While serving a small church in a small town, I heard about pastors who ran themselves ragged to keep ahead of their parish’s possibilities. My problem wasn’t overwork. Mine was a loss of motivation for work that produced little progress. I coveted the stress of the too-fast life. Instead, I’d awake each morning to the question, “What should I do today?”
It wasn’t that there was nothing to do, of course; there just wasn’t much immediate reward for doing it. The church was small and certainly needed to grow, but the town was small, too, and my attempts at church growth always came up hard against the small town’s barriers to change.
I was admonished in seminary to study diligently and preach good sermons. But in my little church, it soon became apparent that the extra time in my study didn’t impress anyone; a simple Bible study seemed to please everyone as much as a sermon I’d worked on for days. People needed to be visited, but I had seen everyone in the parish, plus all of those on the fringes of the church family, in the course of three weeks.
Ours, like many small-town, small-church pastorates, was a caretaking ministry. At the end of a day, I’d come home feeling like I’d achieved little—nothing of lasting value to the church, and certainly nothing recognized in wider circles as the marks of success.
The combination of my church’s inertia and my declining interest in caretaking left me with a lot of guilt. I thought, I’m being paid with people’s hard-earned money, but what am I accomplishing?
I felt that I’d failed, and with no one to tell me otherwise, guilt became paralysis. How does a pastor fight the discouragement and see some measurable progress?
1. Take time to grow When I was younger and less sure of my performance, being always on the job—even when I had no more to do, or when fatigue had reduced my performance to zero—seemed the only way to feel worthy of my calling. But I’ve found that if I let guilt keep me from taking care of my mental and spiritual health, then I and my family—and even my church—eventually pay a price. I minister better when I take time to relax, read, recreate, spend time with family and friends, and to grow professionally.
In small-church ministry, it’s difficult to find intellectual fulfillment. My wife and I have tried to seize opportunities to take classes and seminars that intellectually challenge us. Sometimes that meant sacrifice for our schedule and budget, and occasionally for the church.
2. Sift through criticism Early in my ministry, I rode to a regional pastors’ meeting with Alan, a bright, thoughtful, articulate pastor. I wanted nothing more than for my ministry to model his.
In the last session, a denominational administrator gave a devotional about soul-winning. Instead of inspiring us, he spent the hour berating pastors. Any pastor whose church wasn’t growing, he shouted, was a liar and ought to leave the ministry. Holding up the church-growth record for the past year, he thundered, “At least a third of you could be dead and buried, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to the work of the God in this state!”
I rode home in despair, certain the speaker had been talking to me. Then I glanced at Alan, who was driving the car. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I’ve done everything I know how to do in my district,” he said. “And I guess I’ve failed. Maybe I should leave the ministry.”
I was shocked. A first-year pastor, I had no reason to assume I wasn’t as worthless as the speaker had said. But Alan? The man with a church program second to none?
I concluded that the speaker was a sniper who knew nothing about the problems of being a small-church pastor.
While I take informed, constructive criticism seriously, my ministry is too precious to let unbridled criticism sabotage it. As hard as it is, I now try to ignore any criticism—whether from a denominational executive or a church member—that doesn’t come from those willing to take the time to see my life and work from the inside. Otherwise I might wrongly assume I’m not making progress.
3. Refuse to live with loneliness It was late November when we moved into our first parsonage in a little town twelve miles south of the Manitoba border. Already snow was drifted high against the front door. Just married and from the West Coast, my bride and I shoveled a path to the door and carried in our belongings. The night was cold, but we were warmed by our enthusiasm.
This was the Lord’s call for us. He must have something in mind for us here.
One Saturday night a few weeks later, Carmen and I sat at the card table that doubled as our kitchen table. A blizzard was roaring outside, and all the streets were blocked.
“Do you remember the last day we spent in Seattle with Charles and Becky?” asked Carmen.
“Funny you should mention it,” I replied. “You know what I was just thinking about? The sound of the pipe organ in the college church.”
A few minutes and a few memories later, tears ran down our cheeks. We suddenly realized how alone we felt, and how different this small-church setting was from the dreams we had cherished during our ministerial training.
Loneliness is an unexpected reality for many small-church pastors. Carmen and I have made cultivating friendships a priority. Ironically, perhaps our biggest mistake in that first parish was to stay too close to our church. On our salary, traveling to see family seemed an expense we couldn’t afford.
But now we realize traveling to visit friends and family was something we should have given ourselves permission to do. It was unrealistic to expect that all our social needs could be met by church members.
I’ve found a rich friendship with Tim, an Episcopalian priest whose theological tradition is much different than mine. I have discovered I’m closer in spiritual attitude to him than to many colleagues with whom I share theology. We discuss our concerns for God’s work with much satisfaction.
4. Discern the source of your frustration I have been told that pastors worth their salt would fit well and work happily anywhere—or the genuineness of their call is open to question. When Carmen and I found ourselves in a pastorate where adapting drained our emotional energy, we questioned our calling to ministry.
We learned to differentiate the challenges intrinsic to ministry from the frustrations that arise because of differing cultural expectations, educational backgrounds, and philosophies of ministry between pastor and church.
Certainly, a dedicated pastor will try to minister with compassion and competence no matter what the setting. But we came to believe that wanting to match our gifts, needs, and vision with those of a church was not wrong. Our longing to minister where the differences between us and the church were not so sharp was not unholy ambition.
I believe now that God wants Carmen and me to find fulfillment in his work. He wants Carmen to have the chance to develop her career. He wants us to have friends and opportunities for growth. Coveting a place of status or importance is one thing; it is quite another to ask God to put us on a track where we can grow to our full potential.
5. Work your plan—then stop Having a long-range plan and carrying it through are the best antidotes to the paralysis of guilt.
Often I came home from a day of work and settled down with a good book, when the thought came, Hey, isn’t this kind of selfish? You’re being paid with dedicated money. Couldn’t you be out ministering to someone?
Now, when I finish what I’ve planned to do, I turn off that inner voice. For example, I might tell myself, This week I’m going to visit four church members, whether they need it or not. I’ll follow through on each of my evangelistic contacts. I’m going to write one page for the monthly church newsletter. I’ll plan one community service event and the church service. Then, barring emergencies, my work is done!
While this list may not sound challenging to someone in a large, program-oriented church, in a small church the pastor often ends up doing much of the work singlehandedly. Sometimes there’s no one to delegate to. So I must set a realistic plan and stop with that.
6. Persist A kind farmer once said to me, “I know it’s tough to pastor here, but if you just keep hammerin’, you’re bound to break through somewhere.”
I’ve thought of that often, particularly when progress seems to come to a halt: The Lord wants me to accomplish something here. If I just keep hammerin’, he’ll help me to break through to someone in a way that will be richly rewarding.
Ed was a professional who’d lost his job in California and found himself relocated to our conservative, small Midwestern town—a square peg in a round hole. Just before I was preparing to move from the church, Ed came to talk to me.
“Pastor,” he said, “the time you and I have spent here hasn’t been easy on either of us. But I want you to know that what has kept me going is that you’ve been here. The Lord brought you here for me.”
Ed’s comments helped me to see why God led me into small-church ministry. God wasn’t just teaching me skills or preparing me for advancement. He was teaching me service. Loneliness, discouragement, and lost opportunities aside, sometimes ministry means just being available for someone else. My service in small churches has been the means by which God has taught me real ministry.
Loren Seibold is pastor of Palo Alto Seventh-day Adventist Church in Redwood City, California.
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