Clusters of conversations blocked the hallway. The conference director confidently zig-zagged through the crowd to prepare for the next round of presentations. When she spotted the previous director standing next to me, she changed course; the two exchanged hugs and a brief word. She then resumed her mission, disappearing into the throng.

My friend looked around the scene with a knowing smile. Curious, I asked, “So, are you glad you’re not in charge this year?”

She answered, “Oh, handling this event was intense and yes, I loved it—but I’m glad that it’s in someone else’s competent hands now.”

“You wouldn’t change anything?” I asked.

Her reply was swift and firm: “Not my circus; not my monkeys.”

It’s an old Polish saying, but I laugh every time I hear it. It has another variant, “Not my circus, not my clowns,” but their meaning is identical.

As a humorous way to separate ourselves from a challenging or chaotic situation, the metaphor communicates much. Though my friend didn’t mean it in a negative way, the words often enact a distance from—or a disagreement with—the status quo. Sometimes the phrase acknowledges a lack of desire to change current reality; sometimes it speaks into reality a lack of power to bring needed change.

What do we leaders do, though, when it IS our circus—all three rings of it? Do we wish we could distance ourselves from the embarrassing things coworkers say? Do our theological alarms go off when a worship leader careens down an unexpected detour? Do we feel powerless when a volunteer hijacks the given task and takes it off the grid? Odds are you’ve experienced all these sensations, perhaps in a single day.

How do we cope?

We begin by managing ourselves and controlling our attitude. We must acknowledge the reality of the circus. If you think the people of God embarrass you, imagine how God must feel. And yet, God loves us anyway. As imitators of God, we love the people God loves, which requires us to lean into the weirdness of our people and, in honesty, our own weirdness. A group that disposes of those who embarrass them will soon cease to be a community. A leader who culls weirdness will soon lead no one because gifted people are odd ducks. With great strength comes great weirdness. Or, if you prefer softer language, quality is quirky.

So, focus on the strength. Lift the strengths of your people up for others to see; use your voice and megaphone wisely. This will reshape your own attitude and align your view to a more divine perspective. It will also strengthen your connection with your people. They need to know that you see their gifts. They need to see the gifts of their peers. Remember, you picked these people; either you chose to join them when they recruited you or you chose to recruit them. Either way, you are responsible for your choice. The quest for a church or ministry composed only of spiritual, well-heeled, attractive superstars is a siren song that often misleads naïve beginners into a cynical middle-age.

When people unmistakably act out, look for the need behind the behavior. Sometimes the lion roars because there is a thorn in its paw. Most people aren’t evil; they just can’t communicate what they need. We humans frequently deny our feelings and often don’t have language to describe them. Lacking emotional intelligence, leaders can fail to connect coping skills with the underlying problem (the need) instead of the symptom (the acting out). When leaders listen to their people—this is still self-management—then everyone can begin to see through the fog and move forward together. If we choose not to listen, we’re just a part of the problem.

Use a common language to build a communal vocabulary. Not only will you find words that communicate clearly and deeply within the community, you can rule out language that is harmful or inaccurate. Bring a depth of meaning to the words hospitality, grace, and do-over. Build a culture that rejects the “N” word and the “R” word. Careful use of language can be the difference between a healing and a toxic community.

Use your common language to build a communal story. This process walks the tightrope between truthfulness and triumphalism, but it is unifying. It’s helpful if we realize that our narratives are just interpretations of human perceptions. Choose to tell the story from a divine perspective; keep the main character the main character. If this is true in biblical interpretation, it’s true in life, too. How is God acting among us? How is the grace of God, the forgiveness of God, the providence of God, the love of God alive in this place? How can we choose to act alongside what God is doing among us?

My hope is that we will so love and respect our people that we will own our circus. “This IS my circus, and these are my people.” Perhaps then we will have the courage to stay and grow with our people instead of relentlessly—or ruthlessly—seeking a perfect place. May God give us the strength to live into the unified weirdness that is the body of Christ.