Stewardship, Surrender, and the Grace of Letting Go
It is a peculiar experience, the moment one realises that real power is not taken, or even granted, but held briefly, like a flame in cupped hands. And, eventually, inevitably, it must be passed on.
I first encountered this truth in the words oft repeated, by my minister in my teenage years. He would say, “I must decrease so you can increase.”
There was no bitterness, no lingering vanity. Just a kind of settled grace. He had led. He had shaped. He had left fingerprints on people’s lives. And then he let go.
And I’ve thought about that ever since: what it means to relinquish power well.
In a world so obsessed with acquiring, extending, and projecting influence, the act of laying it down voluntarily, wisely, and with joy is perhaps the most radical power move of all.
The Delusion of Perpetuity
The temptation, of course, is to believe that power once acquired must be preserved, like a family heirloom or a particularly stubborn houseplant. We have become accustomed to leaders who stay too long, teachers who cannot stop lecturing, clergy who confuse ordination with infallibility, and politicians who treat retirement as exile rather than evolution.
Power, in such cases, begins to decay. Not all at once, but gradually, its light dimming, its grip tightening, its bearer increasingly surrounded not by truth-tellers but by mirrors.
Foucault reminded us that power is relational, it flows. But once it stops flowing, once it is frozen into place, it becomes something else entirely: domination.
And domination is never wise, never generative. It is a symptom of fear disguised as strength. It is the act of clinging to the microphone long after the audience has left.
The Art of Stewardship
What, then, is the alternative? I propose that power, properly understood, is not something one owns but something one stewards, like a borrowed suit, meant to be worn with dignity but never mistaken for one’s own skin.
To be a steward of power is to hold it lightly, to know its contours intimately, and to understand that the true test of leadership lies not in how tightly one clings to the reins, but in how confidently one teaches others to ride.
In theological terms, we might say that power is a vocation, not a possession. We are called to it, shaped by it, but not fused with it. It is not who we are, but how we serve.
And here is the beautiful irony: the more we loosen our grasp, the more expansive power becomes. The moment we begin to share power, truly share it, not as a performance of inclusion but as a redistribution of agency, we find that our influence grows deeper, not narrower. We are no longer the centre of the circle, but we are part of a widening spiral.
The Crisis of Legacy
Of course, there’s a thorny problem beneath all this talk of letting go. Namely: What will remain of me, once I am no longer in charge?
It is a question that haunts many, principals, pastors, presidents, who have poured their identity into the vessel of leadership. Once the title is removed, the office vacated, what then? Who are we when no one asks us to speak first?
This is, I think, the truest spiritual task of surrender: to trust that our worth was never in the position itself, but in how we carried it. And that our legacy is not what we built alone, but what we made possible for others.
True leadership plants trees under whose shade one may never sit. And if we are fortunate, those trees will not be named after us, but will bear fruit far beyond our reach.
The Gift of Departure
There is also a surprising gift in relinquishment: the return of sight.
Power, even when wielded well, has a way of narrowing our vision. We are constantly watching, managing, curating, being observed. We begin to see the world through the lens of outcomes, metrics, meetings. But when the mantle is laid down, the field of vision widens. We begin to notice again. To listen differently. To learn.
Some of the wisest voices I know belong not to those currently leading, but to those who once led, and then stepped aside with integrity. They write, they mentor, they stroll slowly through gardens and offer the kind of counsel that doesn’t seek applause. They have traded the stage for the shade and in doing so, they are more powerful than ever.
The Sacred Exit
In the Christian tradition, we often speak of kenosis, self-emptying, as the model of Christ’s humility. It is not about erasure, but about deliberate relinquishment, a movement from status to service, from grasping to giving.
Might we imagine power in the same way? As something that reaches its fulfilment not in accumulation, but in graceful surrender?
Perhaps the most important question a leader can ask is not, “How do I stay relevant?” but “How do I depart well?”
And so, dear reader, we arrive at the end of this series of reflections, not with a crescendo, but with a bow. With an acknowledgment that power, when approached with humility and a touch of good humour, can be a noble companion. But only if we remember that it is just that—a companion, not a crown.
Let us, then, be stewards of power, wise in its use, generous in its sharing, and courageous in our letting go.
For in the end, the true mark of power is not how many follow when we lead, but how many rise when we step aside.
