WHEN I WAS A YOUNG PASTOR I would regularly go up stairs two at a time. I was gifted with energy, enthusiasm, and optimism—the hallmarks of youth. I made calls three nights a week, preached Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday evenings, and I believed there was no problem our church couldn’t solve.
I was pastoring in Tyler, Texas, when an incident made me realize that I could not go on like this forever. Every Wednesday I spoke at a noonday luncheon for businesspeople, an event that drew about two hundred. One Wednesday my adrenaline was not pumping; I was dragging throughout the day. Later a staff member said, “You’re not doing real well, are you.”
“I’m doing fine,” I said. “Why do you say that?”
“I watched you go up the stairs at the luncheon today. You were really laboring. There was no energy in your step—but when you came out in front of the group, you really turned it on. You can’t keep doing that.”
I tried to dismiss his concerns by saying I was having a tough week. But as I thought about it later, I realized that recently I had taken the back way on Wednesdays so no one would see me trudging in. I was tired, and it was not just from hard work. I knew I had to conserve energy for my presentation. I was not a twenty-five-year-old anymore.
Hard-wired pastor
To the young, God gives physical energy and optimism. In mid-life and beyond, he gives wisdom—which helps us know best where to put our energies. But because the church tends to reward the upbeat, go-getting attitudes of youth, a mid-life pastor faces a crisis when he realizes he can no longer “run up the steps,” when his energy begins to flag as never before. He may view this change as loss. When this happens, there are usually three temptations: fake it and try to hide any sign of weakness; decide to slow down and coast; quit.
The optimism of youth is a wonderful thing, but it doesn’t always make for the most effective pastoral care. When I was twenty-seven I visited great numbers of people who hurt in some way. In my unbridled optimism and lack of life experience, I may have minimized the pain of life. Maturity, however, has brought depth and perspective, which enhances pastoral care.
Recently I visited a woman in the final stages of cancer who was forced to live in hospice care. As I left her and her family, I thought about how much differently I minister at fifty-one than I did at thirty-one. I listened to her more than I would have when I was younger; I was more hopeful in the context of the Christian faith; and I did not feel a need to rescue the family from their sorrow. Whether claiming physical healing for a sick person or being confident that a parishioner would be able to solve an emotional problem, I used to believe in the quick-fix, positive-thinking solution. I was certain that righteousness would win the day, or at least win by the end of the day. When righteousness did not win, my optimism left me. When the person with the problem did not get better, I felt frustrated and disappointed. My emotions rose and fell according to the degree of “success” I saw in my ministry.
I am less optimistic now, but I have more hope, and as a result I believe I am spiritually and emotionally healthier. I believe righteousness wins out—maybe not today or this week or even this year, but over the long term and into eternity. I do not get angry with people when they do not turn their lives around as quickly as I think they should.
Years ago I dealt with a particularly difficult pastoral situation. A man I will call Stephen was trying to overcome a gambling addiction. I invested considerable time talking and praying with him. I referred him to a professional counselor and then followed up with that counselor. Stephen would stop gambling for about three or four months and then fall back into the same negative patterns. I gave up on him many, many times. I often felt angry and deceived by him—a product of the cycle of optimism and pessimism. It took fifteen years, but Stephen, with the help of Gamblers Anonymous, is now living a victorious life. Hope is more long-term and less likely to wane in dark times. That is, I now feel less optimistic about short-term results and more hopeful about healing over time.
The gifts of youth that God bestows on everyone diminish with age. What happens when the energy and enthusiasm of youth begin to retreat? In the last chapter, I discussed the issue of ambition and how recognizing that we’ve already been discovered by God can help us retread our tires for the second half of our ministry. Yet another part of the retread is accepting the new realities of mid-life and coming to terms with how God has wired us.
Character at the crossroads
At mid-life we stand at a crossroads of character. We have been around the block a few times. Not much surprises us anymore. But no matter how much wisdom and perspective we may have gained over the years, it is easy for us veteran pastors to succumb to cynicism. We have heard so many speakers and read so many books and dealt with so much church politics that we may develop the attitude, Teach me something new. I dare you. A church consultant told me about a presentation he made at a gathering of ministers. As he spoke, he noticed that the body language of the pastors over forty-five seemed to communicate, I already know this. They had ostensibly grown jaded.
I am acutely aware of the dangers of cynicism because I grew up cynical and a little arrogant. I believed I was smarter than the system. I could find a shortcut around everything. As a preacher, I also knew that a cynical comment in a sermon could be a great attention-getter, an effective teaching tool—until I was confronted about it. I had used an illustration about a pyramid marketing company in which I basically questioned anyone who worked for them. It was funny, and people laughed. Afterward, an older layman approached me and said, “Gary, you’re very good at working cynical statements into your messages that make us think, but eventually it’s going to destroy you. Cynicism can make a preacher come across as an angry old man.” I took his advice to heart.
Older pastors especially have to be careful how they employ humor and anger in preaching. A twenty-four-year-old can come down hard on sin, alcohol, and promiscuity, and the congregation thinks it is wonderful that this young person has turned away from sin. If a fifty-four-year-old preaches the same way, he may come across as an embittered old man, punishing everyone for the sins he did not get to commit. There is nothing winsome about an angry old man. Humor is an effective communication tool at any age, but the kind of humor we use should change with age. A preacher in his twenties can tell a story about mothers-in-law, and everyone laughs. When the older pastor tells the same story, people think, Here’s a guy who’s had a bad experience with his mother-in-law. Although cynicism may be more natural for the middle years, it fits like a cheap suit on a middle-aged preacher.
While writing a Thanksgiving meditation recently for our church newsletter, I thought about the subject of cynicism. I concluded that in essence it is a form of self-centeredness. The cynic thinks he or she is superior in knowledge or is able to judge the motives of others. No wonder cynicism does not wear well on the mid-life pastor. I realized that for me cynicism was a spiritual battle and began to ask God to remove my cynical spirit.
When Zig Ziglar, the popular motivational speaker, came to our church, we invited forty boys from a children’s home to hear him. Close to sixty at the time, he connected with the abused nine-, ten-, and eleven-year-old boys. These kids had every natural right to be cynical and suspicious, but they quickly bonded with this optimistic man. Later he and I did a TV commercial together, and I observed firsthand his genuine gratitude in everything he did. As I compared his attitude with my own, I began to see that gratitude can never coexist with cynicism. Rather than praying, “Lord, help me not to be cynical,” I asked God to make me more grateful. I have seen that the more deliberately grateful I am, the less cynical I will be.
A spirit of gratitude is one of the key ways to restore passion for ministry—a new motivation for the second half of life. One of the most beloved men in our church is our minister to senior adults. At eighty-six, he has retired three times from the ministry. He once said, “I have never met a happy person who was not also a grateful person.”
Journey toward acceptance
Virtually every pastor struggles with feelings of envy or inadequacy. We compare ourselves to the pastor across town whose church is growing faster than ours. We wish we were more skilled in evangelism or in leading a staff. The negative side of me looks at rapidly growing churches and thinks, That guy is just shallow and superficial. But the confident side of me, the holy side, thinks, No, he has the gift and I don’t, and that’s okay.
Maturity calls us to the place where we can accept both our gifts and our lack of them and be content. We need to claim our giftedness without despising our weaknesses. In the idealistic, early years of ministry, we tend to believe we will conquer our weaknesses—that is the optimism of youth. We can achieve anything with just a little more effort. But as we get older we come to terms with our blind spot. It will always be there, but God in his sovereignty will use us anyway.
Maturity can help us measure our ministry differently. Success in ministry, of course, is not only about numbers. It is not just about people making immediate changes in lifestyle. It is about faithfulness to Scripture, about the congregation becoming more godly, and about our becoming more godly. The vision statement of the church I currently serve says our church is “to be found faithful as God’s people.” I have taken that for my own life’s mission: will God find me faithful as a Christian, as a father and a husband, as a minister—with all my strengths and all my weaknesses, in my calling now and in the years to come?
Perhaps the question of mid-life is not “What will I be when I grow up?” but now that I am grown up, “What kind of person am I?” Although this question should be asked at any age, we may not have had enough life experiences to ask it until mid-life. The call of youth is tomorrow. But the burning question of mid-life is today. These are the most productive years of our lives. That’s why it is critical to know who we are.
It takes time to know where our true strengths lie, and we can go for years—making a lot of mistakes along the way—before we gain insight into our abilities. For a long time I thought I was gifted in counseling because those who came to me with a need would affirm how God had used our time together. But by now I know that counseling is not my gift. Empathy is. I am good at giving people a sense of acceptance and affirmation. I am not so good at going beyond that to help people work through their problems. And I do not always understand how relationships work.
Once I met with a couple who had intense marriage problems. Both liked me and indicated I understood their struggles, but the more I worked with them the worse the situation became. I was not helping them learn to communicate with each other, although each was bonding with me individually. The marriage continued to deteriorate, and my role contributed to the problems. Each quoted me to the other, using my words as a weapon. When the spillover from their hurting relationship began to flow into our church, I realized I needed to step away from the position of counselor to them.
Shortly after that incident, I was in the home of another couple whom I was counseling. Each wanted me to choose sides. Both were manipulative, and I had not perceived their deceptions until it was too late. I also saw how their children were being sucked into the conflict, and I felt great sympathy for them. In a moment of youthful anger, I told the couple I would do everything in my power to make sure neither of them gained custody of their children, even if the kids had to be turned over to the welfare department. I walked out and slammed the door. On the way home, I first felt angry, then, of course, embarrassed. There were no grounds for such drastic steps, and reality hit me: I have had two failed counseling situations in a row. What does that say about my abilities as a counselor?
My first instinct was to back away and not get involved with people. But then I began to realize I had confused the gift of empathy with the gift of counseling. Hurting with someone is not the same as helping someone. I began to understand my limitations, and this has freed me to minister more effectively. Today I can say, “I’m not that great at counseling.” When I began my ministry at twenty-three, my limited experience in this area would not have warranted such honesty.
Through the years I have confused several characteristics of youth with spiritual gifts: for example, I mistook the excitement and enthusiasm of youth for visionary leadership, because inspiration is a more visible trait of leadership. It is the vision-setting speech that rallies the troops or motivates people to do the work of the kingdom. But true visionaries are also able to carry out the behind-the-scenes work it takes to turn the vision into reality: making phone calls, preparing for meetings, and recruiting the right people for key tasks. I have had to accept my limitations in this area. I am not a natural visionary. I can preach and inspire and help others dream dreams, but I have to force myself to roll up my sleeves and get involved in the nuts-and-bolts of turning vision into reality.
I realized this when our church held a “vision service” in which we presented the goals of the church for the entire year. There was electricity in the air, and I felt as if I were preaching from the mountaintop, tablets in hand. (We all have sermons we will always remember preaching, and this was one of them.) The next day a woman called me, a very perceptive person and one of my strong supporters. She said, “I got home yesterday and was so excited—but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. It was a wonderful day but there was no strategy. Where do we go from here?”
Frankly, I did not know where to go next. I had thought that was someone else’s responsibility. The risk of being a visionary without a strategy is that discouragement can set in when nothing happens. I was stunned at the realization of my weakness in leadership in this area.
The 90/10 principle
While I have gained more insight into how I am wired, at mid-life, I have had to face another reality. I prefer to work out of my giftedness, to concentrate my efforts only in areas of ability and interest. But ministry often falls under the 90/10 principle: 90 percent of what I do is what I must do in order to get to do the 10 percent I love to do. For example, I love to preach. The thirty minutes I communicate God’s Word on Sunday are most often pure ecstasy. But wrangling with a board or putting out a church fire, which can consume inordinate amounts of time, drains me. I have often wished I could preach 90 percent of the time.
Not long ago I was supposed to meet with a key committee to discuss an important project. I knew what needed to happen, but to do it meant I needed to meet with the committee chair, make some phone calls, and show up at the meeting—basic administrative stuff. I had some other things to do that night and did not relish sitting through another meeting, so I skipped it. I phoned in my input to the chairman. It was a costly mistake. Days later I found out the committee had not done anything, and I wound up having to meet with several key people to follow up. I could have saved myself all that work if I had just gone to the meeting. But that is the sort of thing that consumes 90 percent of my time.
When I was younger, I assumed it was my fault the percentages were so out of balance. I thought if I did things right that somehow the 90 percent would shrink and the 10 percent would expand. Experience has taught me otherwise. Pastors are called to wear many hats. We cannot always operate out of our gifts. God places the pastor where there is a need, and it is his or her job to address that need. But addressing the need eventually makes it possible for the pastor to exercise his or her gifts.
My current church was bitterly divided when I came on as pastor. I knew I needed to build trust and rapport with the congregation, so I spent a great amount of time doing hospital visitation, which does not necessarily allow me to use my gifts. I do not listen as well as I ought and I too often pray with a person and leave quickly. But I knew there was a need I had to meet. Later as the church began to heal from the conflict, I was able to devote more time to preaching.
One key point to remember about our gifts: though they bring blessing, they can also bring great pain. For example, my passion for creating sermons has for years ruined Saturdays for me. The great preacher Gardner Taylor said, “Saturday is agony and ecstasy.” On Saturdays I am consumed with looking for that new phrase and creatively tinkering with Sunday’s message. I love college football but I can’t attend any games because they are usually on Saturdays. I love spending time with my family but we had to shift our family time from Saturday because there was no joy when we did things together. Overall, though, I have a deeper appreciation for God allowing me that 10 percent (which, admittedly, is more like 2 percent most weeks).
“Grace” and “gift” have the same Greek root, and through the years I have become more aware of the connection. No longer do I chafe as much when I cannot operate in my areas of giftedness; now I am more grateful for the time I can spend with it and am amazed that anyone would pay me for what I love to do.
Copyright © 1998 Gary Fenton
