PASTOR DAVID OR PASTOR SOLOMON? - Christianity Today

My two pastorates differed greatly. Two Sunday afternoons, less than three years apart, typify the contrasts.

The first afternoon began with an awkward lunch. The atmosphere reminded me of the meal following a funeral-people smile and comment on the food, but inwardly their hearts are broken. I knew mine was.

Joining us at the table was our district superintendent and an elder from a sister church in town. They had come at the request of our elder board to spend the afternoon listening privately to the complaints and accusations of individuals in our congregation.

What had begun sixteen months earlier as minor skirmishes was now full-blown conflict with several individuals. The surface tension was over issues as petty as my decision to rearrange the office furniture. We also struggled with an undercurrent of controversy over the practice of certain spiritual gifts. But as I saw it, the real conflict was the issue of control-a small group in the church had served notice that they were in charge, not the board or the pastor.

I hoped that with the help of these experienced men from outside, we could confront the issues directly and resolve the conflict. But despite the encouraging words from the D.S., a long-time friend, I knew the truth: regardless of who emerged victorious from the confrontation, the long conflict had taken its toll. There had been too many hurts, too many rumors, too many innuendoes and feelings of mistrust.

As in most church battles, the combatants were relatively few in number. I was reminded of a tactical lesson from military history: guerrilla forces need be only one-tenth the size of a conventional army to keep it hopelessly enmeshed in a no-win situation.

My wife and I were exhausted from the hit-and-run warfare. We had nothing left to give. As I sat at the lunch table, waiting for the day’s uncertain events to unfold, I recalled another, much different, Sunday afternoon.

This other afternoon was farewell day at my previous pastorate. We were finishing five years of difficult but fulfilling ministry in the inner city. A group of people who once had been ready to disband and give their building to a parachurch organization were now alive and aggressive in their purpose and mission.

The church had grown. It was feeding local street people and attracting Native Americans to worship services. It distributed hundreds of pounds of clothes to the destitute. At times, so much food was donated from supporting churches to be given to the poor that we had to stack it in the front pews of the sanctuary. The shewbread was once again in the temple feeding the hungry.

My wife and I were overwhelmed with the love we received in that small, urban church. One cold, winter day, a 94-year-old woman from the congregation walked to our home with her Norwegian stew because she’d heard I was ill.

The Sunday afternoon we left, I held back tears as the church chairman and his wife cried while saying good-by. It had been a sweet experience, working together to build God’s house in that place.

Two Different Roles

As I look back over these experiences, a metaphor from the Old Testament helps me make sense of the two polar-opposite pastorates: the life and destiny of David compared with that of his son Solomon.

David dreamed of building a temple for the Lord in Jerusalem. But he was prevented from doing so. God explained that it was not for him to be the architect and builder. David had been a warrior; he had shed too much blood. It would be his son Solomon who would construct the sanctuary and witness the glory of the Lord descending upon it.

Solomon reigned during a time of nearly unbroken peace in the land. He watched as his land blossomed with prosperity undreamed of by his ancestors. He watched as the temple grew and took form, and led in the exhilarating experience of dedicating the building as God himself appeared in a theophany to enter the Holy of Holies. His string of successes were untarnished for years on end.

Reflecting on my experiences and those of other pastors, I’ve noticed that each of us may find ourselves following the path of a David or a Solomon or both during our ministries. That is, we may play the role of a warrior in one setting and that of a temple builder in another. Perhaps both are in the will of God. Certainly both have inherent in them certain advantages and risks.

What Happens to a David

Some pastors find themselves, however reluctantly, in the role of a David; they’re perceived as warriors who challenge well-established and powerful forces. Such an individual endures conflict and confrontation in order to address moral and spiritual issues vital to the well-being of the body, hoping to clear the way for the church’s future growth and ministry.

Few if any Davids remain in such a setting long enough to witness the joy of completing the temple. The cost of battle often is so high that they become casualties themselves, even if their cause prevails.

These are not contentious, controlling personalities who thrive on conflict and see their lives as a martyr’s lot. Such are not the traits of a David. A true David finds such conflict in the church sad, painful, and regrettable, but at times necessary.

What happens to a David? Let me suggest some advantages, dubious as they might seem at first, that result from serving as a David.

You lay the groundwork for future church growth and spiritual prosperity. The maxim of church history is that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church. In less dramatic terms, that means the sacrifice and pain borne in guiding a church to spiritual health will someday be evident.

I once asked a friend why he was leaving a Christian organization. His reply: “Once you tell the truth, it’s often impossible to stay.” To a certain extent that can be true in a pastorate.

I recall a situation that existed in a women’s Bible study early in my ministry. Under the guise of prayer requests, some women were telling stories about the failings of their husbands (or husbands of their friends) that were potentially embarrassing, if not damaging. Though several women felt uncomfortable as a result and vowed never to return to such a study, the practice went on.

When I asked some of the leaders to exercise more discretion, they felt I was intruding on “their ministry.” It proved for me an unpardonable sin. From that day on, I was in trouble with them.

Yet, the conflict that ensued eventually led to new leadership that improved the group’s atmosphere and even opened the way for new women, particularly non-Christians, to be welcome in the group.

You learn that God is more concerned with what happens in you rather than to you. In short, you attend the graduate school of character. As Chuck Swindoll says of suffering, “The tuition is free. It only costs you your life.”

As I became more bewildered over why I was in such hard circumstances, I began to believe God was in all this in some way I couldn’t fully understand.

Interestingly, the Psalms became more practical and essential to my life than ever before. And I learned to some extent what David learned: God is in control, regardless of what people may do. I came not to loathe criticism, but to see it as an opportunity for God to examine my life and test my character: Was I able to respond gently, in an honorable way?

Though it pained me, I sensed a foundation being laid in my life of faith as I looked at what needed changing.

You develop close and meaningful relationships with key church leaders. There is rarely racism in foxholes. Likewise, the barrier between pastor and laity diminishes as you weather intense storms together. I came to love as brothers those who stood with me on the elder board. At great personal cost, they took action to discipline certain members of the congregation. Having been through some difficult hours together, we were friends who had become not a group but a caring team.

Such commitment is not found among “sunshine soldiers,” as Thomas Payne called them. Neither is such deep camaraderie.

But besides the advantages, there are also some definite risks to serving as a David.

You are misunderstood by those who have an inadequate theology of conflict. Basically these are the people who see all conflict as sin. Their conclusion: you must be in sin (or at least an incompetent pastor) for there to be this trouble. In their minds, the only spiritual church is one that’s free of conflict. While a conflict-free environment is everyone’s goal, it is often only arrived at by working through significant and difficult issues.

One individual in the heat of the moment in a congregational meeting pointed at me and said, “The trouble started with you!” While that may or may not have been true, it didn’t mean the trouble was unnecessary or unredemptive. I thought about the history of the patriarchs, the prophets, and Jesus, and the conflict characterizing their ministries. As they challenged wrongful behavior or attitudes, they were perceived as the real problem instead. Some were sawn in two. There were times when I had a good idea how that must feel.

Once you’re cast as a warrior, it’s almost impossible to change people’s perception. It seems like a version of the Leonard Nimoy Syndrome. Nimoy, as you recall, is the actor who played Mr. Spock in the television series “Star Trek.” His distinctive character became so well-known that no matter what other roles Nimoy played in later years, no one could forget he was really Mr. Spock.

Once a pastor is identified as a warrior, that reputation is extremely hard to shake. During the conflict, I spent hours with individuals in counseling or in visitation after a death in the family or in personal ministry. I worked to keep a balanced pastoral stance. Yet, to those who wanted to believe it, I was simply a tough guy, the one who “can’t get along with so-and-so.”

A few of my critics were so outspoken in this regard that one Sunday morning I met a real estate company president who was visiting our church. Thanking me for the morning message, he confessed he had come just to meet the man about whom his employees could say nothing nice. They were so one-sided, he had to find out for himself.

After prolonged conflict, you tend to lose perspective on people and issues. While you try to focus on issues and not personalities, the longer the battle, the more they change places.

I once read that after decades of bloody feuding, the Hatfields and the McCoys couldn’t remember what the initial argument was about. But it didn’t matter any longer. The real issue was whether you were a Hatfield or a McCoy. So it goes in churches. A warrior can easily forget he is battling issues and not people.

In such moments the words of Jesus to love your enemy and to be kind to those who spitefully abuse you take on new significance. I knew I was making progress when I honestly could tell the husband of a woman who had caused me great suffering that I loved both of them. I knew I meant it, and it gave me the freedom to go on.

But many are the temptations to cover your buried anger with more acceptable rationalizations, such as righteous indignation.

What Happens to a Solomon

Now let’s consider what’s involved in being a Solomon. Obviously, there are some advantages.

You receive great affirmation and support from the congregation during your tenure. Unlike a David, often controversial and misunderstood, a Solomon is liked by nearly everyone. After all, the visible signs of growth and prosperity are evident, and it’s easy to attribute at least some of that success to the pastor.

You don’t leave such a church with many enemies, and even those who disagreed with you begrudgingly admit you helped the church. Given a little time, your accomplishments tend to grow in the retelling.

I’ve never enjoyed a larger-than-life reputation, but I did find people remembered fewer of my mistakes and more of my successes in that small urban church. During the height of the crisis in our second church, I took a summer vacation that included a stop at my previous parish. After my brief one-minute update on my family and thank-you for their ministry to us while we were there, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. I was stunned. Such affirmation seemed almost schizophrenic, given my current dilemma at the time, but it was deeply appreciated.

You observe the glory of God descend upon your church. One of the great rewards of life in ministry is to see the hand of God touch your efforts. Quite apart from your own merit, God chooses to do something beautiful if not miraculous in your church. Solomon’s life wasn’t the reason the glory of God descended on the temple at the day of dedication, yet he was privileged to observe it and participate in that supernatural event as worship leader.

In a similar way, I witnessed God at work in our little church. The first night we ever opened our church to the community was Thanksgiving. I’d been there about three months, and though we had only seventy-five regular attenders, we ran an ad in the large city newspaper inviting anyone who wished to come for a free turkey dinner. The board members were nervous: What if we have problems? What if no one comes? What if everyone comes?

That night as we opened up at sunset, I watched a stream of humanity pass through our doors and down to the basement-white, black, Hispanic, and Native American. Several of our ushers stood grimly with their arms crossed, ready for trouble. By the end of the evening, the spirit of joy and celebration was so evident from feeding 250 men, women, and children from the community that our 63-year-old church chairman was seen skipping across the empty room.

While I didn’t see the glory of God descend just as Solomon had, I knew I was in the presence of the Almighty that evening. It was the beginning of good things to come.

Your church is attractive to visitors as they sense the unity that prevails. I believe the atmosphere of a church can be read by visitors within five minutes of arriving. Warmth, acceptance, and joy seem to exude even from the narthex of some buildings. On other occasions as a visitor, I’ve entered churches to a stale, deathlike pall that seems to linger in the air. Tension, routine, and isolation seem the order of the day.

I’ve also noticed that churches that can state their reason for existence in one sentence or less are the ones that are growing and unified. In our urban church we knew what we were about: we were there to offer food, clothing, friendship, and the gospel. People seemed to enjoy knowing where we were going, and they seemed to experience a certain security in that knowledge. That atmosphere was picked up by visitors.

With all these heady benefits, it’s easy to become oblivious to the disadvantages and risks of being a Solomon. But, as many of us have learned, success can be far more treacherous to our spiritual well-being than failure. Consider some of the following not-so-obvious pitfalls of leading a united and prosperous parish.

You’re tempted to believe your leadership alone is responsible for the great things that happen. Watching programs expand and your budget rise is fun. It’s also dangerous, particularly if, like me, you’re young and in your first pastorate.

It takes a more seasoned and less presumptuous pastor to realize that if you’re experiencing a time of relative peace and prosperity, others probably have paid an anonymous but enormous price to help pull that off. Somewhere on your property there ought to be a monument to the Unknown Pastor, that brave and selfless soul who gave some of his best years to lay the groundwork for the good things now happening.

The notion that the church’s growth was triggered by our arrival is as deceptive as the lie that says all the trouble began when we arrived. Let’s be honest; we inherit more than we create as pastors, whether for good or ill.

Looking back at my inner-city experience, I can think of a long line of pastors who invested their lives in that place, and the one who served immediately before me perhaps deserves more praise than all the rest. He stayed only two years. But in that time he argued that “business as usual” was no longer possible. By the time I came, the people were ready to listen. I owe that young pastor and his wife credit for most of our subsequent success, though few would know it.

You are tempted to embrace a neo-prosperity theology. In short, you’re led to believe that God’s will for every pastor is to experience unbroken success and growth. To paraphrase Garrison Keillor, “All the programs are good looking, and all the attendance figures above average.” How wrong. Perhaps even diabolical.

The Book of Hebrews tells us God used many individuals in the past to accomplish feats of wonder. They conquered kingdoms, administered justice, gave the dead back to the living. Yet, that is not where that chapter ends. It ends by talking about a second group, a group too good for this world. They were persecuted. They went about in animal skins. They even lived in holes in the ground. But from God’s perspective, they are even greater heroes than the first group.

How many of us think the true heroes of the church are the men and women who remain faithful while struggling in some lonely and forgotten setting with carnal and angry critics constantly sniping at them? How can such sorrow and hurt be part of God’s will? Doesn’t he want all of us to live on an ecclesiastical roll? We’d all answer no, but at times, especially when the church was doing well, I tended to forget that.

During my second pastorate, it hurt to go to denominational get-togethers where others could boast of building programs and staff additions, while I thought of people abandoning our church because of the conflict. I realized how smug I must have appeared the years the figures were in my favor, and how it hurt other pastors to be asked by their parishioners why they weren’t doing things like we were. I wonder if I don’t owe some of them an apology.

Finally, you are tempted to become shallow, unable to identify with others in pain. According to the Arab proverb, “All sunshine makes a desert.” That is also true in living the life of a Solomon. It’s easy to become, little by little, a one-dimensional person, less and less sensitive to people in pain.

In the midst of my better times, I enjoyed being around people I considered winners. I had little time for someone who seemed headed nowhere. If colleagues were in trouble, it was their fault, or so I reckoned.

Granted, my success was limited, but at the time it appeared significant to me and to those struggling to hang on. And as they reached out, I didn’t listen. I’m afraid I walked past many a wounded pastor on the road to Jericho.

When the tables were turned, I saw how shallow I’d become. I gained a moment of self-awareness when I was sharing my hurts with a fellow pastor. He listened with something of an obligatory attitude and then replied, “You know, I’ve never experienced anything like that. Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve had a wonderful experience. I can’t remember anyone leaving my churches in anger.”

At first I felt hurt, then anger, and finally pity. He couldn’t help me at that moment because he was handicapped. His own relative ease had disabled him. From that time onward I no longer cursed my problems but began to ask what God wanted to do in my life through my pain. If possible, I wanted him to use me and what I had experienced.

Farewell to Arms

The day we drove away from our second church, a difficult but precious chapter in our lives came to a close. So many people had been so kind to us. For example, during the worst of the controversy and while my wife was quite ill expecting our last child, women came on a daily basis and cooked, did housework, and encouraged her. We couldn’t have made it without them.

In the face of such love and support, it was difficult to leave. When we submitted our resignation, the congregation voted overwhelmingly to reject it. We were deeply touched by their confidence in us. They insisted instead that we take a leave of absence to reconsider our decision, which coincided with the birth of our child.

During this leave, the board dealt aggressively with the remaining church problems. It was soon evident that the conflict had ceased. A David was no longer needed. Ironic as it may sound, the fact that the church’s problems had subsided gave us the reassurance that we could leave. It was for someone else to build the temple.

Ecclesiastes teaches that there are seasons to God’s will as it relates to the events of our lives. Our season of service was ending, not with bitterness or rancor, but with the joy that comes from having completed a task. I was genuinely grateful for the experience, and I continue to hear good things about the church’s concern for the unchurched and desire for service.

Years earlier when we left our first church-more as a Solomon than a David-we clung to our friends as we said good-by. Little did we know the temple doors were closing behind us and the time of relative peace in our lives was ending.

So which experience do I value more, that of being a temple builder or a warrior? My answer might surprise you.

Sigmund Freud once said something to the effect that someday, given enough time, those life experiences that have been the most difficult will become to us the most precious of all. He was unwittingly borrowing truth from the Psalmist, who said God makes everything beautiful in his time.

I would gladly serve a thousand churches like the first, but I wouldn’t trade all of them for my years in the church that struggled so deeply.

Should a pastor be a warrior or a temple builder?

Probably both.