Authority That Gives Rather Than Takes
by Donavon L Riley
Authority, in the modern mind, arrives wrapped in iron. It clangs into view like a sword striking a shield—loud, harsh, and cold. Modern culture has forged a new mythology: in its stories, all authority becomes oppression, a great shackle chaining the spirit of humankind. The priest stands among these ruined myths vilified as a relic of outdated hierarchies. Churches are seen as fortresses of conformity, God Himself an iron-fisted ruler from above. And so, we see the avoidance—those turned away, heads shaking, hands in pockets, avoiding not only the institution but the Truth that pulses through it.
But real authority—holy authority—is woven into the earth’s fabric, as tender as rain falling on dry soil. To stand beneath the roof of the Church is not to bow under a lash but to step into shade during a scorching noon. True authority bears weight, yes, but the weight of meaning, of love, of forgiveness that asks nothing but your readiness to receive it. God’s authority isn’t the rule of tyrants; it’s a king who breaks His bread and gives it freely. The Church is not a prison but a hearth, a place where fire and warmth gather. And priests? They are not officers in a lifeless bureaucracy but caretakers of the Holy Spirit flame, drawing weary travelers closer to the glow of grace and mercy.
Yet our culture tells another tale, one of distrust and rebellion. We have been trained to see freedom as the scattering of all bonds, as the rejection of roots and skies. The voice of the Church becomes, to these ears, a bark of some distant oppressor. And so authority—once meant to guide, sustain, and shelter—is recast as a cage. But how strange to flee from a house already open, to rage against doors unlocked. This reflexive rebellion blinds us to the kindness stitched into God’s rule: authority that binds only to keep us from slipping into the abyss.
What lies beyond this struggle is an old secret: authority that gives rather than takes. Imagine the priest not as a ruler but as one who offers bread with calloused hands. Picture the Church not as a monolith but as a clearing, a space carved out for renewal. The voice of God may not fit the expectations of a restless, scattered culture, but to those who stop and listen, it does not sound like iron. It sounds like wind moving through pine—a sound ancient, gentle, and alive. The world may rage against authority, but real authority calls softly, bearing the weight of the sacred, asking only that we follow.