Leaders get out in front and stay there by raising the standards by which they judge themselves—and by which they are willing to be judged.
Not long ago, I met with twenty-three pastors who by almost any standard would be considered successful. They were men of God. They had either built large churches from small beginnings or had taken over growing churches and continued the growth. They were men of good spirit, dedication, and humility, and as I sat there listening, I noticed they were quick to give God the glory. Too quick, it seemed to me. I had to chide them.
“I’m a little tired of hearing you talk about God’s blessing,” I said. “If I took you twenty-three men and put you in twenty-three different towns, chances are the same thing would happen all over again.”
Why? Because they know how to build churches, they’re motivated to do it, and they know how to get people to follow them.
Does that sound unspiritual? I’m not discounting the power of God in the success of a ministry, but neither can we dismiss the importance of good leadership.
Recently, I had lunch with a young pastor from a small church who was wondering why things weren’t going as well for him as for more successful pastors. He told of going to them and asking how they had built their churches.
“God has blessed us,” they replied.
In all sincerity, my young friend wondered why God wasn’t blessing his church. Was there some spiritual deficiency? Should he spend even more time in prayer and Bible study? Or should he get out of the ministry? Was he the reason God’s blessing was withheld? “I feel so anemic,” he said.
“You want to know the truth?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Those pastors lied to you.” At least, they had not told the whole truth. I pointed out that God alone had not built those churches. I told him about chiding the twenty-three pastors for crediting God with their churches’ growth when part of the reason was simply their strong leadership.
“You know,” he said, “I could believe that.”
He then went on to say, “I really don’t have any background for running a church. During seminary I worked as a grocery store clerk, and everything was very structured. Then I worked on a church staff, and I was told what to do. I never will forget my first morning as pastor of this church when I woke up and realized there wasn’t anybody to tell me what to do. I could loaf or I could work.
“That’s where I need help. What are the things you put your attention on? What comes first, and what comes second?”
My heart went out to him. He was deeply spiritual—more of a man of God than most. But he lacked an understanding of leadership. And leadership is a subject that has fascinated me ever since childhood.
Leadership: More Than a Position
As the son of a preacher, I noticed a curious thing growing up: People in church leadership positions didn’t necessarily know how to lead.
My father pastored a number of small churches in Alabama, Kentucky, and Tennessee. Unfortunately, many of the people were small too. In those churches, factory workers who ran plant machinery by day came to board meetings at night and tried to become executives. It didn’t work. Even in my early teens, I could sense the ineptness.
As employees, they had no experience in good management, and they were incapable of offering anything better for the church. They assumed places of leadership without having leadership training. I watched day laborers with warped ideas of what it meant to be the boss become absolute dictators in the church.
One of these men would suddenly find himself chairman of the board. He did not know a thing about organization, future planning, human dynamics, or vision. He didn’t practice leadership in his job, or even in his own family. Yet suddenly he would become a religious mini-mogul.
What was worse, these people rarely recognized their lack of ability. They assumed leadership was a position when in fact it is a function. Leadership is not a title that grants you license to force others to knuckle under; it’s a skill you perform, a service you render for the whole group.
I saw my father as a genuine man of God. His longest stay was in a small church in the cotton mill section in Nashville. He became something of a padre of the slums. He had no fear of walking through the dangerous parts of the city. In the first place, he was an extremely strong man, powerfully built. He’d been a blacksmith when he was young, and I don’t think anyone would have touched him. In the second place, however, he was revered by many in the neighborhood as a godly man. It does something to a son when you know your father is held in that kind of reverence.
But he was not a politician, nor was he gifted organizationally. When he would be outmaneuvered or put down by the power brokers in the church, I wondered, Where’s God in this? If we’re supposed to be serving God and God is supposed to take care of us, then why is the rich guy (or vocal guy or angry guy) able to run us off? Are these people more powerful than God?
Dad was a people person, not a natural manager. He would let things take their course without offering much structure. As a result, he struggled throughout his ministry.
My mother was the manager; she was a very well-organized person, and I admired organization even then. She saved us from starvation—stretching the $125 a month my father made so it could feed seven people. I could see these lay people did not have the leadership and management skills my mother did.
These experiences convinced me of the value of an orderly way of doing things. I grew up wanting to become a leader—not just to occupy a position of leadership, but to perform capably. I saw this as a valuable part of ministry.
Three Legacies
After forty years in the business world, I can still see my father’s influence in me. He’s one reason for this book. He taught me many things, but three of the lessons especially are reflected in these pages.
First, Dad was a stickler for integrity. At home he was a strict disciplinarian. Most preachers’ kids grow up as somewhat public figures, and my father constantly reminded my brothers and me that we had to be examples. As far back as I can remember, we had to be at church (on time!); we had to have our Sunday school lesson complete; we had to be kids who would reflect respect and validate Dad’s ministry.
Dad was very specific: He told us Scripture said he had no right to be a pastor if his family was not “in submission.” He said if any of us five boys began living in a way that dishonored the church and Christ, he would resign. It was a threat, but we knew he meant it. And we all knew that preaching was his whole life.
While that was a heavy burden, it made us keenly responsible, right from the beginning. While I resented certain things—having to dress neatly, for instance—the situation never drove me to be rebellious. We always saw clearly the reason Dad wanted these things. And that is a tribute to him.
I inherited my father’s admiration for integrity, and I trust that passion is bequeathed on these pages.
Second, I learned to appreciate the spiritual side of life.
Most pastors’ homes, I suspect, face squarely the constant juxtaposition of the spiritual and the material. Ours certainly did. Our home existed for the spiritual welfare of the church. I never even heard business discussed, for example, until I left home at age twenty-one. I had to gain all my business knowledge as an adult (and felt envious of the children of executives—just as those who come to Christ later in life often envied us preachers’ kids for our Bible knowledge).
And yet, the material side of life was a continual struggle. When I asked why our family didn’t eat in restaurants more often, Dad would say, “A minister’s family makes certain sacrifices. Eating out is not bad. But our family is centered on spiritual things, not material.” We always knew heaven was as real to Mom and Dad as earth. And I continue to believe that material gain does not make a person wealthy.
He taught me another lesson, however, which became one reason I’ve been writing for pastors. Dad taught all of us that whenever you have knowledge that could help other people, you’re supposed to share it. When the opportunity to write for Leadership arose five years ago, I wanted to offer what I could.
One of the rewards has been receiving letters such as the following, which arrived recently.
Dear Mr. Smith,
I’m the pastor of a small country church outside of Dallas, and so many times I get confused. The needs are so great, and I am so feeble in my answers. Your writings in Leadership and You and Your Network have been such a clarifying force.
I’m in my thirties with a wife and two children, the church is successful to many of my peers and so am I. But, Mr. Smith, I’m desperately hungry for more. I want to be a man of God. That’s enough challenge for one life alone. I am also confused about desires I have to obtain security and luxuries for my family. They seem to conflict. I don’t know whether to passively wait on God in these areas or to seek my own success. I know you’re a busy man, but I could use some insight.
Shortly afterward, we had a very productive visit.
I don’t have all the answers for pastors. They face many struggles I have not. But perhaps my forty years of experience in business, decision making, and leadership roles can be helpful in identifying some of the elements of leading, of bringing out the best in people.
This is not an exhaustive treatment of the broad topic of “leadership.” This is hopefully the essence, a foundation from which the rest can be learned.
If a young pastor, like the one mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, were to ask “What are the most important things to know about leadership and management?” and if we had the time, the rest of this book is what I would say.
Copyright © 1986 by Christianity Today
