This spring, my wife and I stood on the hills overlooking the valley of Elah, where the armies of Israel and Philistia once fought. It’s a weathered valley. A small creek wanders along during the rainy season; smooth stones can still be dug from its bed. As our guide read the dramatic confrontation between David and Goliath, I visualized frightened clans of nomadic tribesmen, huddled around a cowardly king, staring across the shallow valley at the swords and shields of Philistine giants. The victory of David and his God never seemed more heroic.
This scene prompted considerable reflection about Old Testament culture: plunder and pillage as a way of life; enemy foreskins the trophies of success; little boys dreaming of becoming “mighty men of valor.” Winning was more than a Vince Lombardi concept. Winning meant survival; losing meant death.
Survival depended upon two things: the blessing of God and the man who fought by your side. God’s blessing was sought before battle and wildly celebrated after the enemy’s annihilation. But it was, in one sense, intangible. The warrior at your side was another matter. He greatly increased your chances for survival; he who multiplied your chances was a friend; he whose presence inspired you to fight as one was your closest friend. To be bonded in battle to this kind of friend meant life itself.
Astonishing results from such bonding was an idea rooted in Mosaic law: “Five of you will chase a hundred, and a hundred of you will chase ten thousand, and your enemies will fall by the sword before you” (Lev. 26:74). Thus, a man like David who intensely sought God’s blessing as well as warriors who were bonded together could expect a small, undistinguished army to rout a mighty military machine. Blessing and bonding transformed arithmetic into geometric progression. Five warriors could take on a hundred foes-twenty apiece-but one hundred could take on ten thousand foes-a hundred apiece-if the warriors were bonded together under God’s headship.
I suspect that the New Testament counterpart of this concept is found in the sending of the seventy. Many of us have preached sermons explaining why Christ might have sent his disciples out by twos: messengers need companionship, and ministry is a lonely task; messengers need accountability. Could it also be that Christ knew messengers would be maximized geometrically as they formed spiritual combat units?
Modern church history suggests other examples. The bonding of the Wesley brothers-authentic sibling rivals-launched a spiritual renewal that swept England and leaped an ocean. Forty thousand sermons and hundreds of hymns multiplied into several globe-spanning denominations and mission organizations. Who can forget D. L. Moody and Ira Sankey? Without Cliff Barrows or George Beverly Shea, what would Billy Graham’s ministry be? In the last seven years, I have observed him in many different situations, including his active participation as the chairman of the Christianity Today, Inc., board. Not once have I heard him use the phrase “my ministry.” He always speaks of “the team ministry” and repeatedly asks us to pray that God will bless the team.
Perhaps my point can best be illustrated by a negative example. Several months ago, Terry Muck and I interviewed three young pastors who had served together in a very large church. As we probed the subject of multiple-staff relationships, we heard about acute frustration, repressed anger, discouragement, and deep personal hurt. The man who brought them together considered this large ministry to be his God-given, personal responsibility. He was a hard-working man, deeply committed to growth and expansion. Ministry was his life in an obsessive way. He made it plain, warmly and even somewhat graciously, that their sole function was to assist him in achieving his goals and objectives. Personal intimacy was impossible. Bonding was nonexistent. Team was only a word.
Looking back, they agreed that this experience had taught them valuable lessons. But they grieve for the young men and women who took their places; they despair for all the potential ministry lost.
Unfortunately, this isn’t the only such story Terry and I have heard in our travels. There are far too many similar versions. Sometimes they are about staff members; other times they are about pastors and lay leaders. The results are always the same-deep personal hurt and lost ministry.
My experience on the hills overlooking Elah has challenged me to face some tough questions. What is the status of my relationships? Are any of my colleagues experiencing geometric results because of my contribution to their lives and ministries? With whom can I experience a bonding of spirits? Another staff member? An elder? A deacon? The whole deacon board? God help me.
Paul D. Robbins is executive vice-president of Christianity Today, Inc.
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