In the Bible I find a lot more promises from God indicating that he’ll shepherd me than commands to find his specific will.
—Knute Larson
The candidating process for becoming pastor of The Chapel took fourteen months.
During the drawn-out ordeal, I slipped into a low-grade depression I couldn’t shake, losing nineteen pounds. I felt guilty for even considering the idea of leaving my church in Ashland. After fifteen good years, I wondered if I were “deserting” that church. It felt like divorce.
Feeling discouraged and confused one day, I threw down what I knew to be a silly and desperate challenge before God: “Lord, I’m going to turn on the car radio. Whatever this radio preacher says will be what you are saying to me.”
I clicked on the dial, and the first words I heard were, “Go, I am sending you, and I will give you courage and what to say.”
At first I laughed. Then I cried. Naturally, I wasn’t going to let this “coincidence” or the voice of John MacArthur determine my future, but it did make me fidget.
A month later, still in depression, I put out another such unorthodox fleece. Late one evening, my wife and I were discussing the pros and cons of moving when I said, “Jeanine, I’m going to turn on Haven of Rest. Whatever is on the program tonight will give us the answer.”
She smiled. (I would have said, “Baloney,” if she had proposed it.)
I turned on the radio program only to hear the program’s associate director explain why he was resigning and moving on to a new ministry.
“I have struggled with the issue of my indispensability,” I recall him saying. “But I’ve come to the conclusion that God can replace me in this ministry. The work here will go on, so I must take this next step in my life.”
We sat a few moments in silence, prayed, and tried to figure out if God or the enemy or coincidence was behind this.
I finally did accept the position at The Chapel, though not on the basis of those two happenstance radio messages (though they did play a role, I have to admit). Other factors, like the match between the church’s needs and my gifts, the enthusiastic support of my family, and finally, my own desire to go, were the key factors.
The thought of moving can play havoc with our emotions, surging from paralysis to impatience. We know the decision to move has far-reaching consequences, perhaps for good, perhaps for ill. In fact, it’s one of the toughest decisions pastors make. Here are some principles that have helped me think more clearly about such times.
When leaving is wrong
A variety of things can stir up discontent in our present ministries, but no single problem is usually reason enough to leave a church. Here are some common frustrations that shouldn’t necessarily point us down the road.
First, we shouldn’t leave just because things aren’t going well. Ray and Anne Ortlund give some excellent advice along these lines. Speaking to a gathering of pastors at The Chapel, they warned of the dangers of the ABZ Syndrome.
A pastor arrives at a church and enjoys a honeymoon period—stage A. But inevitably the day comes when the honeymoon relationship sours. When the criticism starts, disillusionment can set in —stage B. Pastors are then faced with the dilemma: “Do I stay and pray and gut it out?” or “Do I begin sending out my résumé?”
The Ortlunds believe that if we stay and endure the pain of stage B, we can eventually move into stage C, where energy and enthusiasm for the ministry return. As a result, we may even reenter stage A, finding great contentment in our setting. It’s possible to go through stages A, B, and C several times in one church.
However, those who find stage B too uncomfortable often move directly into mode Z. They decide staying is useless, pack their belongings, and do it over again in another setting. Unfortunately for many pastors, life is a series of ABZ experiences. They miss the joy of seeing God strengthen them through their trials and thus achieving genuine peace.
Second, we shouldn’t leave just because we have to deal with an obstinate person or problem in the church. I remember a young pastor, a former intern with our church, telling me that he had decided to leave his church after only a year. The board chairman was unbearably aggravating.
“He won’t allow me to lead the board in devotions before our meetings,” the young pastor complained. “He’s put me on notice that he’s the board leader and that I’m the spiritual leader. Deciding who will give devotions, he says, is his responsibility.”
“How often do you meet one-on-one with the chairman?” I asked.
“Well, ah, we don’t meet,” he replied.
I encouraged the young pastor to get together with his chairman once a month, even twice a month if possible, to nurture a more personal relationship.
The pastor followed through on my advice. Soon, he was giving devotions at the board meetings. Through their times together, the pastor communicated to the chairman he was interested not in power but in genuine spiritual leadership.
Third, we can be tempted to move on because we’re restless; we don’t feel challenged. After eight years at my previous church, I felt some of this. While the church was growing stronger, I was growing restless.
Instead of looking for another ministry, though, I was able to assume responsibilities with our denominational headquarters. That additional challenge was all I needed to find contentment for seven more years.
For many pastors, simply adding another challenge such as writing or volunteering in the community can meet a need for personal growth and development. Restlessness seems to be a normal characteristic of ambitious people, but finding another arena to stretch our muscles often can be done without resigning the present situation.
When it’s time to go
So what is a legitimate reason for leaving? Here are three good reasons for considering a change of scenery.
Holy ambition. During the time I was deciding whether or not to come to Akron, a member at Ashland challenged me, asking, “Are you sure this isn’t just your move up the corporate ladder?”
“Maybe it is,” I replied. I was half-ashamed to say so, even though I think moving up the ladder can be a good thing. Ambition becomes destructive when we try to usurp control from God. Or when it drives us to walk over people or use churches. Or when ministry decisions degenerate into self-serving schemes and carefully manipulated calculations. In such cases ambition becomes another word for pride and rebellion.
I’m impressed with the parable of the talents, in which Christ rewarded those who took their talents and wisely invested them. To me, using our gifts to minister to more people or in a more receptive setting can be simply good stewardship, though numbers can never be the main consideration.
A special calling. Some pastors have the unique skills of a church pioneer, who can build a church from the ground up. Others have proven to be specialists at interim pastorates, serving angry or hurting churches. (Some denominations insist that a church call an interim pastor following a long-term leader or in the midst of congregational turmoil.)
Others may not be as well equipped to take a church to the next stage, though they may have been successful up to a certain point, so they move on.
Loss of vision. When I’m asked the question, “When is it time to leave my church?” I usually reply, “When you lose your vision for the church and can’t get it back again.”
Losing vision can be traced to a sense of failure or fatigue brought on by conflict. Or it can be the result of completing the work you set out to do: the church has been successfully planted, the building program completed, or the transition from one era to another finished. If your original vision has been fulfilled, and another doesn’t take its place, the time to leave may be near.
I would add this caveat: There’s a difference between losing vision and failing to confront frustrating issues with wisdom or patience. Some matters take time to be resolved. Pastors generally leave too soon rather than stay too long.
The heat is on
As we consider moves, some fear is to be expected and desired; it helps us weight such important decisions. But letting fear have its way can paralyze us.
While wrestling with the move to Akron, I was preparing to run in a five-mile race. I had trained for months with a friend. We developed a good-natured rivalry and routinely sent each other anonymous notes, trying to “psych out” the other person before the big day. He signed his notes “Mercury”; I used “The Streak.”
Just before race day, my friend presented me with a tee shirt that said, “The Streak.” On the back of the shirt was a large yellow stripe running down the spine.
Little did he know how close he had come to the truth about my feelings. The decision facing me whether to stay at Ashland or move to The Chapel had partially paralyzed me. I was terrified I might make the wrong choice, hurting the people I loved the most in the world. I thought I might be committing spiritual adultery! They had been loyal and loving. How could I consider abandoning them?
I gradually realized, though, that leaving a congregation is no more abandonment than a man or woman leaving family to get married. There is a time to stay and a time to move on. I had to learn to reframe my central question: not “Am I deserting these people?” but “What is the best way I can glorify God and help people, making the best use of my abilities?”
That, of course, elicited another fear—that I would not live in the center of God’s will. I got over that fear once I realized that I didn’t agree with the “dot theory” of God’s will: God has a specific town, place, and address he desires to send us to; our challenge is to locate that dot on the map; until we locate it, we shouldn’t go anywhere.
I suggest that for many decisions, some of them very important, God has not given us special instructions. Instead, he’s given us latitude to make a decision, within the moral and spiritual boundaries set by Scripture. I’m to use my God-given wisdom to decide between alternatives, weighing such things as family concerns, the church’s vision, and my own gifts. With many decisions, as long as I’m seeking to live faithfully, there may be two or three “godly” outcomes, ones God would approve of.
The nicest thing anyone said to me during that decision-making year was, “You can’t make a mistake.” My good friend George had said that, wanting me to realize that because I really wanted God’s input and wanted to be used by God in this decision, I would be successful in God’s eyes, no matter which path I took.
I now repeat that assurance frequently when I talk to others considering a similar change.
We have to contend not only with our fears but also with our egos. While I was waiting for my present church to conclude their search, a church on the West Coast, convinced I was the right man to pastor their congregation (though I have never candidated there), voted unanimously to pursue me, telling me that coming there was God’s will.
During the fourteen months I was talking with Akron, this California church continued to court me, calling, writing, and even visiting me.
“I can’t go any further with you,” I told them repeatedly, “until the Akron situation is resolved.” But when things began to drag a bit in Ohio (I had not heard anything for months), I finally agreed to travel to their church and speak—with the understanding I was not a candidate.
That was a mistake.
As soon as I arrived, I fell in love with the church. That week we went through several quasi-interviews, always qualifying our meetings with the statement, “But of course, this isn’t an official interview.”
Looking back, I regret ever having become involved with another church while the process in Akron was still up in the air. Obviously, I eventually decided against it, but in the meantime, it only confused matters for everyone. Frankly, it’s nice to be courted, and it’s hard to say no.
Now when I get a phone call or letter to consider a church, knowing I should be here, I say, “No, thank you,” rather quickly so there is no hint of starting what cannot be finished.
A third temptation is to fail to do one’s homework.
After seminary and two years as an associate, I had agreed to candidate at a church I knew little about. After only a brief meeting with their committee, I consented to a candidating weekend. I arrived on a Friday evening, and within ten minutes, I knew I had made a mistake.
The people were great, but I sensed we spoke different languages, especially when they talked about church evangelism and a few areas of practical theology.
I hung around through Sunday morning, but as it approached, I grew increasingly uncomfortable. During the service, a downhome gospel group sang the special music, which symbolized to me our deep differences. I prefer classical, traditional, or contemporary music. Well, this number never seemed to end.
Afterward a church trustee invited me to his home for lunch. During the meal, he said, “The people like you.” I nodded weakly.
After the meal, he stood up and said, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He put on an album by the group that had performed the special music.
“How do you like their music?” he asked with a big grin.
I groped for words. My wife, obviously interested in my predicament, emerged from their kitchen just to see how I would handle the question. I finally mumbled something bland like, “They obviously enjoy their ministry.” I could have saved myself a lot of awkwardness had I investigated the church more thoroughly before agreeing to candidate.
The downside of moving up
Life is a series of trade-offs. Though most of us think of moving up to churches with larger staffs and more ministry opportunities, moving to a larger congregation may not be for everyone. Several considerations should be kept in mind when contemplating such a move.
The pastor-Peter principle. Lyle Schaller has identified the different roles a pastor must play as a church gets larger. Pastors, for example, may find themselves moving from being a “gardener” (keeping the place weeded) to becoming a “rancher” (supervising the work on two thousand acres).
The disconcerting news, to some anyway, is that good gardeners don’t necessarily do well at managing a ranch. Thus if we’re not honest about our strengths and weaknesses, we may find ourselves in a place that doesn’t match our abilities. That will only hurt us and the church.
Three roles in one. When I took on my present church, I discovered I had to become three persons in one. (No comparison to the Trinity intended at all!)
First, I became the president of a large corporation. A great deal of my time is now spent on staff, vision, and business issues. I read financial summaries and check the compass much more than in a small church.
I also became a shepherd of a large flock. I help direct the spiritual lives of a congregation where I don’t know everyone by name. When I pastored a smaller church, I knew everyone I visited in the hospital. Now, many people are anonymous to me. Sometimes that feels uncomfortable to them and me because a part of me wants to shepherd people one by one.
Furthermore, the larger the church, the more specialized the people problems tend to be. When I do have pastoral opportunities, I find that I spend much of my time with either “leaders” or “needers.” The former are staff people and lay leaders. The latter are people who, because of their highly visceral needs, refuse to talk to anyone else.
Finally, I became a guest speaker to a large fringe group. This is my “Bible conference” and evangelism ministry, which, when a church has more than four or five hundred, becomes part of the pastor’s job description. These are people who attend church only occasionally or hear me only when I speak at a civic function.
Most of the time, I enjoy all three roles. Each is a challenge and stretches me, but the combination is not for everyone.
Loss of intimacy. It’s hard to stay connected with as many people as I once did. It was much easier to be a “people person” when I pastored a smaller church. In a larger church, I’m forced to surrender much of the shepherding tasks to others in the church. As a result I wind up losing a certain amount of intimacy. I do work closely with many people, but I can’t help everyone who asks for help with a special ministry or program.
The myth of perfect peace
Strange as it sounds, seeking complete peace of mind before saying yes to another position is an unwise and unreasonable expectation. We’ll never feel peace about some decisions until they are made. The tranquillity often comes after we’ve made the difficult choice. That was the case when I accepted the call to The Chapel.
The long journey to that peace began one day while I was vacationing in Michigan. While a colleague and I were walking along a beach, I stopped at a phone to pick up my messages. The church secretary informed me I had received a postcard from a church in Akron.
“Do you want me to throw it away?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Keep it until I get back home.”
When I returned home, I responded to the postcard and discovered their candidating process involved nine steps. Each step required a unanimous vote from the search committee of eighteen.
During that time, I began keeping a journal. In it I identified some doors that I believed had to open in order for me to accept the call.
One door was a deep desire on my part to go there. I wanted to feel a passion to serve that church if I was going to go through the pain of changing churches. This evolved slowly.
Another door involved persuading a local bank to turn our church’s current construction mortgage into a permanent mortgage. The bank president had already informed me that if I left the church, they would not renew the mortgage. But when our board of elders met with the bank directors to discuss the issue, the bank eventually changed its mind. We received a letter from its president saying, “We believe the church is strong, and the leadership is not vested in one man alone.” Another door had just swung open.
Still another door was the agreement of my family. As they visited the city and began thinking about the possibility of moving, my kids said, “Dad, you’d be crazy if you didn’t take this opportunity.” My wife was equally enthusiastic about the idea. She urged me to keep responding to their interest. They regretted a possible move, but they still encouraged me.
During the actual candidating week between two Sundays, I decided to add a final—the eleventh—door to my list.
“I’m not going there unless I get a 94 percent affirmative vote,” I told my wife.
She looked at me for a moment and then replied with her first anger about my handling of the moving process: “Knute, I’m afraid you’re playing games with God. If you don’t want to go, why don’t you just admit it?”
I didn’t know why I had chosen 94 percent, but I said it, and I thought maybe I meant it! When the church eventually voted on the second Sunday, two church leaders involved in the candidating process stopped by our motel and told us the results: 95.7 percent in favor.
My wife and children cheered. “Well, that settles it,” they said. “Here we go!”
But I was still skeptical. “I don’t know yet,” I replied somberly. “I still don’t have peace about it.”
I retreated to my bedroom and lay down. After nine different steps, fourteen months, and two weeks of preaching at the church, I still didn’t know what to say. But I had told the church chairman I would give him my answer within two hours of his call to me.
For the next two hours, with hands folded like a cadaver, I lay on my bed, trying to decide what to do. I didn’t want to make the call, but at five minutes to four, I got up, went to the phone, and dialed the chairman’s number.
“We’re coming.”
My kids applauded, my wife hugged me, but my only emotion was the same old depression I had carried for so long. A part of me knew I had made the right decision. But it certainly didn’t feel right. Immediately we drove back to our home church, and I delivered my resignation at the end of the evening service.
(The church knew where we were because I had chosen to announce the candidating one month before, knowing people hate surprises; in addition, I sought their prayers for wisdom.)
Five weeks later, our last day at the church, the congregation held a farewell reception. We stood in line for nearly two hours, hugging and crying with the people. My depression still had not lifted.
During the sixty-five-minute drive from our old church to Akron, a remarkable thing happened. My depression lifted like a cloud. When we pulled into the driveway of our temporary new home, I had the wonderful feeling of being my old self again. I don’t know if the healing was directly from God or if it was just that the ordeal of deciding was finally over. But I finally found the peace I had been seeking.
Although I never received a direct call to go to Akron in the form of a theophany, God did work through the long, slow, and deliberate process (including a couple of radio messages!) to convince me to accept the call from The Chapel. In the end, common sense, good counsel, hours of prayer, and numerous green lights encouraged me to move.
I now rest in the fact that in the Bible I find a lot more promises from God indicating that he’ll shepherd me than commands to find his specific will! Our main call is to keep our hearts pure and open to him, wherever we go.
Copyright © 1995 by Christianity Today
