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Leadership Perfected in Weakness…What if Paul meant it?
By Jeff Tacklind
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As a pastor, I spent this summer teaching through the book of Philippians. When I came to chapter 3, the words suddenly lost their familiarity. Paul has just given us his brilliant résumé—and then proceeds to run it through the shredder.
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“But everything that was a gain to me, I have considered to be a loss because of Christ. More than that, I also consider everything to be a loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. Because of him I have suffered the loss of all things and consider them as dung, so that I may gain Christ and be found in him…” (Phil. 3:7–9)
I paused and thought, what if that is actually true?
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There’s a comical phrase in academic circles: “Sure, it works in practice—but does it work in theory?” As if theory were all that mattered. I’ll admit, I sometimes fall prey to that. The classroom can be a wonderfully imaginative space where ideas never have to touch the ground. But when theory drifts too far from practice, it loses power.
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And the same is true of faith. Churches can easily become places where we worship theory—admiring Paul’s humility—without ever daring to live it. We nod in agreement and then go right back to maximizing our strengths and minimizing our weaknesses. After all, that’s what actually works.
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Because, let’s be honest, no one wants to follow a weak leader. We look for confidence, intelligence, and charisma—someone with vision, answers, and stamina. Gallup even tells us, “You will excel only by maximizing your strengths, never by fixing your weaknesses.”
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My top five Gallup strengths are all in the “strategic thinking” domain: Ideation, Strategic, Intellection, Learner, and Input. Common sense says I should lean into those gifts—study deeply, preach clearly, think well. But what if that’s exactly what Paul calls rubbish? What if, without realizing it, I’m leading people to follow a polished version of me instead of Christ?
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You can also pay to see your bottom five strengths. Mine are Context, Harmony, Restorative, Consistency, and Discipline. I cringe at that list. It’s like reading a critique of my pastoral care and daily habits all at once. But maybe these aren’t flaws to hide. Maybe they’re invitations—to depend on grace rather than performance.
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Paul’s invitation isn’t to perfect a résumé, but to release it. To stop projecting confidence and instead grasp the hand that already holds ours.
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NT Wright notes that all of Paul’s writings could fit into an eighty-page book—and yet they’ve shaped history more than any other writer’s words. Perhaps that’s because Paul didn’t just theorize grace; he lived it. And it worked.
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People today are hungry for depth, but in ways that are authentic and humble. To embody that, leaders have to go first—to tell on ourselves. My spiritual director once asked if I always felt the need to say something profound. I confessed, “Yes.” She smiled gently and said, “That sounds exhausting.”
The alternative—simple honesty—can feel terrifying at first. But it’s there, in vulnerability, that we learn what we could never know from strength alone: that we are loved as we are. Our weaknesses belong inside the phrase “fearfully and wonderfully made.”
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As we live from that place, our capacity for others grows. We no longer fill the space with our own need for affirmation. We rest in the quiet assurance of God’s delight in us as His children. And this not only frees us from hiding our weaknesses, but redeems our strengths—allowing them to serve without ego or agenda.
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Dallas Willard once told a room of philosophy students how he gained tenure at USC. They expected a strategy. Instead, he said he simply wrote two papers and rewrote them until they were the best he could do—and then trusted Jesus to provide the opportunity.
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His life was proof of a power perfected in weakness. Ours can be too.
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“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness. Therefore, I will most gladly boast all the more about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may reside in me.” (2 Cor. 12:9)
Maybe leadership really begins there—in that sacred undoing. In the humble, daily choice to let Christ’s strength be enough. We don’t have to manufacture brilliance or certainty. We can simply show up, fully human, fully loved. And as we do, our lives become living proof that this gospel doesn’t just work in theory—it works in practice.
Surprising Gifts of Being a Spiritual Director
by Lynn Ziegenfuss
Recently I heard from a former CFDM graduate who wrote about being thankful for skills she learned in CFDM – like being slow, silent and stupid. She was discovering that as she implements the fundamentals in direction with others, those skills were working themselves into her life even when she wasn’t being a director. In her words,
“I was sitting with a precious woman getting her chemo infusion. As I entered the room I gave thanks to God for the training in CFDM of being slow, silent and stupid in sacred spaces... Being at peace with mystery and bracketing my thoughts and feelings - making plenty of room for her wherever she was. Deep breath… it was a beautiful time - so unbelievable - nothing is impossible with God!”
I send along this story as it illustrates the theme for this article. Next month I will begin my 20th year as a spiritual director. I’ve become increasingly aware of what has been formed in me over time as I try my best to honor the fundamentals of direction and how or where the fruit of that effort shows up. For our graduate mentioned in the story above, it was remembering AND deciding to be present to her friend by being slow, silent and stupid. With continued practice, what else might God be forming in her for her sake as well as others? Below are some ways I’ve seen God work in me, ever so slowly, even unperceptively, which encourages me – all the more – to stay true to the basics of direction before considering the creative nuances.
One of the many ways to describe direction is a ministry of presence. What happens to us, as a by-product, when we continually work to stay with and be present to our directees? What might be cultivated within us when we determine to not move too quickly with a question and bracket ourselves from solving a problem? First, in service of our directees, it keeps us out of the space we are offering to them – which is just a good practice of the fundamentals. However, offering your presence to another over time can facilitate a greater capacity to live more presently in your everyday life. Savoring present moments has taken on a greater meaning in my life as I’ve practiced living in sacred moments with others. What a privilege watching the Spirit enliven a moment to a directee. Only to realize, a few years ago, that God had come through “the back door” of my life to slowly form a life lived 1) more presently; 2) noticing and savoring the sacred moments in my everyday life that I probably would have missed had I not been training myself to be present to a directee.
Another growing by-product of staying with the fundamentals of direction is an increasing dependence to wait on God for movement, discernment and direction in my own life. We hopefully are mindful to embody this fundamental with a directee, but, if I’m honest, waiting and actually discerning the Spirit’s leading has truly been real for me in the last 10-15 years (out of 55 years of being a Christian). As Proverbs 3:5-6 famously reminds us, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and DO NOT (emphasis mine) lean on your understanding, in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight.” As much as I loved these words and memorized them at age 23, I smile at “that Lynn” who had no idea what it actually looked like in everyday life. When I look back, it only really started to take root through my own CFDM training and becoming a spiritual director.
Lastly, at least for this writing, I come to some of our formative quotes. One’s that are SO much easier to believe for directees, such as, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s, “Trust the slow work of God.” A helpful companion that guides me as a director, but also a challenge to remember as beloved daughter of God. I think (and hope) it’s working its way into my very being to believe and trust. How are you doing in integrating this phrase and truth into your own life – just not that easy, is it?
Another quote, attributed to Thomas Merton, which is even more helpful for me, has been, “What is IN the Way, IS the Way.” I made it into a plaque that I see every appointment when I’m on zoom. Hence, you wouldn’t believe how often the Spirit of God LOVES to bring these eight words to MY mind, heart and soul as I bump into my interior self of frustrations, questions, worry or resistance. Some days I say UGH and other days, thank you Lord!
I’m aware of the risk of writing an article about the potential formation that comes into our lives as we offer direction. Hopefully we don’t just offer this ministry for the benefits it brings to us. So let me be clear... Our formation from being a director really only comes when we decide to continually hone our art and honor the basic fundamentals of spiritual direction. Blessedly, God in His mercy, surprises us along the way with how these practiced skills slowly work themselves into our very beings.
So, check yourselves… being faithful to staying present? Bracketing yourself? Discerning God’s voice before talking? Being slow, silent and stupid with your beloved directees? That list of questions is both convicting to me and reminds me to also stay true to being in supervision! I invite all of us to steward well the skills and learnings of our training and the spaces we get to offer – in service of our directees – and then watch God at work in ALL His clever ways of forming them and us!
The Umami of Community
By Patty Tacklind
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One of CFDM’s pillars—and the theme of this issue of The Third Chair—is community. When I think about my role in community, I think about hospitality. I love putting on the event or hosting the gathering that brings people together. I enjoy curating the kind of space where meaningful connections can happen, adding personal touches that make people feel seen, welcome, and at home.
For me, hospitality has to be simple—not extravagant. It shows up in pretty tablecloths (often the same ones each time), a pot of homemade soup for lunch—delicious and nourishing, made with everyday ingredients—and flowers from the garden, or maybe from Trader Joe’s, where beauty meets affordability. My goal is always to make it simple, achievable, beautiful, and inviting—with a touch of homemade heart.
And I’m always looking for the umami piece—the ingredient that makes the whole experience sing. Sometimes it’s a splash of balsamic in the soup. Or embroidered flowers on the edge of cloth napkins. Or a bottle of lemon simple syrup, made from fruit picked off the tree in the alley behind the house, shared as a parting gift.
My hope is that people leave feeling like they belong. Like they were tended to in a special way. That they experienced something personal and meaningful.
I love this vision of community. To me, it means being truly seen, known, and loved—and having the chance to see, know, and love others the same way.
But honestly, the shadow side of hospitality is that it can become a place to hide. I can stay in the role of host instead of entering as a participant—because, let’s face it, true community can be costly. Vulnerable. Even painful, once you start adding real people with real lives and complex stories. Sometimes it feels safer to keep things light and at a distance.
But something about CFDM gatherings disarms my resistance. Instead, I find myself gently ushered into genuine community—marked by honesty, depth, and vulnerability. What if listening—and this ministry of presence—is the umami ingredient we’ve all been longing for?
During the first week of spiritual direction training, people often say, “I feel like I’ve found my people.” There’s a sense of homecoming. In the quiet, contemplative space of morning prayers and imaginative exercises. In the beauty of ancient traditions from the desert mothers and fathers, St. Benedict, St. Francis. But I think the deepest homecoming comes when we hold space for one another—when we truly listen.
We don’t fix. We don’t advise. We don’t interrupt. In fact, we train ourselves not to. We listen and bear witness to what God is doing and has done. We trust that He is already at work—and that we get to share in that mystery by simply paying attention and honoring one another's stories.
Yes, the pretty tablecloths, flowers, and soup are there. And they’re lovely.
But that’s not where the umami is. The umami is in the listening. The presence. In holding each other’s complexity with reverence for who God is and how uniquely He made each person. It’s in being listened to—in the self-awareness, vulnerability, and safety that arise when someone stays present with you.
These weeks of training are grounding, centering, inspiring—and exhausting, in the best way. We are practicing the sacred work of being present to others in all its simplicity and complexity. And in that space, community emerges.
At CFDM, we long to facilitate this kind of community—a place where people are endeavoring to follow God, to become like Christ for the sake of others, and to be faithful witnesses to what God is doing. We listen. We offer companionship. We walk each other home to heaven. (Quite literally this summer, as we take a very long walk to Santiago de Compostela!) Our quiet days, silent retreats, classes, formation gatherings, and book clubs are all designed to help us love God, ourselves, and each other more deeply. Our direction training exists to equip people to witness God’s movement in the lives of others and to foster deeper connection with the people and world around them.
This is the kind of community I’m truly seeking. One that makes space for vulnerability. One that trusts God to be at work, without rushing to fix. One where you don’t have to rescue or perform—but instead can simply be. It’s a community that offers safety, courage, and honesty. It’s gentle. It’s welcoming. It’s the best kind of hospitality.
So, thank you for being part of this community. As Benedict and the brothers would say, “Thank God you’ve come.”
The Third Chair: Where Connection Meets the Divine
By Jeff Tacklind
Where do you go in times of stress? Each of us reacts differently. Some attack, while others freeze. Many flee. But I prefer to simply disappear—to ghost, to withdraw to what feels like a comfortable distance, alone.
As an introvert, I’ve mastered the art of the Irish goodbye, avoiding the drawn-out formalities of social exiting and vanishing at the moment when no one is paying attention. I realize now that my mind is becoming wired this way, constantly noticing the moments when one could exit, even when I’m not ready to leave.
I sometimes point out these moments of opportunity to my extroverted wife, who rolls her eyes.
“We could totally leave right now.”
“You want to leave now? We just got here.”
“No, I’m just saying if we wanted to, we could.”
What am I protecting by withdrawing? My energy, for one. I am aware of how precious this inner warmth is and hate to leave the sauna door of my heart open for too long (hat tip to Nouwen’s The Way of the Heart). I know that if I extend myself too much, my enchanted, horse-drawn carriage of energy will turn back into an unimpressive pumpkin. The magic vanishes.
But this withdrawal has its price. Isolation rarely brings the comfort I imagine. As I reflect on this today (from the solitude of a retreat at a friend’s cabin), it occurs to me that maybe what I am longing for is not less connection, but more. Not alone time, but actual intimacy—to be truly seen, known, and understood.
To be seen in this way has become so rare. What a precious gift it is when we experience it. And what an honor it is to see another through that same, intimate lens.
This kind of seeing takes an intentional shift in perspective. It requires restraint—setting aside my own needs to give my full attention to the other requires making room for a second chair. This is the foundation of any relational, contemplative practice: creating space, rather than desperately filling space with myself.
When we do this, a depth occurs. Our reality expands. By adding a second chair, we add an additional dimension to our lives. Geometrically, we move from a singular, isolated point to a line connecting the two chairs. We gain height and length. Area. Our reality become more spacious.
But too often, we stop there. We must be careful not to create another false ceiling to our reality, preventing further growth. In spiritual direction, we refer to this as the third chair.
It is a discipline that reminds us that something more happens when two or more are gathered. An additional reality—already present but too often unseen—comes into view.
"Once, on being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, 'The kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, "Here it is," or "There it is," because the kingdom of God is in your midst.'"
—Luke 17:20-21
The added dimension is God in our midst. It is God who occupies the third chair. It is God’s very presence that takes us beyond the immediacy of the present moment and places us in the realm of the eternal. It connects us to more than what we see. It places our experiences in the context of both past and future, reminding us of the power that redeems our past and the deep hope that awaits us in the future. It invites us into a posture of trustful freedom, allowing God to function as the director.
So often, when I have truly held space for another, I find that this emptying of myself is a gift not just for them, but for me. It creates a spaciousness in my heart to receive what I am truly longing for—the love of the One who knows me so intimately.
But to receive this, I must engage, not withdraw. I must lean in. Instead of pulling away, I must extend the height and width of my love. And as I do, I experience the breadth and depth of God’s love for me—the kind of love that casts out fear, that allows me to lie down in green pastures, that fulfills the deepest longings of my heart.
As a spiritual director, I keep a literal third chair open during my times of direction. I do this for both myself and my directee. This practice removes from me the burden of saying the right thing or giving the best advice. It frees us from the pressure of needing to be profound.
The third chair reframes the moment. It invites us to wonder—not just at the height but the depth, not just at the length but at the breadth of God’s love. It is a love that surpasses knowledge. And in its fullness, we are made whole.