In the late Middle Ages, the court fool was allowed to say things no one else dared to. Not because he was cleverer than everyone else, but because he was granted a special role: the licence to wrap uncomfortable truths in humour. Of course, he wasn’t entirely free either – if he went too far, favour could turn quickly.
His freedom was a high-wire act, not a free pass. But it was precisely this protected status that made him invaluable: he could hold up a mirror to the king, as long as he kept to the form. No bonus, no corner office, no parking space with his name on it – and for exactly that reason he had less to lose than anyone else in the room.
The Jester has long since become a fixed member of our own working team. And I’m convinced: organisations need him today more than ever. Because in many organisations, what you’re allowed to say depends very precisely on where you sit and what you still hope to achieve. Anyone who wants to get ahead learns quickly which doubts are better kept to themselves. And so the voice that would help us most disappears – quietly, voluntarily, almost unnoticed.
How to recognise the Jester’s voice
The Jester doesn’t refute. He sharpens. He summarises nothing, explains nothing, claims to know nothing better – and is still, in an almost annoying way, usually closer to the truth than the entire set of minutes. He shows up exactly where we sound most certain: where a term grows too smooth, where morality sounds convenient, where power is paraphrased so elegantly that even it briefly mistakes itself for kindness.
His comments are brief, sometimes funny, sometimes uncomfortable. Occasionally a little mocking. But always in service of the same thing: clarity.
The Jester reminds me that every organisation lives in the tension between aspiration and reality. We value him for his cautionary voice and we let him speak for himself in our writing – as a second narrative voice.
Let’s give him the floor right away:
The Jester: When everything runs smoothly …
The frictionless consensus in a meeting is rarely a sign of clarity. More often it’s a sign that someone has left something unsaid. Where thoughts flow too smoothly, the unspoken stays hidden. Concepts only persuade in any lasting way once the doubts have been actively worked through.
The Jester: Responsibility? Why, exactly …
Why would anyone voluntarily take on responsibility when the comfort zone is so wonderfully padded? Warm. Predictable. With a clear job description and the reassuring certainty: if something goes wrong, it wasn’t my decision.
I’m not asking ironically. I’m asking in earnest. Because let’s be honest: for decades, organisations have very successfully taught us that responsibility is dangerous. Take responsibility and you become visible. Become visible and you make mistakes. And make a mistake, and it will be – well – explained to you in great detail.
So it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest when people say: “No thanks, I’ll stay right here. In my role. Behind my checklist.” Responsibility as chronic stress. Responsibility as isolation. Responsibility as the expectation to know everything and always appear composed. That isn’t an offer. It’s a deterrent.
I’ve rarely seen people flourish because they weren’t allowed to decide anything. I’ve seen many grow tired because they had to carry out everything but were allowed to shape nothing.
So why take on responsibility? Not because you must. Not because it’s in the mission statement. But because it makes you remarkably alive. And if someone would still rather stay on the sofa? Then my only request is this: at least make sure the sofa doesn’t decide where the journey goes.
The Jester: When spreadsheets reassure us …
Spreadsheets reassure us. They suggest that everything fits into cells. Cause on the left, effect on the right. And a tidy arrow in between, preferably in corporate blue. Complex problems, however, have the unpleasant habit of not sticking to our structure. They change while we analyse them – about as cooperative as a cat at the vet.
The problem isn’t that we calculate. The problem is that we believe we can calculate complexity. And because that’s hard to bear, organisations respond by tensing up: more rules, more approval loops, more documentation. And when nothing else helps, an employee survey – so the paralysis at least feels participatory. They call that structure. Often it’s just fear in tabular form.
That’s the Jester. Brief and clear, sometimes funny, sometimes uncomfortable.
Why organisations need Jester qualities
It isn’t about being proved right. It’s about the ability to be contradicted. And perhaps that is exactly what it’s about in organisations that genuinely want to collaborate: creating spaces where disagreement isn’t treated as a disturbance, but as protection against self-deception.
That’s harder than it sounds. Tolerating a Jester means reading criticism not as an attack but as a gift. Admittedly, one of those gifts you never asked for and have to keep anyway.
It means protecting the person who is first to put their head above the parapet. And it means distrusting your own first reaction – that casual “Hm” that can silence an entire team.
So ask yourself: where in your organisation do you have Jester qualities? Who is allowed to ask “Are you really so sure about that?” – without paying a price for it? And if no one comes to mind – perhaps that is the real answer.
The Jester won’t tell you what to think. He’ll only ask whether you’re sure. And if you occasionally feel caught out – then he’s working.
And almost as a side effect, you’re working steadily on the quality of dialogue your organisation so urgently needs. The Jester role, by the way, is easy to practise – unspectacular and almost effortless. Just as you assign roles in a meeting – someone facilitates, someone takes notes, someone watches the time – you can also consciously give the Jester quality a role of its own. The first attempt is rewarded right away with concrete experience. Good luck!
