It always starts small: A glance. A whisper. A passive-aggressive cut. A secret conversation. A decision made behind closed doors.
Jesus calls it “leaven”—that slow, quiet spread of something seemingly innocuous that changes the whole batch. He brings this up, according to Luke 12, to the crowds now, not just the disciples. He’s talking to all of us. Jesus isn’t warning us about the occasional act of hypocrisy. He’s not just pointing out a bad personal habit; he’s calling out a shared culture—a system propped up by appearances and protected by power.
The kind of culture that rewards those who know how to smile through gritted teeth. The kind that trains its leaders to never let their guard down. The kind where you learn to play the part, not confess your heart. The kind of culture where if you see something, you say nothing.
You can smell it in the air, can’t you? When a church becomes more about managing image than embodying grace, the soul starts to sour. It’s subtle. Just a pinch. But over time, it works through the whole loaf.
Jesus says there are things whispered in rooms that will one day echo from rooftops. Not just personal sins, but structural ones. Boardroom betrayals. Conflicts hushed in the name of “staying on mission.” Decisions made in secret, behind a veil of “need to know.” Curated facts told under the guise of Truth.
But the Gospel doesn’t operate in shadows. It calls everything into the light—not to shame us, but to heal us. Because when secrecy becomes the strategy, it’s no longer Christ’s church we’re building, it’s our own little kingdom. And we become its nervous kings.
This is where it gets personal.
Because I know the temptation—to perform, to self-protect, to say the “right” thing instead of the true thing. To be more concerned with my status than others’ hearts. I’ve been the one to tell a story in the way that makes me look good and others look bad. I’ve been the nervous king. God, forgive me. God, help me.
I’ve also been the one unjustly painted as the villain. There is still a narrative being told regarding why I left my previous church that says, “Rodger is never going to be happy until he’s a lead pastor.” And “Rodger is disloyal—he’s looking for other jobs.” I’ll refrain from defending myself against those for the moment. But per this conversation I’ll point out that these explanations are designed to make me look like the problem rather than the pastor (who unilaterally sought to punish me) and the leadership structure (who protected him) owning up to their wrongdoing. Instead, silence. Deflection. Cover up. Reversing blame onto the victim. One small, quiet conversation at a time.
And so it is that the leaven works it’s subtle image-management magic.
A culture of authenticity is hard to build. It means letting go of control. It means creating space for slow growth and awkward conversations. It means sometimes saying hard things, but saying them in love—and then apologizing when we may have said something true, but out of anger or fear. It means we stop expecting people to show up shiny, and instead invite them to show up human.
In my previous church, shiny was more prized than human. Honesty was not rewarded, it was penalized. Most of the time with passive-aggressive punishments—until the honesty became far too offensive to egos. In the end, my punishment for truth-telling was a private kick in the ass, accompanied by a public feigning of graciousness as the door was held open. In the end, my story was heard by only 50 percent the board, and zero percent of the staff. Years-long relationships were cut off; me and my family were ostracized. Pseudo-spiritual words like “unity” and “loyalty” and “calling” were leveraged to silence further questions and honest conversations. The strategy, was damage control rather than confession.
Keep it all in the dark. Let the leaven do its thing.
Maybe Jesus’ warning isn’t just a warning. Maybe it’s an invitation. To take our secrets and meet Him in the open. To trade our curated perfection for honest, messy faith. To become a people whose hidden places are safe—not because they’re buried, but because they’ve been brought to light and met with grace.
Every hidden thing will come to light. When it does, we can remain hidden or we can be healed.
We can receive the light as a threat. And when it comes, we will clutch our pearls. We’ll deflect accusations onto others. We’ll lash out. We’ll ignore wise counsel. We’ll make things worse. We’ll keep ourselves—and perhaps worse, our church community—in the darkness.
Or we can receive the light as a promise. And when it comes, we won’t be afraid. We’ll welcome the humility. We’ll see ourselves and others more clearly—warts and all. We’ll find that we’re actually walking in the light, not just flipping on the light switches that serve ourselves.