Ministry Staff

I don’t usually yell from the stands. I normally stew quietly about the latest coaching blunder. But that day I was yelling.

I’d come to see Cristen, a girl from our church, play. I promised her last Sunday that I’d be there. She’d dominate, we chanted. Today, the freshman squad; tomorrow, the WNBA.

So with time expiring, the game in hand, and my superstar still warming the bench, I could stand it no more. “Put Cristen in,” I shouted. It was clearly the right call to make. What could the coach be thinking?

That thought occurs to me with some regularity now. You see, I’ve been an associate pastor for 12 years. My community is growing but my church not so much, and as I sit in my office one door down from my senior pastor, I sometimes say to myself, “What could he be thinking?”

It is a basic instinct to distance ourselves from decisions we disagree with, but that quickly undercuts the relationship between associate and pastor. I’d rather be seen as the guy in the white hat, not the hatchet man; a sympathetic ear for those who feel hurt by a tough choice the pastor has made instead of a party hack. But the truth is, my responsibility to the body is best carried out when I am loyal to my senior pastor.

When others have criticism, I try to help them understand the pastor’s decisions, and I direct them to him. And when I have criticism, I share it privately, if solicited. I dare not spread a public seed of disapproval or encourage the disgruntled to cry on my shoulder.

I am determined to present a united front with my senior pastor publicly even if privately we disagree.

Backhanded complement

I remember a conversation with my first senior pastor. Early in our candidating dance he said, “Son, unless I tell you to do something that is sin, I expect you to do it.” He was a commanding figure and I, still in seminary, was eager to please. We were very different—in age, experience, personality, and forcefulness.

After we had worked together about three months, I needed some validation. All young pastors do, especially if they work around giants. “Well, pastor,” I ventured, “do you believe that God has called me to the ministry?”

He barked, “The last thing you need to consider is the pastorate!”

I chafed at his reply for months.

Frequently I inwardly questioned his actions. He did almost nothing as I would have done it. But as our relationship developed, I saw that we complemented each other. He was outspoken and upfront. I’m quiet and reflective. He led by edict. I lead by example. He directed whole flocks, and I like chasing strays. I don’t think I was anything at all like he expected, but in time we made a good team. I don’t know whether he saw it, but we needed each other.

That discovery changed my relationship with him: he needed me as much as I needed him. After that, it was easier to be obedient—and loyal. And since then, when I hear myself muttering “What was he thinking?” I start looking for ways our differing approaches to the same issue are complementary.

After seminary, I asked him for a recommendation for the position I hold now. He agreed. Later he phoned to tell me what he wrote. “I told them that in a few years you’d be every pastor’s dream of an associate.”

Talk about it, privately

I reminded myself of my old boss’s affirmation during my first few months in my new position. My current senior pastor is a godly man and we have forged a good working relationship, but there were some rocky moments early on.

I led worship. I wasn’t hired to do it. I wasn’t trained for it, either, but the church needed a worship leader. Soon I found myself poring over the great hymns of the faith and formulating worship plans for hours each week. I wanted the church to try some new worship expressions and maybe even a change in the predictable order.

My talented and educated pianist evidently disliked my plans, or me, or maybe both. She stomped out of my inaugural worship team meeting in protest over the rearrangement of the order of service. She routinely gave me the silent treatment when things didn’t go her way and wouldn’t follow my lead during services.

Tension increased for more than a year. Then, one Thursday morning I walked into my office and picked up a conspicuous note left on my desk. At the top was scrawled “Sunday morning’s service” in the pastor’s hand. The remaining handwriting, giving all the details, was the pianist’s. There had been no warning, not a word of explanation, no suggestions for improvement. I had been demoted from worship planner to worship puppet. What was the pastor thinking?

We met to discuss it. The pastor apparently believed that in order to keep the peace, my “new and improved” worship scripts must go. I spoke with him about the discomfort I felt leading worship that someone else was designing. I was honest about my feelings, and he was open about his reasons. We were frank, but not angry. I was eventually released from my role as worship leader, but from that experience our trust has grown.

The pianist has moved on to greener pastures, and now I am leading worship again. I’ve even resurrected some of those early ideas. The pastor said recently he likes where we’re headed.

So I’m learning how to turn my second guessing into better ministry. The goad “what is he thinking?” can be turned to my—and my senior pastor’s—advantage.

One day I may be head coach, but until then, I’ve decided, no yelling from the stands.

Daniel McCabe associate pastor Moss Bluff Bible Church Lake Charles, Louisiana danielmccabe@juno.com