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I was shutting down my computer and heading to bed when the phone rang.

"I hate to tell you this." I recognized the voice of our head elder. "Mary is not happy with our decision to deny her homeschoolers group time to give out awards during Sunday morning worship. She is offended."

My stomach tightened. It was happening again: another person offended. I had nothing to say. "Oh well," I mumbled.

I got little sleep that night, possible solutions tossing and turning in my head.

I hate offending anyone. It doesn't fit my character. I long to see people happy. No one warned me that by becoming a pastor I would be a stone in others' shoes. But after ten years in ministry, I am accepting the fact that my calling requires me to offend some people.

During my first year as a pastor, I called on a church member. A neighbor stopped in and joined our conversation. Soon the man was spicing his sentences with every swear word I had heard during four years in the Air Force.

Not wanting to embarrass him, I kept my objections to myself, but I noticed my host shifting in her seat.

"Oh, Ray," she said, "I forgot to mention when I introduced you that Lanny is our pastor."

Within seconds the man excused himself and left, slamming the door behind him. That day I discovered my very presence intimidates and offends some people.

That reaction I can understand. Pastors offend because we are perceived as good. Some people feel they must clean up their behavior in my presence. But I underestimated just how offensive I, as a representative of the gospel, can be—even to believers.

Our congregation contains many from Baptist backgrounds and others from charismatic traditions. Whenever I preach on the Holy Spirit, my sermons will offend someone. One such time a person told me I wasn't letting the Spirit "have his way." Another complained my interpretations were "too Pentecostal."

Some I offend by the decisions my position requires me to make. ("Why don't you ever pick the old hymns?" "You never let my son sing a solo!") And some are offended by the authority inherent in the pastorate.

Not long ago a member came to see me. "Pastor, I want to know who you are accountable to. It appears to me that everyone around here rubber stamps your decisions." The elders, church board, and I work as a team, but my explanation did not assuage his anger.

This man was offended by the authority that comes with my position. The cleric's collar may be a symbol of meekness to some but others interpret it as a policeman's badge. Many people have been hurt by authority figures—some by previous pastors—and I wear the same uniform.

Perhaps the most offensive task of the pastor is confrontation.

A few years ago, it became evident that our keyboardist felt threatened by the other musicians. She was openly critical of their performance. She made no secret that she thought she was the best.

After gathering the facts and praying for courage, I confronted her. She burst into tears and admitted that she struggled with pride. I left the meeting with some optimism. Later, her husband asked to speak with me.

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