There is no one without faults, not even men of God. They are men of God, not because they are faultless but because they know their own faults, they strive against them, they do not hide them and are ever ready to correct themselves.
Mohandas Gandhi
Every honest minister preaches from a reservoir of guilt and grace.
Gary Gulbranson
For Christmas one year, my kids gave me the Gospel Birds tapes by radio storyteller Garrison Keillor of “A Prairie Home Companion” fame. In one of his yarns, Keillor mentions that if a pastor stands before the church and says, “I’m a human being just like you,” the first questions in the minds of the congregation are Who was she? and For how long?
Their immediate conclusion, Keillor suggests, is that he must have committed adultery. Why else would a pastor admit humanness?
His humorous insight got me thinking about that interesting dilemma in ministry. What do we do with our infirmities — our misgivings and fears, our failures and sins? How transparent can a public figure such as a pastor or Christian leader afford to be?
The Need to Be Transparent
Part of the challenge comes from our need to express emotions, both the positive ones and the negative ones. We’ve already discussed how repressing our humanness can jeopardize our ministry. We’re to be spiritual examples, yes. People watch us. But that’s not reason to hide our faults; it’s reason to admit them. If people watch us closely enough and long enough, either they’ll discover what we try to hide, or else we’ll crack under the strain of struggling to keep it from view. For our own health as well as for the sake of honesty, we need to find appropriate ways to express our feelings.
But there’s another reason transparency is important. It makes our ministry more effective. Our parishioners can learn most effectively from our realistic example. As one pastor expressed it, he needs for people to see him as “one who at times fails, makes mistakes, but is working through what I say on Sunday morning.”
Some of us are tempted to give the impression that the answers to life’s problems come easy, that we have the perfect and foolproof solution to every spiritual problem or struggle. Instead, I’ve found that people respond better to an approach more along these lines: “Here’s the problem. (And I describe it with all the complexity in which people experience it.) Here’s what the Bible teaches. Here’s how I’ve tried to apply the biblical teaching in my own situation, and here’s what happened.”
I try to convey the attitude that I’m not a spiritual giant towering above others but a fellow pilgrim seeking earnestly to walk with God and live in a manner pleasing to him.
My approach was shaped by a conversation I had with a friend who entered the ministry after a career as a successful businessman. One day he said to me, “Jay, have you noticed at Bible conferences how some of the famous teachers, after giving their talk, will quickly sneak back to their rooms and pull down the shades and avoid people? And in the dining room, they sit in the corner looking very serious, which signals to other people that they want to be alone? You rarely see these speakers in small, informal question-and-answer sessions.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
“Well, sometimes I think it’s because they find people’s questions naive or boring. Maybe they’re studying and praying and need solitude. That may be true sometimes. But as I’ve gotten to know some of them, I think more often it’s because they want to create the illusion of piety and deep scholarship. They want to come across as authorities. In their talks, they set up a straw dummy and then devastate it before our very eyes with their profound insight or logic. Then we all go away feeling like they know all the answers.”
He continued: “But I think they’re afraid to sit and listen to real people because we would say, ‘You know, that point you made about the men in battle? I was in the war, and that’s not the way it was, at least it wasn’t for me.’ I think they’re afraid too much contact with real people would complicate their formula or shatter their illusion — just like a little kid saying to the magician, ‘I saw you put that rabbit up your sleeve.’ So they avoid people and the complexity of real life.”
To use an analogy from golf, these traveling speakers get to tee the ball up in the fairway, giving themselves a perfect lie from which to play every shot. That is, they get to determine the topic and raise only the issues they’re prepared to answer. They move on to a new audience every few days. They don’t have to hang around to see what effect their teaching actually has on people; they’ve moved on to the next town where people will accept their teaching eagerly and without challenge.
Pastors, however, who remain with a congregation year in and year out, don’t enjoy the privilege of teeing up the ball. They have to play it as it lies, whether it’s behind a rock, against a tree, or buried in a divot. They have to hang in there and try to make par under the tough conditions of real life.
After my conversation with my friend, I looked back and had to admit that much of what he said was true. I made a vow that as a conference speaker, I would try not to do that in the future. This commitment has been the source of much joy and embarrassment over the past thirty years, but it has also been an excellent continuing education.
But I noticed that pastors, too, are sometimes tempted to put up a false front, at times for seemingly good reasons. Said one: “In preaching, I have to project an image of sureness or certitude I don’t really have. Why? Because in the pulpit I’m unable to offer all the qualifying factors or apply the principles to all the unique situations in people’s lives. Therefore I simply say, ‘Believe A, B, and C.’ Then, in personal conversation or in counseling sessions, I can go into more detail — ‘but A and B are tempered with the truth of X, Y, and Z.'”
Another pastor said, “I can’t share my doubts about eternal security because, like it or not, many people in the congregation are hanging onto my faith. Their theology is still undeveloped. Their assurance of salvation is to some degree secondhand — based on my ability to assure them that God is holding them secure. It takes a mature congregation to work everything through firsthand.”
Unfortunately, each of those statements adds another brick to the pastoral pedestal, which gets higher and higher until we’re scared to death to fall off. Yet we realize how shaky this tower is. If the congregation is saying, “What a beautiful faith our pastor has. He has no doubts in the world,” then we, and they, are in serious trouble.
The same is true of other weaknesses. Some vulnerability is important for what it communicates to the congregation. There’s a correlation between the amount of healthy self-disclosure in preaching and the amount of counseling the church staff will do. In a church where pontification and advice reign supreme, fewer people are willing to speak to the pastor about their personal failures. As we give glimpses of our humanity, however, people come and say, “I think you might understand my problem,” and they ask for help.
The Dangers in Being Transparent
As important as transparency is, it’s also true that there are dangers in baring all our defeats, doubts, and discouragement. It can be cathartic for the speaker, but a public pity party does listeners no real good. Raw emotion can baffle and embarrass an audience. They feel used, almost as if the speaker had become a flasher. What he’s showing may be legitimate and God-given, but in public it should remain dressed.
Indiscriminate expression can also damage a leader’s ability to lead. At times a pastor, like any business executive who’s just made a necessary but unpopular decision, cannot publicize his inner uncertainty about the decision. If he waffles publicly, he’s perceived as weak. That prompts any natural uneasiness people have toward change to grow into murmuring dissent. Then the workers carrying out the decision will doubt whether the leader really supports them. In order for the decision to stick, leaders have to back it up — firmly — even if they feel emotionally torn. Double-minded statements don’t inspire commitment.
Doctors often aren’t 100 percent certain a particular operation will succeed, but when it’s time for surgery, they must make the incision with a firm, sure hand. A tentative stroke guarantees failure. So, too, pastors must sometimes act with more confidence than they feel.
Many of us got the idea in the 1960s that you should be true to your emotions, that you should feel free to express them regardless of the situation. Indeed, the thinking goes, you need to express them openly, and others should be willing to “accept you as you are.” In fact, if you’re not “honest to your feelings,” you might even be considered deceitful.
There’s a kernel of truth in that idea, but things just aren’t that simple for leaders, who always have to consider the impact of what they say and do on those who follow. I don’t think it’s unhealthy for yourself or deceitful toward others to try to stay positive and encouraging.
In my case as a college president, for example, I’ve found that if I go public with discouragement, the whole campus goes down. If someone asks me how I’m feeling and I say, “Oh, I’m really kind of down today,” before long little groups are getting together all over the place and saying, “Jay’s discouraged.” And if Jay’s discouraged, they seem to think, something must really be wrong.
Consequently, I’ve learned to stay up, to be encouraging. I save my negativity for the small group of people who can handle it, because the larger group can’t do anything about the situation anyway. They need leadership. It’s not deception or subterfuge to be optimistic, to be excited, to encourage others to believe in God; it’s just one of the elements needed in a leader.
The film El Cid illustrates this concept. Charlton Heston in the title role was leading a Spanish army in a series of battles against the invading Moors, and just before the climactic confrontation, he was mortally wounded. His presence on the battlefield, however, was so important to the morale of his army that the few people who knew how badly he was hurt fastened him in his saddle and propped him upright so he could lead his troops into the fray.
Seeing their leader before them, the Spanish soldiers took heart and fought on to victory. If El Cid had not been there, or if he had slumped in the saddle, his army might have lost heart and gone down to defeat. The difference between winning and losing was so subtle that it depended on the enthusiasm of the soldiers.
That’s the way it is with much of life, including ministry; it’s a battle of inches. There are so many battles won or lost depending on whether the people involved hang on just a little bit longer. So the leader has a primary obligation not to declare doubts or failures at the drop of a hat. The overriding obligation is to the good of the followers.
In addition, there are times when it would be dangerous to express what you’re feeling because the emotion can’t be explained without revealing situations that must remain confidential. Certain parts of the story can’t be bared without hurting or betraying others. For instance, I don’t feel I have a right to talk in a ministry setting about my sexual life except in a very general way. That’s something my wife and I share. Out of respect for her and that relationship, I don’t invite the public into our bedroom.
I’m also careful about illustrations involving my children. I do use family illustrations, but only when they make the kids look good. If I’m going to use an illustration of weakness, I use myself. I don’t feel that my need to be transparent gives me permission to confess other people’s sins.
Guidelines for Transparency
A certain amount of transparency is essential, yet too much transparency or the wrong kind at the wrong time can be damaging. So how do we know what’s proper? What guidelines can we follow?
As I’ve reflected on it, I’ve concluded that healthy transparency is a lot like working with tools or playing a musical instrument. To some extent, anyone of average intelligence can learn how to do these things, and with diligent practice a person can develop reasonable proficiency. But to do these things really well — to be a great mechanic or an Isaac Stern — there has to be an innate, God-given feel for what’s appropriate.
Some mechanics can use a wrench to tighten a nut just the right amount, while others will continue to turn until they shear the bolt off. Some can use a shovel and tell how much pressure the handle will bear. Others have no such sensitivity. I have a friend who has broken countless shovel and axe handles, not because he’s stronger than everyone else, but just because he doesn’t have that feel.
All of this to say two things: First, to a certain extent, knowing the right degree of disclosure is a gift. We all know people who seem to know just what to say, and others who always seem to say the wrong thing.
Second, most of us fall somewhere between those two extremes, and there’s a lot we can learn that will help us become more proficient in this area. Thus, here are several principles I’ve tried to practice.
In public settings, my first rule regarding transparency is that self-exposure must have a purpose. I’m not simply going to “express myself.” There are other situations for that. The purpose must be to help the listeners, not to help myself. Any of my public statements must be for their benefit, not mine.
At times, it’s legitimate to present our struggles to the entire congregation. By showing our own struggles, we identify with our people. But if a sin or weakness is discussed publicly, the point is not simply to say, “I’m just like you.” The point must be to model faithfulness amid the struggle.
Along with broadcasting our failure, we owe it to our people to express, just as strongly, our determination to do whatever we can to make right the situation. It does no good merely to illustrate our imperfection and leave it at that. Most of our people know we’re imperfect already. What they need to hear is our desire to honor God in this situation.
One pastor I know has built a strong and vibrant church, and one of his secrets has been taking the “fellow struggler” stance with the congregation. He respects the people enough to be honest with them. He has dared to say, “I am deeply committed to Jesus Christ, and I’m going to be honest with you about how well I’m doing at it.” He’s willing to say, “Follow me as I, a sinful human being, follow Christ.”
Without fear, he’ll occasionally get up in the pulpit and say, “I’ve been trying this particular approach to Bible study, and it’s not working.” Or, “I find it hard to maintain myself in prayer; I go to sleep, or my thoughts stray. But I’m determined not to give up. Recently I’ve begun to write down my prayers, and I try to pray one good, short prayer rather than a long, impressive one.”
He’s been honest with people; he’s shared his struggle. But in the process he has been leading his people, not dragging them down. Both his words and his life continue to point them to God, not to his sinfulness. He always reaffirms his desire for a stronger relationship with God.
My second personal rule of transparency is to point people to Christ, not myself. Several years ago, I noted a change in the preaching of a pastor friend of mine. He began to speak with what I considered inappropriate candor about sexuality. Every illustration of sin was a sexual sin. His tone was extremely condemning; very little spirit of forgiveness came through.
Shortly thereafter, it was discovered that he was involved in adultery. Looking back, I realize he was exposing through his harshness his own need for cleansing and restoration. But all that had come through was judgment.
At times we feel a compulsion to assume Christ’s role. When we see sin in others, we either condemn it or forgive it rather than let Christ do that. We begin to dispense grace rather than participate in it.
I’ve always been intrigued by Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians: “For God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them, and has committed unto us the word of reconciliation.” How many times we think it’s committed unto us to condemn sin, to preach against sin, or even to forgive sins! But it’s not. We preach Christ, who reconciles people to God. There’s a difference between representing Christ and unconsciously trying to be Christ.
People who represent Christ, I think, are first of all at ease with grace. That is, “Oh, to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be.” They are overwhelmed with gratitude.
When such people see their own sins, they feel appropriate remorse but no compunction to cover them up. They would be the first to say, “Yes, I notice them, and so does Christ, and that’s the point of the gospel: he loves me even though he sees them.” Such people are at peace with grace.
This attitude affects our preaching. It means we don’t tell how we solve people’s problems, but how Christ solves them. We lead people to Jesus Christ, not to ourselves. If I bundle myself up as Christ — my time, knowledge, empathy, honesty, and every other noble trait I have — and I offer that to people, it’s still not much of a package. It’s a poor bargain for them. How much better to point people to Jesus and let them receive him instead.
If I’m pointing people to Jesus and his power to transform lives, I can be honest about how he’s dealing with my imperfection.
Finally, for those things that need to be expressed but that just aren’t suitable for public airing, we need to find other outlets — confidants, people who will listen without judging, people who can be trusted to respect and maintain the confidentiality of our conversations. In many ways this is one of the biggest helps a spouse can be, but other confidants are needed as well. This subject will be a recurring theme in this book, and we’ll explore it in depth in later chapters.
But now, let’s turn to some of the specific human dilemmas that pastors have identified in their holy calling.
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