Sometimes it is the shepherd, not the sheep, who needs to be returned to the fold.
—Jim Amandus with Bob Moeller
Iwas putting away my sermon notes one night after the evening service when I noticed a light under the door of an elder’s office. I wasn’t surprised. As a volunteer staff member, this elder often put in long hours. I decided to pop my head in to say good-night.
When I opened the door, there sat the entire elder board, meeting in an unscheduled, secret session.
“Uh, hi,” I said, groping for words.
Equally unnerved by my chance discovery of the meeting, the elders’ faces blanched, conveying both embarrassment and guilt. After a few moments of awkward small talk, I excused myself and hurried out of the church. I knew my days in that church, and maybe in ministry, were coming to an end.
Straying sheep
I had accepted the call to this church with zeal and optimism. Recovering from the devastation of a pastor’s moral lapse, this church, by the time I arrived, had shrunk from 800 to 175 members.
I threw myself into the work. My wife and I soon fell in love with the people. I was on an emotional high. The church began to reverse its course. Within four years, attendance reached 400, and the past wounds appeared to be healing.
About this time, two families began visiting from another church. They were candid about the fact that the board of their previous church had asked them to leave. I didn’t ask any questions. Looking back now, however, I wish I had.
At first the new families were supportive and enthusiastic. They seemed overjoyed to have found a church home that would love and accept them. They quickly volunteered to serve. Within one year both men were elected to the elder board.
I had felt a vague discomfort with each family. They seemed to have trouble accepting others’ shortcomings. They displayed little patience or tolerance with those not meeting their standards.
One of the men in particular seemed to have trouble staying in the same job. A pattern of conflict seemed to appear with each of his employers. He would have an initial confrontation with a supervisor over what he claimed were ethical shortcuts or compromises. Refusing to yield to his boss’s authority or company policy, he would eventually resign and move on. It was always their fault he left the company, never his.
As these men gained influence, the church atmosphere seemed to be marked by suspicion and tension. My wife was the first to see the implications of the rigidity creeping into the congregation.
“Jim, we’re not going to last very long in this climate,” she observed.
I shrugged off her comment, believing I could work out any problem that might arise. After all, we were all reasonable people committed to doing God’s work in God’s way.
During this time, a couple from our church had separated and, despite our efforts to bring reconciliation, filed for divorce. The wife left the church; the husband stayed on. Hurting and in need of fellowship, he turned to our singles group.
Immediately, one of the new elders objected.
“Our singles ministry is for people who have never married or are widowed,” he argued, “not for people going through a divorce.
“Furthermore, I don’t think he should be allowed to sing in the choir. If we expect God to bless our church, we’ve got to maintain our standards.”
“Frank,” I replied, “this person neither committed adultery nor deserted his spouse. I don’t believe in divorce any more than you do. But he’s a member of the body, and we need to reach out to him at this critical point in his life.”
The elder was unyielding. He received support for his hard-line policy from the other new elder. The divorced man had to leave the singles group and the choir.
“I’m concerned about the purity of our church, aren’t you, Pastor?” the second elder asked.
From that day forward, a hairline fracture emerged between those two elders and myself. It would eventually grow into a San Andreas Fault of distrust and acrimony.
These two men managed to convince the rest of the elders. I was instructed to relay the news to the divorced man that he could no longer attend the singles group or sing in the choir.
I felt caught in the middle. I had been spending significant time with the man trying to encourage him. But I also was accountable to the elder board. I balked at the thought of hitting him with such hard news with no warning. When I did meet with him, I softened the news by telling him that, due to his divorce, there were concerns about his church involvement. But I stopped short of saying he was forbidden from taking part in the two groups.
When I reported on my conversation, the two elders were upset. They insisted I meet with him again and tell him exactly what had been decided. I apologized for failing to communicate the elders’ decision clearly.
“Forgiveness granted,” one of them said.
At a nearby restaurant, I met the divorced man for coffee. I told him the elders’ decision.
“They’re saying I’m unclean,” he said, his head bowed. “That hurts, Jim. I’m crushed.”
I wished I had some words to say. After a long silence, he said, “Maybe it would be better if I attended another church.”
“I hope you stay with us,” I said, “but I can understand why you’d feel otherwise.”
He did stop coming to our church, but my wife and I continued to invite him over to our house.
All appeared to be fine with the elders until three months later. During a meeting, one of the two men looked straight at me and said, “Jim, I’m concerned that you have a character problem.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I think you’re a habitual liar,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Not only that, I think your eight-year-old son may be picking it up from you.”
I was flabbergasted. Though I didn’t react outwardly, several minutes elapsed before I recovered my inner composure. I had never considered myself perfect, but this was the first time anyone had questioned my basic integrity.
I thought the situation three months earlier was resolved. But I could see it wasn’t. While forgiveness had been granted, trust had not. I could understand the basis of the criticism against me, but the charge against my son was unfounded.
The seriousness of the situation began to sink in. These men were true to “the letter of the law,” but knew nothing of grace, forgiveness, and love. I began to fear the future.
Parish prisoner
Only a few weeks after this traumatic confrontation, I stumbled onto a secret session of the elders. When we met for a scheduled meeting a week later, I expressed to them my deep hurt and disappointment over their action.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “I’ve always believed that we could work out problems openly and honestly. Having a meeting without me lacked integrity.”
The elders apologized. But our relationship became increasingly strained. I found myself analyzing my every word, whether in private conversation or from the pulpit. I documented everything from memos to announcements to telephone calls. Rightly or wrongly, I felt like a prisoner in my own church.
Sadly, the congregation knew little or nothing of this. And as tensions mounted, my passion for preaching diminished. I was too emotionally distracted to give my best to the congregation. I found it demeaning to sit in my office like a lonely soldier entrenched in hostile territory, keeping logs and checking records. The struggle to survive sapped my energy. Trying to protect myself from the next surprise attack on my character consumed my working and waking hours.
The siege mentality was taking its toll. I was losing my self-confidence and my desire to be a pastor.
My wife’s response was blunt. “Jim, put your resumé together.” Furious at the treatment I was receiving, and livid at the accusations made against our children, she was ready to pack our bags and leave. I stumbled on, though, hoping to find my way out of the stalemate.
The hammerblow
Though everyone agreed we should work through the problem, we were unable to find a solution. The trust level reached lows of Depression-era proportions when the elders requested I take a sabbatical—immediately.
The next Sunday one of the elders stood before the congregation and simply announced I would be taking a leave of absence. No further explanations were offered. No questions from the membership were allowed. One Sunday I was in the pulpit; the next Sunday I wasn’t.
I remember thinking, I’m being treated exactly like my divorced friend. It hurts to feel like an impurity.
The next Saturday, sitting in the living room, the terrible reality struck. Turning to my wife, I said, “Lori, tomorrow’s Sunday. Where are we going to go to church?”
Our forced exile had driven us from our spiritual home. We were no longer welcome among the people to whom we had given our lives for almost six years. We held each other and cried.
When individuals from the church would call and ask, “What’s going on?” all I could say was, “A situation has arisen between the elders and me that we’re trying to resolve. If you want more specifics, call them.”
I didn’t want to open myself to the charge I was talking behind the elders’ backs.
Those who did call the elders were given little information. As a matter of policy, the elders had decided not to comment on the situation. If not for the Psalms, the stress of the situation would have crushed me. Those emotionally poetic words were my lifeline to God during those dark days. I grew in my empathy and understanding of David as I memorized many of his songs.
My pain was sometimes so intense I would repeat a particular Psalm at five-minute intervals throughout the entire day. That discipline kept me from giving in to the overpowering desire to retaliate, to vindicate myself.
In one last attempt to save the situation, we approached the leaders of a large and influential church that had ties to our congregation. We asked if they would be willing to act as mediators. They readily agreed and sent two men from their staff to meet with the elders and myself.
The two elders promptly listed their grievances. I didn’t challenge their accusations but opted instead to take an open and conciliatory stance. I admitted I had mishandled the divorce controversy. I confessed that I had failed to follow the elders’ instructions on my first visit. I asked for their forgiveness.
By approaching the situation with humility and openness, I had hoped a similar response from my antagonists would follow. I was wrong. After listening to both sides, the mediators promised to return with their recommendations in a few days. But when they handed down their verdict, I was stunned. They recommended I enter a probationary period for a year or so. They thought this would allow the elders to continue to observe me in order to rebuild trust. After the “cooling-off period,” the elders and I could work together to decide my future at the church. Their decision was a crushing hammerblow. It felt as if they were swatting flies with two-by-fours.
I weighed my options. None appeared good. Either I could accept the probationary period and try staying on at the church, which meant submitting to the control of the two elders, or I could resign. Even if I did submit, there was no guarantee I could stay on. They had already warned me that my reinstatement would require a long period of observation before making a decision about my future at the church.
I responded by saying, “Gentlemen, I don’t think there’s anything I could do in a reasonable period of time to rebuild your trust in me. I’ve acknowledged my shortcomings, I’ve confessed my sins, and I’ve asked for forgiveness. I will honor your recommendation. But if we were going to turn a corner, I believe we would have done so by now. Even with a leave of absence, I don’t sense there’s any willingness from you to move on and rebuild the relationships.”
I knew then that my ministry there was finished. At that point, I didn’t really care. My wife, my children, and I were all out of gas. The gauge measuring our desire to remain in ministry was on empty.
As the “sabbatical” neared its end, I notified the elder board of my intention to resign. Their response surprised me. They asked me not to leave, which I thought strange, considering their lack of confidence in my ministry and character. The mediators also encouraged me not to leave. But my family and had had enough. We simply couldn’t go on. I went ahead and gave official notice of my resignation.
In leaving I experienced the same emotions often felt at a funeral—loss, confusion, sorrow. Except in my case, no service was ever allowed for either ourselves or our friends to grieve. The elders refused my last request to share a farewell message with the congregation. They told me they couldn’t take a chance on what I might say from the pulpit. So with little or no explanation, I disappeared from the congregation.
I lost more than a job. I had lost my place of worship, my friends, and my identity as a pastor all at once. It was a low point, perhaps the lowest of my entire life.
Our first decision after resigning was to put our house on the market. It sold the first day. Knowing that our time in the area was coming to an end, I decided to lift the news blackout. Meeting with close friends and supporters from the church, we relayed our ordeal. I made an attempt to be as objective as I could about what had gone on. I admitted that I was partially to blame. I shared that I had blind spots and weaknesses in my life. But I couldn’t say I was a habitual liar. Deep in my soul, I knew it wasn’t so.
See-saw
Now that I had resigned, I felt ripped down the middle. On the one hand, I still loved the people, I loved the congregation, and I loved God. But on the other hand, I couldn’t stand the local church. In all the confusion and hurt that followed, I told myself I never wanted to pastor another church. My ambivalence became obvious in my search for a new job.
Though I would send out my resumé, as soon as I received a letter of interest, I would trash it. I just couldn’t bring myself to fill out a questionnaire or return a telephone call from any search committee. I wasn’t about to give anyone the right to scrutinize my life again. I painted all church leaders with one broad brush: pseudo-pious, judgmental, uncaring, hypocritical.
God continued to work in my life, however. My first, crucial step back to ministry was a heart-to-heart conversation with my father. We had moved in temporarily with my parents until we could locate new employment and housing.
“Jim, I know you’ve been hurt badly,” he said. “But don’t leave the ministry just yet. God has his hand on you. Your gifts, education, and talents are too great to be discarded. Give it some more time before you make a final decision.”
I had always respected my father. His advice that day touched a responsive chord in my heart, broken as it was. Although apprehensive, I decided to give God a few more weeks to change my mind. If nothing happened, I would say goodbye to ministry.
Taking residence
A few days later, a close friend contacted me with a surprising proposal. His pastor, Chuck Wickman, was initiating a new program in their church—a “Pastor in Residence.” It was targeted at restoring pastors who were disillusioned and hurting because of a bad church experience.
I wanted to know more, and within a few days Pastor Wickman called, inviting me to lunch. Chuck’s easygoing, soft-spoken manner immediately resonated in my soul. Over lunch I learned that his interest in wounded pastors was more than theoretical. He himself had twice left the ministry after difficult parish experiences. His spirit, though, had been tenderized by those hard encounters. As we talked, I couldn’t help but recall my father’s prediction that God might still have a place for me in ministry.
Besides wanting to empathize with hurting pastors, however, Chuck had another motive. It grew out of one overriding conviction: A pastor is a terrible thing to waste.
He was grieved by crisis experiences, such as the one I endured, that drove so many ministers from the local church permanently.
“It’s a tragic squandering of the resources of the kingdom of God,” he said.
He had done extensive research in exploring the reasons why pastors leave the ministry. “My goal is to find a way to stop the hemorrhaging of talent, experience, and ability from the local church,” he said. “I’m determined to reclaim highly trained, competent, and caring individuals for ministry.” His invitation to enter the Pastor-in-Residence program was like oil poured on my wounds.
Less than three months after I had left my church—humiliated and bitter—I was preparing to reenter the ministry as a Pastor in Residence. I was, by no means, agreeing to accept another church if offered one, but I was taking the first step in that direction.
The way before me
I was nervous about visiting Chuck’s church, Christ Community Church in Monrovia, California, for the first time. What would I say if people asked why I was there? Would I have to tell them about my past? Would I still be welcome if they knew the whole story?
Chuck had anticipated these questions. He assured me he would make the proper introductions and explanations. If any contact had to be made with my prior church, he promised to be the liaison between the two groups.
I had expected a church initiating a Pastor-in-Residence program to be much larger. But on a good Sunday, Christ Community ran no more than 150 people. They didn’t own their own building; they rented the local YMCA.
My initial fears were unjustified. The whole atmosphere of the church, including the worship service, was casual and easygoing, like Chuck. After he introduced me that morning, the entire congregation broke out in spontaneous applause. The sound of their clapping overwhelmed me. Standing there, fighting back tears, I absorbed the love and acceptance I needed so badly. It was another significant healing moment.
Chuck did one more thing to prepare my way. He told the elder board they had only one responsibility toward me—to be my friend. I chose to share with them the circumstances behind my resignation. I discovered how therapeutic it was to articulate my pain to a group that accepted me. Most of them had come out of a church where they had witnessed conflict and infighting. They understood my sorrow and, without having to say so, gave me permission to grieve in their presence.
Snapping chains
The structure of the Pastor-in-Residence program was simple. I was asked to make a six-month to one-year commitment to the church. In addition, I was instructed to raise my own financial support. Chuck would assist me in sending out a fund-raising letter to my friends and family. Finally, I would serve as a member of the staff and meet with Chuck once a week.
Beyond that, I was not expected to carry any formal ministry responsibilities. My time was my own. If I needed help or counseling in any particular area, the church promised to match me with the appropriate resources. I was free to do as much or as little as I wished.
Because I had previous training in Christian education, I began by helping the Sunday school superintendent arrange classes and curriculum. Besides keeping me busy, it quietly reminded me that I still had something to offer the local church. But I realized I needed to deal with the unresolved anger I carried. Throwing resumés in the trash can was no long-term solution.
I sought the help of an individual in the church who was finishing his master’s degree in counseling at a local seminary. He graciously took me on without charge. The fiery outrage still rumbling within slowly died out. The highest hurdle was forgiving the men who had hurt me. Part of me wanted to forgive them; another part wanted revenge. But over time, I released, bit by bit, the bitterness. As I did, the chains of resentment snapped. Jesus’ words about pardoning someone seventy times seven took on special meaning. It was my duty to forgive my tormentors, even those who had labeled me a liar.
Heavyweight title
The Pastor-in-Residence program returned to me several things I had lost. First, and perhaps most important, was the integrity that goes with the title “pastor.” When a pastor is stripped of office and forced to pursue other work, he can face a credibility problem. If a search committee asks, “What are you currently doing?” it’s awkward to respond by saying, “I’m selling insurance,” or, “I don’t have a job.” The title “Pastor in Residence” restored some dignity. I was a pastor applying for another pastorate, not an outcast trying to get a foot in the door.
Second, the Pastor-in-Residence program offered me a safe place to sort out my feelings toward the ministry. Chuck said, “Jim, I want to give you time to make a good decision about future local church ministry, not a decision based on financial pressures, isolation, or a sense that no one cares.”
By sending out approximately forty letters, including a cover letter from Chuck, our financial needs were met. The support poured in. Each letter, each check, each note of encouragement was more than a financial gift. It was a vote that I should stay in the ministry. These votes felt like a landslide victory. The gifts from members of our former church meant the most to us. They affirmed that our ministry there had not been in vain. Since we had never had an official goodbye, it gave many people an opportunity to express their affection.
Christ Community also helped restore my sense of self-esteem. Little by little, I quit berating myself. People came alongside and said, “Jim, you are a pastor. You have a pastor’s heart. You can do it.”
After six months at Christ Community, I boarded a plane for a job interview. Because of my unique role at Christ Community Church, I was able to say to the search committee, “I’ll be as open as you wish about my past situation. But if you feel you need more information, call Chuck Wickman. He knows the whole story, and he’ll be glad to discuss any aspect of it with you.” With nothing to hide and a strong reservoir of supporters back at the church, my confidence level rose dramatically.
Though that church proved not to be the right place for us, my wife and I, as we were flying home, looked at each other and said, “We did it. We actually went and interviewed for a church.”
I likened the experience to having a cast removed from your arm after a football injury. Your first hit on the line tells you whether or not you’re back in the game. After that first interview, I knew I was ready to play again. It felt good.
The final benefit of the Pastor-in-Residence program was the opportunity to improve my conflict-management skills. One day I said to Chuck, “I’m still an angry person. I believe part of it is that I’ve never been taught how to resolve conflict. I internalize problems and blame myself way too much.”
Chuck directed me to a series of tapes on church conflict by the Alban Institute, with material prepared by Norman Shawchuck. I devoured the tapes. What was meant to take months to study, I completed in a week. The tapes showed me alternative ways to handle conflict, each of which has its own unique consequences.
Wounded healer
The day came when I was ready to leave the program. I accepted the call to my present church with newfound confidence. About a year after I was settled in, I realized there might be other ministers who had left the ministry who needed the Pastor-in-Residence program. When I met a pastor in the area whose story sounded remarkably similar to mine, I knew it was time to repay the favor that Chuck had done for me.
Not feeling the need to be original, I took Chuck’s ideas and implemented them here.
When a skeptical board member asked, “How much is this Pastor-in-Residence program going to set us back?” the answer was, “Not a penny.” And like Chuck’s program, individuals can do as little or as much as they wish. We make available a number of personality inventories and tests to help them identify the emotional problems with which they may be struggling. If they feel the need for a counselor, we make certain they are matched with a caring, competent therapist. In addition, we make retreat centers available to a husband and wife where they can be alone with God and sort out the big questions.
The first man to go through our program decided to enter a different vocation. That was fine with me. I rejoiced that he was able to make that decision in a safe, caring environment. He’s an evangelist at heart with incredible gifts in that area. His future plans may include bi-vocational ministry, and learning a trade is a first step in that direction.
While you can’t program love, you can communicate love through a program. That’s what the Pastor in Residency does. One fascinating, unforeseen side-effect of the program is that we now have five former pastors in our congregation. The word has gotten out that we are a safe place for hurting ministers to hang out and recover.
It took time for our board to learn why bad church experiences leave pastors devastated. They were accustomed to the business world, where losing and finding jobs are a way of life. I’ve helped them to see when a pastor loses his church, he loses more than a job. He loses his ministry, his identity, and his support system all at once. Our board members now have a sensitivity and compassion for pastors who go through that awful experience.
A Christianity Today Gallup poll revealed 30 percent of Protestant clergy think often about leaving the ministry. In his doctoral research, Chuck Wickman found that 48 percent of those who do leave the ministry want to return to it. My bottom line for continuing the program is this: it costs a church very little to restore a pastor who has so much already invested in him. He is the product of literally thousands of dollars spent on education, years in training, and invaluable years of experience.
Like Chuck, I too believe it is a terrible squandering of divine resources to waste a trained, gifted, and talented pastor. Sometimes it is the shepherd, not the sheep, who needs to be returned to the fold.
Copyright © 1997
