There are moments in leadership when no one is watching but everything is at stake.
Not because a policy is in question or a metric is missing, but because our moral compass is being tested in the quiet. In these moments, we do not lean on politics or public opinion. We ought to lean on what we believe to be true and on moral principles that will benefit the community we serve.
As someone who has spent more than two decades leading within both faith-based and secular institutions, I’ve learned that leadership is rarely defined in the spotlight. It is shaped in the gray, those murky places where values and pressures collide, and where courage often whispers instead of roars. The stakes can feel even higher for those who lead while navigating systems not originally designed with their perspective or presence in mind. From these grey spaces, I’ve learned that faith-based leadership is not about dogma or doctrine—it is about discernment.
Faith, for me, has always been an anchor. It is the lens through which I evaluate the tension between institutional demands and human dignity. It is what helps me pause before I act, reflect before I speak and evaluate performance through the lens of humanity. Especially now, in a time when higher education is under ideological, financial and political attack, we must ask: What anchors our decisions when accountability fades?
Years ago, I found myself at one of those crossroads. The enrollment numbers were tight. The budget even tighter. Unspoken pressure from senior leadership grew to admit students who didn’t meet our standards. No one explicitly said it, but every conversation implied it: “Make the numbers work.”
My team had worked tirelessly to bring in a strong incoming class, but there was a gap we couldn’t close without compromising. The students in question showed promise, but our institution lacked the resources to support them adequately. To admit them would have appeared like we were giving these students access but, in reality, we would have been abandoning them.
I wrestled deeply with this dilemma. The pressure of “just this once” was real. I had built my career on delivering results, but I couldn’t betray the very students we were claiming to serve. In the stillness of that decision, I chose to hold the line.
I didn’t know then how that choice would shape me. It didn’t earn applause. But it allowed me to become the kind of leader I could live with.
Leadership in higher education has always been complex. But today, it feels more fragile than ever.
The visible dismantling of DEI, the silencing of courageous faculty and staff, and the marginalization of people of color, immigrants and international students have left many campuses in moral freefall. While we cannot always name these tensions politically, we must acknowledge them ethically.
What we’re witnessing isn’t just a crisis of policy; it’s a crisis of conscience.
Who protects students when there’s no legal mandate?
Who ensures inclusion when there’s no board directive?
Who speaks up when accountability becomes optional?
Without a guiding light, institutions can drift into decisions that prioritize image over impact. In these moments, faith-based leadership is not about quoting scripture or invoking theology. It is about rooting decisions in dignity, humanity and justice. It is about remembering that our roles are not just managerial; they are moral.
This kind of leadership also requires what I’ve come to call inner work. It asks us to slow down in a culture of acceleration. To pause and reflect, even when the next decision is already overdue. In my own journey, that has meant cultivating space for prayer, silence and spiritual grounding. For others, it might mean mindfulness, meditation or journaling. The practice doesn’t matter as much as the posture: a willingness to look inward before leading outward.
This is the discipline that prepares us to lead in the gray. And in those quiet moments, when we must choose between what is convenient and what is right, it reminds us who we are.
For women of color, the cost of courage is often compounded. The gray areas we navigate are more scrutinized. We are expected to perform flawlessly, represent perfectly and resist quietly. Yet, in the face of these impossible expectations, holding to our values is more than leadership. It is resistance. It is testimony.
I’ve learned that some of the most powerful leaders don’t lead by title, but by presence. They embody something steady in an era of volatility. Many of them began by following, listening and learning. They lead with service. At its best, faith-based leadership is a return to that posture. One that centers care over control, humility over hierarchy and courage over convenience.
The challenge is not whether faith belongs in higher education. It’s whether we can afford leadership without it, especially now.
This is not a call for religiosity. It’s a call for reflection. A call to return to the moral interior that higher education was once known for cultivating, not just in students, but in leaders. A call to build not only institutional credibility, but institutional character.
Discernment is what helps us pause when the world demands urgency. It reminds us that justice is not always expedient, that compassion is not always visible in key performance indicators, and that leadership is not measured solely by who follows you but on what you refuse to compromise.
So, when the pressures mount, when budgets are cut, policies shift and accountability weakens, we must ask: What must we still protect?
Higher education doesn’t just need bold visionaries. It needs quiet stewards. Leaders who can sit in the gray and still choose light. Leaders who understand that faith is not the opposite of reason, but the companion of moral clarity.
Because when the spotlight fades, and the metrics change, what remains is the integrity of our decisions, and the dignity of the people for whom we serve.
