rather than diminishes? Perhaps the answer, here, is simple: with authenticity rehearsed enough to be sincere, and sincerity humble enough to be questioned.
