I’m definitely an indoor pet when it comes to holidays. There’s something about the condensational sweat inside a tent that makes me gag when I wake up from camping. However (and every amateur psychologist will judge me for this) I love lighting fires. We have a small fire pit in our back garden and I love getting it blazing and showing off my hunter-gatherer spirit. Building a fire though is slow, deliberate work. I have to get all my kindling and sticks, logs and matches, arrange it carefully, strike a spark, and lean close to blow on it until it catches. Having three boys who want to get involved is chaotic though. As much as I may have taken an hour to get all my stuff sorted, and little spark caught, that fragile glow can be extinguished in a moment. One careless kick of dirt, one gust of wind, one splash of water from a water pistol, and all the effort is gone.
The same is true of leadership and ideas in the church. My wife and I have laughed about this for years, it’s much easier to extinguish a fire than to build one. For context, my wife has the most amazing gift of discernment, and I freely admit that this has often saved me from lighting ‘fires’ that would probably burn our house down, but I do think there is a lesson here! Whether it is the emergence of a leader, or an idea that someone has, why do we find it easier to extinguish than to fan that leader, or idea, into flame?
The Tallest Poppy
I think it was the Australians that developed a name for this but it’s alive and well in Irish culture also. Actually, perhaps all the Irish people sent there have brought this with them! It’s referred to as “tall poppy syndrome.” As soon as someone rises above the crowd, the instinct is to cut them back down. It can be made to look like humility or levelling, but in reality it can often mask envy, fear, or discomfort with someone else’s success.
Christians are not immune. I have thought of John Mark Comer recently and how in the last year I have read more about how dangerous his ideas are than I have read of him myself. Maybe it’s because in our context people aren’t that aware of him. Perhaps it’s because he’s not really saying anything remarkably new. But to see my Substack feed and Twitter timeline, writing about Comer is a surefire way to get hits. It appears on the surface, and from some dear friends of mine, that his writing on hurry, formation, and simplicity has shaped people’s lives in a positive way. Yet almost as quickly as his books spread, the critiques came. He was too trendy, too shallow, too close to the cultural edge. Someone said he was our generation’s Rob Bell, usually a pre-cursor to a ‘farewell.’ Some of the concerns may have substance, every leader has blind spots and says poorly thought-out things, but the reflexive suspicion itself reveals something troubling. It is easier to find fault than to give thanks.
The instinct runs deeper than just with Comer. Tim Keller, John Piper, even C.S. Lewis in his day, none of these escaped suspicion for heresy, cultural Marxism, and downright ‘winsomeness’. The irony is that those who rise to speak to culture often do so at cost, through decades of faithful service, yet as soon as their voice is heard, they are dismissed with a flick of the wrist on a keyboard.
The Strange Allure of Criticism
Why does tearing down feel so natural to us? Why is it an easier itch to scratch? Why can we hone in on what’s wrong often before we praise what is good? Part of the reason is that criticism is cheap. Building requires sacrifice, but at cost to ourselves in the encouragement, generosity, humility, even the willingness to learn from someone younger or less experienced. Criticism demands none of this. Anyone can lob a clever point from the sidelines. It requires nothing of us, just a loud voice and an opinion.
Criticism also can provide a cover for envy. Instead of confessing that another’s gifts unsettle us, we baptise our discomfort as “discernment.” Cutting others down to size feels safer than confronting our own insecurities. And of course, criticism spreads faster. Social media thrives on suspicion. Outrage and accusation go viral. Negativity carries an aura of critical intelligence that affirmation rarely does. To praise seems naive. To critique looks wise. We are ever clambering to become the newest cynical genius.
Yet this is not neutral ground. James warns that “the tongue is a fire” (James 3:6). Our words can warm or consume, ignite joy or scorch the ground. Paul urges believers to let no corrupting talk come from their mouths, “but only such as is good for building up” (Ephesians 4:29). Too often our quick critiques function not as careful discernment but as buckets of water tossed onto sparks the Spirit is stirring. Whose fire are we then seeing to put out?
Scripture’s Counter-Instinct
The New Testament itself recognises this temptation. In Philippians 1, Paul observes that some preach Christ out of envy and rivalry. Even in the first century, leaders were jostling for influence. His response is startling: “What then? Only that in every way, whether in pretense or in truth, Christ is proclaimed, and in that I rejoice” (Philippians 1:18). Paul does not minimise false teaching of course, but his default reflex is joy at Christ being proclaimed, not suspicion at others gaining influence.
Barnabas embodies this posture even more. Nicknamed “son of encouragement,” he took the risk of vouching for Paul when others distrusted him (Acts 9:27). Later, when John Mark deserted the mission, Barnabas insisted on giving him another chance (Acts 15:37–39). Without his encouragement, the church might have lost both Paul and Mark. His ministry was not flashy but vital, Barnabas protected sparks until they became flames. Jesus himself did the same of course. He called Peter close when he was still unreliable, saw in Matthew a disciple while he was still a tax collector, and entrusted a Samaritan woman with witness despite her fractured reputation.
Why We Extinguish
Still, we are drawn to the bucket of water rather than the kindling. Whether we might admit it or not often it is fear that drives us. The thought that if people listen to them, they won’t listen to me. Influence feels scarce, so another’s rise feels like my loss. Sometimes it is cynicism. The conviction that, because leaders have fallen before, this one will inevitably follow the same path. And just as often it is pride. The quiet voice saying, “I could do better if I had the same platform that they did.” Criticism doesn’t as much prop up our fragile egos as much as we gain by cutting others down. The consequences are not small. Young leaders grow hesitant, fearing backlash. Creativity withers. The community becomes defined by its opposition rather than its hope. Grace, the oxygen of the kingdom, is replaced with suspicion and competitiveness.
The alternative is harder but more Christlike, the work of building rather than tearing down. It means cultivating the discipline of gratitude, looking first for what we can give thanks for rather than for what we can dismantle. It means speaking encouragement aloud instead of keeping it private while airing our critiques in public. It means protecting fragile sparks, giving space for gifts to develop, and allowing time to test fruit rather than rushing to pass judgment. Encouragement of course is not the same as naivety. Some fires do produce toxic smoke. Leaders can go astray, and correction has its place. But the Christian reflex ought to be toward nurture, not extinguishing. Fanning not battering. If Jesus refused to snuff out a smouldering wick, should we? To follow Christ is to take up the work of encouragement, to risk honouring those others despise, to nurture what seems small and fragile until it becomes strong. It is to see in another’s ‘flawed’ ministry the possibility of grace at work.
Anyone can throw water on a flame of course. It requires no courage, no faith, no generosity, no creativity. But to gather wood, protect a spark, and breathe patiently until it takes hold, or I collapse breathless, that takes true humility and hope
I resonated so deeply with your post. Not just the camping aspect, but I'm on board with you.
I have been rereminded of Martin Luther recently and all of the good he wrote, but he also wrote some awful things. As believers we have to learn that tension.
Challenged by your comment about how its easier to find fault than give thanks... it seems much easier nowadays to set boundaries around disagreement and warn people off, rather than recognising what we agree on and honouring that. But I guess with even the Christian publishing/conference sectors, there's money to be made in controversy 👀