by Bassem Melki

Over the years, in teaching at ABTS, walking alongside pastors through conflict, and facilitating reconciliation processes in churches across our region, I have noticed a pattern that keeps recurring. Most church conflicts may sound theological or doctrinal, and we debate interpretations of Scripture and argue about what is required for obedience to God.

But when we slow down and listen more carefully, something deeper often emerges. I see that someone somewhere feels unheard. Someone has been quietly sidelined. Someone carries the weight of decisions they never helped make. And often, someone carries shame.

Again and again, I have discovered that what appears to be a theological disagreement is rarely only theological. It is also about belonging, dignity, and power.

This reflection grows out of those pastoral experiences. My aim is not to criticize the church but to love her enough to be honest. I want to offer a simple lens that has helped me and many leaders I journey with look beneath the surface of our conflicts. I have found it helpful to think of church life as shaped by three interacting realities: piety, politics, and power. And in our Middle Eastern contexts, these are inseparable from a fourth dimension, honor and shame. When we ignore these dynamics, we can misdiagnose our problems. When we name them, we open space for healing and more faithful leadership.

The church quite rightly begins with piety. We pray, worship, study Scripture, and seek to obey God. This concern is central to who we are. Scripture consistently calls God’s people to wholehearted devotion. Without this spiritual center, the church loses its identity.

Yet the biblical story also warns that piety can drift. The prophets cry out against worship that ignores justice. Jesus confronts leaders who are meticulous in religious practice yet lacking mercy. Devotion to God cannot be separated from love of neighbor.

In practice, however, spiritual language can slowly become a way of legitimizing ourselves (and/or weaponizing Scripture against “the other”). We say, “We are more biblical,” or “We are the faithful ones.” What begins as zeal for faithfulness can turn into quiet superiority. In honor–shame cultures, this carries particular weight. To label someone as spiritually weak or unfaithful is not merely a theological judgment; it can feel like public shaming. Words meant to protect truth may damage dignity. As Stanley Hauerwas warns, the church’s danger is not lack of belief but self-deception, imagining we are faithful while our communal life tells another story.[1]

Alongside piety, there is another reality we rarely name: politics. The word makes many Christians uneasy. Yet, at its simplest, politics is just the way a community organizes belonging. It is about who participates, who speaks, who is trusted, and who is overlooked. Every church has these dynamics whether we acknowledge them or not.

The early church certainly did. In Acts 6, Hellenistic widows were neglected in the daily distribution of food. The issue was not doctrine but fairness. The apostles responded by restructuring leadership so that marginalized voices were included. This was not a distraction from ministry; it was ministry. It was love made structural.

In our contexts, belonging is never abstract. To be excluded from meetings or decisions is not simply inconvenient; it can feel dishonoring. It communicates, sometimes silently, “Your voice does not matter.” So politics in the church is not about manipulation. It is about whether people experience the community as a place of dignity or of quiet marginalization.

Then there is power. Power simply refers to the capacity to act, to make decisions that shape real life. Who controls resources? Who sets direction? Who has the final word? Even the most prayerful church has these questions. Power is unavoidable.

The issue is how we use it. The tragedy of Christian nationalism is that it turns faith into a tool for control and coercion, a weapon for domination. We can fall into the same pattern whenever we use our beliefs to pressure or overpower others. Jesus does not abolish authority; he transforms it: “Whoever would be great among you must be your servant” (Matt 20:26). Leadership remains, but it kneels.

Yet when power goes unexamined, it almost always protects those at the center and overlooks those at the margins. Decisions get wrapped in spiritual language: “This is God’s will,” without accountability or shared discernment. In honor–shame cultures, power does more than determine outcomes; it distributes honor. Those near leadership gain visibility and respect. Others fade into the background. Power can restore dignity, or can quietly diminish it.

These three realities: piety, politics, and power, are never separate. They constantly reinforce one another. Piety gives legitimacy. Politics shapes belonging. Power determines outcomes. Often what we call a “theological conflict” is actually a struggle over voice or respect expressed in spiritual language. This helps explain why some church conflicts never truly disappear. We solve the argument but leave the structures untouched.

For those of us serving in Middle Eastern and other honor–shame settings, all of this becomes even more intense, adding another layer of complexity. Conflict is not experienced only as disagreement; it is experienced as losing face or having one’s dignity threatened. When someone is excluded, it may feel humiliating. When a voice is dismissed, it may feel dishonoring. These realities make church conflicts heavier and more emotional than we expect because they touch identity itself, which is deeply tied to how people are received, respected, and recognized within the community. This also helps explain why leaders may cling tightly to control. What appears to be stubbornness or pride is sometimes fear: fear of losing face, of losing credibility, or of losing the respect that holds their world together. When honor is at stake, reactions become stronger, emotions run deeper, and conflicts feel heavier. We are not only negotiating ideas; we are negotiating dignity.

Scripture shows that God cares deeply about restoring honor to the shamed. “Anyone who believes in him will never be put to shame” (Rom 10: 11). Again and again, God sees those who have been overlooked and brings them back into the center of the story. Salvation is not only forgiveness of guilt; it is the restoration of dignity and belonging. If that is true, then how we handle piety, politics, and power is not merely administrative. It is pastoral. It is about protecting the honor of God’s people, and the image of Christ they reflect.

Ultimately, the clearest answer to this quadrilateral is not a theory but a person. When we watch Jesus closely, we see that he does not escape piety, politics, or power, but he redeems them. His piety is real and uncompromising, yet never weaponized against the weak. His politics consistently widens the circle, eating with outsiders and giving voice to those at the margins. His power is unmistakable, yet he uses it not to secure control but to serve, heal, and restore.

The One who has all authority kneels to wash feet. The One who could command legions chooses the cross. In Jesus, authority becomes self-giving love. Power becomes service. Honor is given back to the shamed. As Miroslav Volf describes it, power means creating space for the other in hopes of reconciliation rather than protecting our own boundaries.[2]

If the church is the body of Christ, then this must also become our way.

So the goal is not to eliminate piety, politics, or power. We need them. Without piety, we lose our spiritual center. Without shared processes of belonging, we cannot live together. Without power, we cannot act for justice or mission. But all three must be reshaped by the cross. Piety must become humility. Politics must become inclusion. Power must become service.

Perhaps spiritual maturity begins when we stop thinking that we are only concerned about preaching, teaching, and praying and acknowledge that  we are embodied communities with relationships, structures, and authority. Pretending otherwise does not make these realities disappear; it only hides them. Naming them honestly is not a threat to faith. It is an act of love for the church. Because only what is brought into the light can be healed. And I believe that only communities that use their power to restore dignity will truly look like Jesus.

Bassem Melki is the director of the Non-Formal Training and Peacemaking Department at ABTS.

[1] Stanley Hauerwas, A Community of Character (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), 9-12.

[2] Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace (Nashville: Abingdon, 1996), 129–150.