The young minister and the seasoned pastor each face unique frustrations and temptations—and each has unique opportunities
—R. Kent Hughes
Our youth pastor, Dennis, came to me recently. “I want to rappel off the church,” he said, “off the fourth story!” It was to be a scene for a youth video he was making, he explained.
I could have easily said no. First, it was dangerous. (I like to give my staff room to fail, but this gave a whole new meaning to the idea.) Furthermore, people could justifiably criticize me for allowing such crazy activities. But I decided the risk was worth it. Dennis is a creative guy. He relates well to the kids, and his idea was a culturally hot item. In addition, he was young and capable of the feat.
“Just check with the custodian,” I said, “to make sure the rope won’t come loose and the building won’t be damaged.”
So he did it. With a Santa Claus hat on his head, he backed off the roof of our four-story building and rappelled to the ground. The video was outrageous, and the kids loved it.
Rappelling off buildings, however, would not exactly impress the main people I minister to. That’s how it should be. The young minister and the seasoned pastor are, in some ways, worlds apart in their view of the church and practice of ministry—and that’s okay. Each faces unique frustrations and temptations, and each has unique opportunities to minister effectively to God’s people.
I see my own ministry as falling into two basic stages: early ministry, where I did youth work and then planted a church, and ministry now as head of staff. Here are the insights I’ve gleaned about the hazards and opportunities of each stage of pastoral life.
Phase frustrations
Although my ministry has been fulfilling at each stage, I see that each period also brings with it unique frustrations that, in the end, we simply have to learn to live with.
Lack of respect. When I was a youth pastor, I longed for congregational respect. I used to say I was more zookeeper than pastor: as long as none of the animals got out of their cages, everybody was happy. That didn’t do much for my self-esteem, and I felt alienated, like I was off in a corner with no significant role in the church.
That, in turn, nurtured a sort of reverse elitism: The future of the church lies with the youth, I’d think. This is where it’s happening. Everybody else is out of it! That attitude, of course, didn’t do much to get me the respect I longed for.
In fact, one advantage of early ministry aggravated the issue of respect. As a young pastor I enjoyed being close to people. I had considerable one-to-one contact, especially with youth and youth sponsors. But sometimes that very closeness diminished my profile as a pastor. When I became only “Hey you!” to people, they didn’t perceive me as one having authoritative answers.
And it wasn’t only the elders who didn’t respect me. Often it was the kids I spent the most time with. At one youth gathering, I found myself under playful attack. “Hey! Let’s try to drown the youth pastor!” was their gleeful battle cry. I spent much of the afternoon happily wrestling with some of my guys in the pool.
A few days later, though, I tried to speak with one of the boys I’d been wrestling with. He had been misbehaving in the youth group, and I had to confront him about it. But he wouldn’t listen to me.
“I don’t think you’re so good,” he said disrespectfully. “You’re not a good husband to your wife or a good father to your kids. So get off my case!” I believe he spoke to me that way because I had become a little too familiar with him.
Another signal of lack of respect was the relatively meager administrative support I received. During my early years, I either had no secretary or one who merely worked part-time, and I had to rely on old office equipment (or no equipment at all). That hampered my ability to administrate my work efficiently, and it raised my frustration level considerably some days.
The advantage of being a “junior pastor,” of course, is that the buck doesn’t stop at your desk. If the deacons became testy about a rappelling stunt or whatever, I just ducked. The criticism would fly by and land on my boss’s desk. But during my early years of ministry, that plus didn’t mitigate my frustration.
Administrative hassles. Now that I’m farther down the time line, I have a vast arsenal of administrative tools at my disposal, but I also find the pace of change is frustratingly slow.
My youth group—and even my first church—responded well and rapidly to change. They didn’t ask all the what-if questions: “What if this happens? What if that doesn’t work? What if we run out of money?” They were ready to get involved and take risks.
If I challenged them with, “All the heathen are lost,” they would consider the matter seriously, saying, “Then I should change my life. I should join Operation Mobilization.”
When presented with a challenge to change, the people I work with now are more likely to say, “But that’s never been done here before,” or “How much did you say that was going to cost?”
Motivating an established church with an elaborate structure and a long, rich history can be like turning the Queen Mary around. You can turn a speedboat around on a dime. But it takes seven miles at sea to get an ocean liner headed in the opposite direction. And the older we become, the more likely we are to pastor ships instead of speedboats.
The time and energy that administration extracts from me also tend to separate me from my people. My maturity and leadership now give me the opportunity to make a large difference in many people’s lives, but only if I’m willing to stay at the helm of the ship. Frankly, I’d like to be on the deck more often, chatting with the crew.
The varied pacing of ministry
How we pace our ministries also changes over the years.
A holy impatience. When we’re young, it’s easier to be direct. We see clearly the problems of the church, and we have few qualms about telling people what ought to be done. We think, This is right, and I know it’s right. It’s biblical, and this church needs it. So I’m not going to let anyone stand in my way. So we barge through the front doors, trying to make change happen immediately.
Yes, sometimes we’re brash and less than diplomatic. But it’s that youthful impatience—especially if it’s directed by biblical goals—that can often win the day.
In 1970 I became convinced that the one great thing our youth needed was involvement in missions. At that time shortterm summer missions was not a common opportunity, especially for high schoolers. So I wrote missionaries and mission boards on every continent and compiled “103 Opportunities” that I grandly and with much fanfare presented to my kids.
The result? Fifty-five of them spent the summer of 1970 doing missionary work, and they were spread over five continents. It was a spiritual springtime for the church, although not the one great answer I had envisioned!
Younger ministers can get away with that type of holy drive, partly because congregations expect that from us when we’re young. But as we mature in ministry, other character traits must emerge.
A godly patience. The more at home I’ve become in the ministry, the more I use the back door. Instead of barging through the front door, guns blazing, I slip in quietly, unnoticed. I’ll take someone out to lunch, listen respectfully, and in the process introduce my ideas in a noncombative mode, allowing others time for thought.
I’m also more comfortable with the fact that my plans won’t get accepted immediately. Getting College Church into a major building program without sinking the church has been a huge exercise in patience. I didn’t just stand up one day and announce that we needed to build a $6.5-million structure. I had to lay the groundwork for years.
It began, in fact, when the congregation held a meeting to discuss air conditioning. Many people were saying, “Why should we install air conditioning? It’s unbearable only ten Sundays out of the year. We’ll still come to church.” I had to remind them that a restaurant operating that way would go out of business.
In time I got them to see that we were trying to reach others besides the already committed. Patience paid off. We got the air conditioning, and now, years later, we’re building new facilities.
I may have to settle for accomplishing only a small part of the plan at the beginning of a new venture. But if it moves the church in the right direction, in a year or two the whole program can be in place.
Temptations in time
In each stage of ministry, my spiritual life has been tested differently.
Vulnerability to flattery. I didn’t get to preach much as a youth pastor. But if someone came up after my sermon and said, “That was great! Do you know what we need around here? We need to hear more of you,” I tended to believe her.
Yeah, you’re right, I’d think. That is exactly what this church needs: more of me. When young, we’re more vulnerable to such flattery.
Now I know the difference between compliments and flattery. If a long-time member tells me, “Pastor, that was a good sermon Sunday,” that’s one thing. But it’s another when someone who’s been attending but three weeks says, “Boy! That was the best sermon I have ever heard!” Then my red flag goes up. It could be that he has never heard good preaching, but more likely he is flattering me to get my attention.
I’ve learned, then, to be cautious over the years. Experience has shown me the truth of what Solomon says—to be wary of flatterers.
Vulnerability to security. As one gets on in ministry, I’ve witnessed an increasing temptation to play it safe, to become vulnerable to the need for security, to see risk as a young man’s game. The more one achieves professionally, the more one has to lose and the greater the instinct to play it safe. That’s why some pastors are tempted to pad their boards with supportive yespeople and hire staff who don’t threaten them.
I have consciously fought this instinct by surrounding myself with superior people, many with abilities exceeding mine. I invite them to push and ask hard questions. I allow them to spread their wings, to try new programs and fresh ideas. And when they fly, I fly—and flying is risky business!
Pastoral care in two dimensions
The essence of ministry—pastoral interaction with people—also changes with the years. The same ministry gets done, but in two different ways.
Pastoral contact. As a youth pastor, my phone rang constantly. I was available all the time. When I became the pastor of a small church, I involved myself in everything: Sunday school, the youth program, evangelism. Since I worked closely with members, they all knew me. We built the new church building together; we cleaned toilets together. People had no compunctions about calling me at any time.
Because of that close contact with people, I could invest myself into individual lives with great energy and good results.
In my early pastorate, I coached a soccer team, The Awesome Aztecs, and some of my players came from Jewish, Mormon, and Hindu homes. We had a great time together all season. To thank me for my efforts, the team along with their parents came to church one Sunday, and they all sat on the front row.
Pastoral oversight. When I came to College Church, I suddenly had ten times more people to pastor, but I received only a third of the phone calls. The older minister usually has more responsibility, so people say, “Well, we shouldn’t call the pastor at home. We should wait till tomorrow morning.” And sometimes they simply don’t trouble me with their problems. It’s sad, but some people no longer consider me approachable.
Then again, even when people do ask for pastoral attention, my varied responsibilities force me to weigh my response. A woman recently asked me, “My husband and I are having trouble. Would you counsel us regularly?”
“I can counsel you a couple of times, but then I will have to refer you,” I explained. “And if you need some financial assistance, we can help with the first five or six sessions.”
I know that if I take even two or three people on for regular counseling, it will demand my full attention. I still counsel people, but not as much as I used to.
I simply no longer have the luxury of being involved with as many people. If I were to do so, I wouldn’t administrate well; I wouldn’t adequately prepare sermons. As an older pastor with more responsibility, I have to work through other people.
The irony is that although I personally give less pastoral care, more people receive individual attention. I administrate staff people who visit hospitals, counsel, and make calls into homes. Our church also offers courses that train laypeople to give pastoral care to one another.
So although I’m frustrated by administration, my frustration is tempered by the fact that I can oversee the pastoral care of hundreds of people.
Learning to preach
One of the greatest challenges of ministry is to communicate the good news to people. It’s a complex task, and not every part of it can be perfected at once. In fact, we should not burden ourselves trying to do at twenty-five what others are doing at fifty-five. I’ve noticed that different stages of ministry lend themselves to mastering different parts of the preaching process.
Learning to be relevant. When I got out of seminary, I entered ministry armed with all kinds of theological words. I was selfconsciously bookish.
But that didn’t compute into the world of youth ministry. Kids may be the most challenging group to relate to. They’re a demanding audience. They’re not going to let you get away with being irrelevant. They want fast-paced, graphic, honest dialogue. You can get away with boring adults, but kids won’t tolerate it.
I had to learn, then, to relate to kids on their level. My wife says my vocabulary went through a complete transformation in about a month. So I spent my early ministry years learning how to translate the gospel into contemporary terms.
In fact, I’ve come to believe that youth ministry is the best place to learn how to do that. If you can communicate with teenagers, you can communicate with anybody. As a youth pastor, I learned many speaking techniques that I still draw on today.
Crafting and precision. In recent years my homiletical style has evolved even further. With collegians I could sit on the floor and dialogue from notes written on the margins of my Bible. When I pastored a small church, I began to construct outlines with greater substance and structure. Now I write out a complete manuscript, even if I don’t use it in the pulpit. My people understand more nuances of biblical truth, and I must be clear and precise about how I communicate.
So in this stage of ministry, I’m constantly learning how to craft my sermons. I’m much more fastidious about exegesis and even the use of language. This is not something I had time to do when I was younger. Even if I did have time, I’m not sure it would have been worth the effort. Now it is, not only because I’ve already learned to be relevant but because my people expect it.
The changing focus
How I give my energies to ministry has also changed over the years.
A singular passion. When I first started out, I thought I could change the world with my youth program. During the 1960s we sat on the floor for Bible studies, strummed guitars, and sang Jesus songs. We thought that was the answer for the whole church. If people would just sit on the floor and sing Jesus songs, they’d became like the church God intended.
That single-issue focus stayed with me into my early years as a pastor. I’d say to myself, If I can get Evangelism Explosion going, then the church will turn around. I’d preach with confident zeal, imagining one great sermon alone would affect my people for life. As a young minister, I would often devote myself fully to one thing, hoping it would make a big difference.
Early in ministry, we have the luxury and opportunity to have a narrow focus. That focus allows us to give programs the detailed attention and energy they need—especially if they are being created ex nihilo. And although my grandiose hopes for each program may have been misplaced, each in its own way made a difference.
For example, in my first pastorate, I instituted an intern program for those considering going into the ministry. This provided interested people with ministry opportunities; they also received a modest amount of instruction in practical theology, which I taught weekly. The program continued for more than a decade after I moved on.
A concern for complexity. As my responsibilities in ministry changed, I began to see another dimension: the church wasn’t one thing but many, and it was the coordination of the many that would, over the long run, make for effective ministry. Even after great sermons, I found myself realizing, That may have been one of the best sermons I’ve ever preached, but alone it won’t make any major difference. I’ve got to keep paying attention to all the other parts of the church’s life as well.
To put it another way, I no longer can evaluate rappelling off the church only in terms of what it can do for the youth. I also must consider how it might affect the ladies’ missionary guild or the church’s insurance coverage.
Complexities can clutter the big picture and make ministry decisions much harder. Then again, learning to look beyond the single ministry focus has also lowered my fear of failure. I’ve discovered that just as one sermon will not change history, one mistake will not collapse the kingdom of God. One bad program will not sabotage the church or destroy my ministry.
Rewards at every stage
On my dresser, where I can see it every morning, sits a picture of five guys, with sunglasses and slicked-back hair, on a 1968 Colorado River trip. That picture reminds me of what happened the next day, when four of them prayed with me to receive Christ. And it didn’t end there.
One of those guys, Rick Hicks, went on to direct Forest Home, a Christian conference center in southern California, and he recently received a Ph.D. To know that something I did as a youth pastor had lasting impact, to know that more than twenty years later those guys are still committed, pursuing ministries themselves and changing lives for Christ—that is wonderful. Seasons may change, as do pastors, but the rewards are essentially the same.
The rewards, of course, continue to unfold. Recently, I received this note from a junior high girl:
Dear Pastor Hughes,
After listening to your sermon today, I recommitted myself to our Lord. I have recently discovered myself just “going through the motions.” I have since done devotions and witnessing to people. Your sermon spoke to me. Normally, I must confess, I don’t listen very well. Today I did and you had a lot to say. I’m sure you spoke to many nonbelievers in our congregation. I have decided, if possible, to become a member of College Church (although I am only 13 years old and the only one in my family to go to this church). If you would like to get in touch sometime, my number is … Thanks for your time.
Your sister in Christ, Elizabeth
As Ecclesiastes puts it, there is a time for every season under heaven. That’s certainly been true of my ministry. Each season of ministry has its liabilities and opportunities, but in each season God has been faithful, and his work has moved forward.
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