At Willow Creek, we expect disagreement—forceful disagreement. Unity isn't the word we use to describe our relationships. The popular concept of unity is a fantasy land where disagreements never surface and contrary opinions are never stated with force.
Instead of unity, we use the word community.
We say, "Let's not pretend we never disagree. We're dealing with the lives of 16,000 people. The stakes are high. Let's not have people hiding their concerns to protect a false notion of unity. Let's face the disagreement and deal with it in a godly way."
The mark of community—true, biblical unity—is not the absence of conflict. It's the presence of a reconciling spirit. I can have a rough-and-tumble leadership meeting with someone, but because we're committed to community, we can still leave, slapping each other on the back, saying, "I'm glad we're still brothers." We know no one's bailing out just because of a conflicting position.
Community is bigger than that. But developing community, true biblical unity, does not happen naturally; it must be intentional.
Non-negotiables
Because of my commitment to community, there are several issues for which I'll go to the wall.
First, we at Willow Creek will not tolerate biblical infidelity, a discounting of the clear teachings of Christ.
Second, we insist on the enforcement of Scripture, the living out of the teachings of Christ. We'll defend not only the inerrancy and authority of Scripture, but also the indisputable importance of applying biblical teaching to our daily lives in practical ways.
Someone told me of a woman who is terrorizing a local congregation with her slanderous tongue. She's doing so in a church that holds high the Word of God. But the church leaders don't enforce it. They'll permit a loose-tongued woman to poison the body of Christ. They get an A for inerrancy and an F for enforcement. We want an A in both.
The popular concept of unity is a fantasy land where disagreements never surface and contrary opinions are never stated with force.
Third, we expect lay and staff leaders at our church to be on board with the basic vision of Willow Creek. We had a leader who, after several years of service, concluded that he could no longer agree with our vision. When we were a small church, he believed in our mission. But when we passed the 4,000-attender mark, he thought we should start satellite churches and decentralize. The rest of us, however, didn't sense God's leading in that direction.
We had an oil-on-water mixture. He made a high-integrity move and voluntarily resigned from his leadership position.
The last non-negotiable is verbal discipline. Years ago, I took to heart what Scott Peck had to say about conflict resolution. Often what undermines the conflict resolution process, he says, is the lack of verbal discipline. When we attend a piano concert we expect the pianist to offer a disciplined performance, demonstrating that thought, skill, and practice were part of the preparation. A concert is not a "whatever I feel like" event.
In confrontation, however, too often our verbal discipline goes out the window. People make always and never statements. They exaggerate the truth or get careless with facts. Volume levels increase. And then we wonder why we're unsuccessful in finding resolution.
Through the years, I've reminded our church continually about disciplined verbal expression. If in a debate someone is losing verbal control, I'll call a time-out so people can settle down. Then we'll come back together for a discussion that is controlled, accurate, and constructive.
Preferred risk
Verbal discipline is one facet of a commitment to fighting fair. There are several other ways that we teach people how to handle conflict in a Christian, redemptive way.
First, we acknowledge that conflict is inevitable. Then we go the next step and say, "When your nose does get bent out of joint—not if but when—you have a biblical responsibility to take the high road of conflict resolution."
That means going directly to the person with whom you're having this conflict rather than building a guerrilla team to ambush this person later.
We also teach a kind of reverse accountability. In staff meetings or in front of the congregation, we say, "If someone whose nose is bent out of joint comes to you for a 'Won't you join my cause?' conversation, you have a biblical responsibility to interrupt mid-sentence and say, 'I think you're talking to the wrong person. Please go to the individual with whom you're having this conflict and seek to resolve it in a God-glorifying way.'"
By expecting people to fight, and teaching them how, we have created more conflict in our ministry, but most of it stays above ground. Conflict that goes underground poisons the soil and hurts everyone eventually. We would rather have conflict within community than a mask of unity.
At Willow Creek we experimented for a couple of years with publishing a magazine, but the time came that we needed to shut it down. We didn't communicate that in the best way possible to those who had been working on the magazine, though.
In the aftermath several people asked, "Do you have any idea how hurt the volunteers were when you decided to close the magazine?"
That's a fair question, but when one person asked me that in a public forum, the edge in the voice made me uncomfortable, so I said, "You're probably one of those volunteers who's deeply hurt over losing your ministry, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"I feel terrible that you made the sacrifice and then it fizzled. Let me explain the original purpose of the magazine, why it folded, and the steps we took to close it graciously. If we can learn from the way we handled it, we're open to suggestions."
After several months had elapsed, one of the magazine's writers and his wife attended a management team meeting and said, "I'd like to give this management team four or five ideas on how to shut a ministry down in a less painful way."
And we listened. We were humbled, and we learned from their suggestions.
That kind of positive resolution can happen only in an atmosphere where conveying threatening or negative information is okay.
Fighting fair
But while communicating that disagreement is okay, I invite people to speak openly with me. After speaking at a weekend service, I may receive fifteen high-octane letters the next week, saying, "When you said thus and so, it wounded me deeply for the following reasons."
On the surface, that can be discouraging. (For me, the 10-to-1 rule applies here: ten complimentary letters are needed to get over one missile.) However, when I'm feeling wounded, I always say to myself, Aren't you glad this person expressed his frustration to you rather than calling fifteen people and holding a town meeting at your expense?
And so when I write these people back—which I do—I always begin the letter by saying, "Thank you so much for the courage it took to express your displeasure with me. I don't take lightly your willingness to follow the biblical injunction to come straight to me." Then I delve into the issue at hand.
Once a month I stand in front of the whole congregation and emcee an open question-and-answer time for half an hour. People can ask anything and everything—financial questions, personal questions, rumor questions. If people feel hesitant to ask a question publicly, they can submit it in writing before the session. I address every question.
No matter how well you have coached people in the past, teaching people to fight fair is an ongoing process. Before one of these meetings, I reminded the congregation, "When you stand and ask your question, remember pastors have feelings, too. So, if you're going to come after me, remember my heart is as fragile as your own."
Sometimes, though, someone will ask a question that has an edge to it or that is mean-spirited. If that happens in a public meeting, I ask the person to restate the question in a more gracious manner. In a private setting, I'm more direct: "Is there a spirit of love behind that question? What's going on in your spirit right now? Are you only upset about the specific question, or is there something deeper you're concerned about?"
Often someone will respond, "I'm filled with rage." Or, "I'm so angry." Or, "I'm just upset about a lot of things."
If a question is mean-spirited, it's usually because another issue is interrupting the relationship. I've learned to deal with the underlying problem first.
Our congregation is learning. The people have even developed the habit of hissing—when I tell a joke they don't think is funny or make a statement they don't think is tactful. On occasion, they've hissed a careless questioner. It's their lighthearted but firm way of saying, "That's not the way to fight fair."
Preempting the unnecessary
Certain people are more prone to create harmful conflict. People who are emotionally unhealthy are more likely to create the kind of conflict that is difficult to resolve.
Emotionally healthy people are less likely to internalize differences of opinion and less likely to assume the worst. For that reason, we are committed to placing healthy people into key leadership roles, both on a staff and lay level.
Of course, you can never be sure you're looking at a healthy person, but a person who has never wrestled with how his upbringing affects his adult relationships is a sure bet for a barrel of conflict.
In our interviewing process, we often ask, "Were you raised in a perfect family?" Most often, of course, the answer is no. Then we probe deeper. "How did your parents let you down? Have you worked through that?"
If someone says, "My family wasn't a safe place growing up," we'll ask, "What have you done about it? How have you worked through that?"
We're looking for self-aware individuals who are coming to grips with their pain and their woundedness. If someone says, "Actually, my family was just perfect. There were no problems," or, "My dad was an alcoholic, but it didn't affect me much," we know there's cause for concern.
People on the journey toward health generally can answer yes to two important questions: (1) Will you admit that you have baggage from your past? and (2) Will you do honest work on it so it doesn't distort your relationships and work around here?
A person's emotional health tends to express itself in hundreds of small ways. For example, we're in a leadership meeting and I'm passing out assignments. If I say, "Tom, can you handle this project for me?" I expect Tom to give me an honest "Yes, I can" or "No, I can't."
Let's say, however, that Tom doesn't do that. Tom's plate is full; he's buried in work. But he's afraid to say, "Bill, I can't handle it right now."
Though he told me yes, in reality the extra work overwhelms him. So he spends the next eighteen evenings trying to finish my project and winds up feeling angry at me.
Then through the grapevine, I learn that Tom is busy telling people that I overwork him, that I'm not sensitive to his family.
I have a problem with that kind of behavior! If I've asked an honest question, I should be able to expect an honest answer. Often, an unhealthy person will say yes when he should say no.
We look for people who have the emotional health to say, "I'm swamped right now. I won't be able to get that assignment done by the due date. Can we discuss how the assignment can get done another way?"
Another tip-off that something might be amiss emotionally is when a person cannot subject himself or herself to loving, constructive evaluation. Obviously, if we're evaluating with Uzi's, then the process is the problem. But around here, we have a carefully thought out and regularly scheduled evaluation process that is normally done with sensitivity and tenderness. In a situation like this, if people are terrified of the evaluation process or hostile to it, there's usually an underlying issue that needs to be explored and understood.
Another way to avoid unnecessary conflict is to sidestep anything that breaks trust.
Once a denominational executive called me, asking if he could bring a large group from his denomination for our presentation on seeker-oriented ministry. His only available night was a Tuesday. Our senior high ministry uses the auditorium on Tuesday nights.
I resisted the temptation to say yes and then deal with the logistical problem later. Instead, I called the director of the youth ministry and explained the situation.
"You make the call," I said. "How do you feel about our using the auditorium that night? Can you make different plans for that evening without disrupting your program?"
He said, "No problem. With this much advance notice, we can easily work around that evening. Thanks for checking with me."
Had I said yes before calling him, he would have felt devalued and taken for granted. It would have broken our trust.
Around Willow Creek we also talk about having "check-ins." If we sense tension with someone, we sit down and say, "I just need to check in with you. Is everything okay between us?"
Once a month, we also have a question-and-answer time with the staff, and in addition, we have regular talk-back sessions with those who work in the sub-ministries.
The more interactive we are, the more we preempt serious conflict, because we get people talking before conflict goes underground.
Answering the personals
Not long ago someone questioned my motivation for being a minister. "The reason Bill is in ministry," this person said, "is because of Willow Creek's size and all the perks that go with being its senior pastor."
I was surprised how hurt I felt. I was devastated. I also felt defensive, which bothered me. After journaling and mulling over the criticism, I realized that part of what upset me was that the one making the accusations had been around Willow Creek for only two years. He was unaware of the years I worked with no salary, when my wife and I took in boarders to make ends meet, when we paid for the birth of our daughter because the church couldn't afford medical insurance.
In that case, I had to process his accusation, to figure out why it hurt me so deeply, not just accept or reject it. I also realized that in order to be freed in my spirit toward that person, I had to explain to him why his accusation hurt and why I felt it was unjust.
At other times, conflict energizes me. If someone doesn't like a new venture I'm suggesting, I can respond as a competitor. When the final gun sounds, I think, we'll see who's right. It can make me work even harder. Or if it's clear the other person has a better idea, I can jump on board. Conflict, I've learned, can be a constructive part of the creative process.
The difference between these two reactions is the difference between being attacked personally versus having my ideas attacked. About my ideas, I've always been able to say, "You got me. I was wrong; I blew it." But when my motivations are questioned, I feel wounded, helpless. How can I prove the sincerity of my motives?
I think most people feel this way. When conflict reaches the level of personal attack—suspicion about integrity, trustworthiness, purity of motivations—it's hard to handle.
Trying to convince people that our heart's in the right place isn't futile, but the conversation will require an enormous level of maturity—for the accuser and the accused. The person making the accusation has to be mature enough to sense the gravity of what he's doing. And the one feeling stung has to be mature enough not to lash out in defense. Each has to enter into that discussion with a high degree of vulnerability.
Once someone questioned my motives in launching a new ministry at Willow Creek. I arranged a time when I could express my hurt and openly explain my vision for this new program. He received it beautifully and apologized for his broad accusation. He then brought up several legitimate points we discussed at length.
Some people say a pastor should never defend himself, but obviously I think differently. When the apostle Paul felt that the church of Corinth was not understanding his role, essentially he said, "Excuse me. Pardon what I'm going to do here for the next few minutes, but I'm going to tell you the price I've paid to carry out my apostolic calling." And Paul proceeded to recount his shipwrecks and beatings for the sake of the gospel. I see that as a way of defending himself.
Sometimes we have to do that to keep our heart pure. At times certain accusations take root in my spirit. If resentment grows, I have to go to the individual and say, "As hard as I'm trying to ignore what you're saying, you're hurting me, and you need to know that."
Many years ago, I heard from reliable sources that a local pastor had commented repeatedly that Lynne and I were unhappily married, headed for divorce. Included in his charges were accusations of unfaithfulness. Needless to say, Lynne and I were deeply saddened by these false reports.
After much discussion and prayer, Lynne and I drove to this pastor's church and walked into his office, unannounced, and introduced ourselves.
"The things you've been saying are ripping our hearts out," we said. "They're not true. We're wondering why you're saying what you're saying."
"I thought my information was accurate," he sputtered.
By the end of the conversation, he was apologetic. He appreciated that we had come to him and spoken the truth in a loving way. I think we all learned some valuable life lessons that day.
The toughest skill for me to learn in handling conflict is hearing. Not just listening, but really hearing. Recently a colleague and I experienced a serious break over a complex issue—philosophical and personal. We spent three, two-hour sessions attempting to resolve our differences. Though both of us had prayed and submitted to the Holy Spirit, we couldn't put the issue behind us. Neither of us felt completely heard.
Finally, the other person asked if I would be willing to go to a Christian counselor to resolve our differences. I readily agreed. We spent two sessions with a Christian counselor who gave us tools to work through the issue more effectively.
I discovered I was listening only to 90 percent of what this person was saying. There was 10 percent I didn't want to hear. The counselor helped me go the last 10 percent to get the issue fully exposed so we could move toward resolution.
Since then, I've worked on that skill in my marriage, with my children, and with friends in my accountability group. I'm becoming a better person for it.
Swimming with sharks and guppies
A man at our church once told me: "When you swim in the ocean, you get attacked by sharks and guppies. Don't worry about the guppies."
Over the years, I've concluded that some of the potshots I take from the Christian community are guppy problems. If a Christian leader criticizes me for allowing drums in the church, I'm not going to worry much about it. Someday we'll reach across the table at the marriage supper of the Lamb and say, "Wasn't that silly? Those were guppy things."
When our church was struggling in the late seventies, the outside attacks felt like shark attacks. We were renting a movie theater then, doing an unusual style of ministry that some considered liberal and others called fundamentalist. Many vocal critics never took the time to figure out who we were and what we were all about.
Careless media coverage, in which we were called a cult and linked with everyone from Reverend Moon to Jim Jones, threatened our viability at times. Many people became suspicious of us.
It was a frustrating and scary time. But we converted our anxiety into earnest prayer energy. It forced us to examine our motives. We asked ourselves a hard question: "Are we really doing what God called us to do?"
Such attacks forced us to become even more committed to pursuing God's specific will for us, even if that meant being criticized or persecuted. We said, "Let's quit complaining about the attack and get on with the ministry."
Redeeming criticism
My response to criticism has definitely changed through the years. In my early years of ministry, I rebutted people who wrote to me and said I had offended them or hurt their feelings. For years, I'd write back and say, essentially, "I'm sorry you took it wrong, but there really wasn't anything wrong with what I said." But then they'd write back, doubly hurt. They knew what I really meant was, "I'm sorry you're so sensitive that you get upset about petty things."
After several years of this, I thought, What if I just said, "Thank you for writing me and expressing your hurt. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to hurt you. Please forgive me."
Soon after implementing this approach, I began receiving letters saying, "Thank you for your letter. You don't know how much that meant to me."
Many people, I discovered, just want to know if their pastor is a safe person. Can he respond to hurt with compassion? Does he care as much about relationships as he does his sermon material?
I don't mean that I apologize if I truly believe I have nothing to apologize for. But often the source of offense is a flippant remark or an insensitive stab at humor—something I thought was harmless, but that ended up being offensive to someone.
During Christmas vacation several years ago, my family and I visited a church where for special music the pastor played a song on an accordion. That was so contrary to the culture in which my children had grown up that they were choking back their laughter.
When I returned to Willow Creek the following week, I enjoyed the first half hour of our service so much—the orchestra, the singers, the drama—that in my pre-message remarks I said, "It's so good to be home. Last week I was in a little church where the only thing besides the pastor's message was the accordion solo." Most people laughed. I went on to thank the people who planned and presented the music and drama that morning.
But then came the letters. Some were angry because they felt I had belittled pastors who don't have staff and music programs. Then I received notes from people who played accordions.
I knew I had crossed a line. So after writing ten or fifteen apology notes, I decided the situation called for a public apology. So, at each of the weekend services, I said, "I really didn't intend to make a disparaging statement about limited church staffs or accordion players. I just felt thankful for the people God has provided to minister so creatively here. But the way I phrased my comments was careless and conveyed negative values. I was wrong. I am sorry. So please forgive me."
Such a response doesn't hurt my credibility; rather, it builds credibility. People have sought me out, saying, "Knowing that you'll apologize makes me feel safer accepting your leadership."
Our people already know we make mistakes. What they want to know is whether or not we have enough integrity to admit them.
Kinder, gentler leader
Handling conflict well is essentially an issue of maturity, and leading a church to community, to true biblical unity, begins with its leader.
Due to my upbringing, one way I have handled hurt is to clench my teeth and say, "I'm not going to let that get to me." I'd buck up, power through, put it out of my mind, and keep going. The problem was that each time I did that, my skin became a little tougher, my heart a little harder, my feelings deeper below the level of my awareness. I became another step distanced from the people around me.
With the help of my wife, Christian counselors, and other trusted friends, I'm learning a more constructive way to negotiate conflict. I'm learning to admit to the person involved that what they said or did hurt me, and slowly I'm learning to feel that hurt inside. I'm learning to say "Ouch" and talk about what that ouch means, rather than discounting relational wounds and powering past them.
As I get better at acknowledging the hurt that conflict causes me, I also become more aware of the hurt that conflict causes others. This has led me to approach conflict resolution with a much gentler spirit, both for my sake and for others' sake.
That kind of vulnerability in relationships did not come naturally to me. But I believe it's a necessary part of obedience to Christ.
