My Bitter Quesadilla

I still remember where I sat. I was facing the black and white tile checkered wall, my back to the door to our local Baja Fresh. He sat across from me. We started with small talk, but then he dropped the hammer: "Steve, we're leaving the church."

His declaration wasn't exactly a surprise. I sensed it was coming, but it still landed like a sucker punch.

He laid out his arguments. I can't tell you what they were. They didn't appear ideological; they felt personal. I got lost in a haze of defiance and disappointment. I had people who I'd turned sideways (critics and haters and church shopping drifters) leave the church I planted before. I responded to their departures with indifference, mild annoyance, even celebration. This one was different. Tim (not his real name) was a friend, a brother, a co-laborer. We were roommates in our bachelor days. I officiated his wedding. We were young dads and husbands trying to figure life out together. So this wasn't an ordinary exit interview for a member; it was a desertion, a no-confidence vote, the deepest form of betrayal, or so it felt.

Blame Games

That was more than a decade ago, but I'm still haunted by the meeting. In its immediate aftermath, I swung between two poles. On the one hand, I pinned his departure entirely on him. "He's not committed to engaging the culture the way we are," I'd say to myself. Or, "He doesn't grasp nuances in a way that allows two people to interpret the same Bible passage differently and still hold a high view of Scripture." Or, "He's just a consumer now. He's more committed to meeting his stylistic worship needs than serving the local body." I'm sure there were more. But on many days, I was convinced he left because he was selfish, immature, and lazy.

Then there were the others days when I slid into a mindset where the only reason I'd lost this family was "I'm a failure—as a leader, preacher, and friend." Somehow, somewhere I neglected to create an environment where he and his wife felt loved and valued. I'd been too defensive to give voice to his concerns when he brought them up earlier. I didn't create the right kind of serving roles that matched his gifts to our congregational needs. I didn't. I should have. I can't. I'm not. The more time I spent in this headspace, the more depressed I became. In the darkest moments, it drifted to paranoia. "Who else thinks I'm screwing up? How many other people have one foot out the door? If I can't lead my best friends, do I have any business leading anyone at all?"

In hindsight, it's a little clearer. No, he's not some community-despising, biblically illiterate, spiritual delinquent who left because he simply couldn't cut it at my noble institution. Nor was I, or am I, a perpetually sorry excuse for a leader who fails every member at every turn, every day. The truth is somewhere in the middle.

Was his decision a result of a consumer mentality? Maybe. Did I fail him and his wife? Did I stop short of being fully engaged as a friend and a leader? Probably. Even if he did leave because our church wasn't "meeting his needs," I need to take some responsibility since I likely played a role in feeding that particular beast. Hadn't I asked some people to leave another church to join me? And even though I was as honest in my attempt to connect with unreached young people in our area, I can't deny the "Follow me, because we can do church better" subtext in my messaging.

So maybe I didn't fail my friend shortly before the end of his tenure at our church. Maybe I failed him right at the beginning. Maybe my picture of what the local body can and should be was warped. Maybe the biggest failure was the unconscious creation of the church as an extension of my own ego, a subliminal quest for validation from mentors, peers, and perfect strangers. Yes, it hurt that he left. But if I can't own my part in his leaving, my current failing will be worse than any one that tipped the scales towards the departure.

Failure is Unavoidable

You are going to fail. You will fail your family, your church, your Christ, and yourself. You are going to fail. The only real questions here are: When? How? How badly? And how will you respond?

I remember my earliest years of ministry training, even in the informal mentoring I received as a high school student. The overwhelming sense I got then was: "Whatever you do, don't do anything that will disqualify you from ministry." Even as I write this now, the way it's phrased is odd. It wasn't "Don't dishonor your brother or sister in Christ" or "Don't discredit the gospel." It felt a little like "Don't get kicked out of the club." Sadly, such phraseology betrays an idolatry of ministry itself; as if the credentials or role transcend our identity as sons and daughters of the King.

Don't get me wrong. I've been in the blast zone of serious moral failure. I've witnessed first-hand the disintegration of marriages and families. I've seen elders and volunteers scramble to pick up the pieces. I've seen a ministry acquaintance sent to prison. Entire ministry legacies tarnished and shut down. It's brutal.

You've seen it too. Go ahead and name the famous ministry leader that first pops into your mind that fell from grace. Now name the one from your own church story. We all have them woven into the fabric of our leadership journeys. But for all the salacious stories of ministry meltdown, I contend most of the men and women in the leadership trenches of our churches aren't hovering on the brink of some dramatic moral failure.

I believe my conversation at Baja reveals my greatest failures are not ones of commission, but omission. Certainly, if you have a chronic, unaddressed, or losing battle with porn, resentment, alcohol, pride, greed, or narcotics, reach out and get some help. But if that's not you, let's explore some other areas where we might be most likely to fail.

Frozen by Failure

Some of us are simply stuck in the gates of the race we've been called to run. Why? We're terrified to fail. So we settle into stable, predictable practices that we control. We only play the games we're relatively confident we can win. We don't risk, and we don't lose. But we can't really call what we're doing winning either.

That's part of the problem. We keep allowing the strangest voices to define "success." And we keep chasing the tools, events, and the resources that promise success. Our bookshelves are already filled with super-pastor manifestos with the tricks and tips we need to rise to the top. Why? Because frankly, it's easier to pursue somebody else's version of success than to obey God's call on our lives.

How many of us have had that transcendent Isaiah 6 moment, where God's majesty and heart are unveiled and we hear that call: "Who will go for me?" And our first instinct is: "Somebody more gifted will go. Somebody more experienced, more proven, less broken. She'll go, Lord. I'll be right here."

A mentor once told me "Too many Christians are so busy sitting on their hands trying not to sin that they can't run in the direction God is moving." Some of us are afraid to try for the first time. We're petrified of failing. Others are sitting relatively pretty. We've had some good, hard-fought wins. We bear the scars of our ministry battles, but now we've earned the right to coach from the press box. We like to think because we've paid our dues, we don't actually have to play the game or walk the sidelines. But this is a failure to try.

In 2 Samuel 11:1 we're told "In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king's men and the whole Israelite army … But David remained in Jerusalem." I heard time and again growing up: David's failure with Bathsheba didn't begin with his rooftop ogling; it started when he sent Joab to a battle with David's name on it.

Yes, lust is failure, as are adultery and murder. But the first failure was a failure to be in position, a failure to try to lead the people of God into the right kinds of battles. I always know when I'm out of position when I find myself fighting the wrong fights: getting enmeshed in organizational politics, going out of my way to defend pet projects, or getting worked up about initiatives or departments I'm not even responsible for.

At the end of his life, David says this to Solomon in 1 Chronicles 28:20: "Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work for the service of the temple of the Lord is finished." This has been my mantra for the last few months: "Be strong and courageous and do the work. Do all the work." Yes, with God's grace I can avoid a ministry-disqualifying moral failure. But just because we don't publicly fall, doesn't mean we're leading boldly or that we identify the work of leading our people and execute it faithfully. If I should be frightened of failure, it should be the failure to try to lead well at all.

Failure to Try Again

Some of us have tried. And failed. We planted that church. It fizzled. We took on a lackadaisical staff culture. They revolted. We spoke prophetically to the power brokers in our congregation. They complained to the denomination and we were moved. Or we quit in protest.

I go back to the lunch with my friend. I know I tried to address some of the issues that were points of concern. But if I wasn't clear or I wasn't heard or I got pushback, I fatigued quickly. It can be hard to keep trying. But if it's worth doing, it's worth doing right and consistently.

One of my life verses is Proverbs 24:16: "For though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again, but the wicked stumble when calamity strikes." I am deeply indebted to my dad for his wisdom at various critical junctures in my life. I'll never forget his line: "Steve, just because you fall into the gutter, doesn't mean you have to stay there." So you failed. Get up. You fumbled. Ask for the ball again.

My friend and pastor Steve Andrews has repeatedly reminded me over the years that "success is overrated. And failure is overrated, too." Failure won't kill you, but if you let it incapacitate you, it will. So don't. It was Churchill who said "Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts." The immediate consequences of the failure to keep trying aren't always clear, but it's crippling in the long run. Keep trying.

Failure to Stop Trying

To be sure, taking initiative, entering risk, and persevering are excellent responses to failure. But there's another failure too. Living our whole lives trying, without any appreciation for grace.

I used to think I could scratch, claw, and fight my way to ministry breakthrough and significance. To a certain extent, you can. You can pick up leadership skills, hone your preaching, and maximize your influence. But if you're whole spiritual life and leadership are marked by a "try harder" approach, you're in for a rude awakening.

I remember being a little surprised when a friend going through AA told me will-power alone was insufficient for his continued sobriety. His sustained victory over addiction was rooted in his understanding that "I can't do this. I won't do it without God's grace. I need the help of others to take the next step."

In Galatians 2:21, Paul writes, "I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing!" Leading out of grace acknowledges Christ died for something: to transform us in the midst of our brokenness, giving us new vision for our lives, and a white-hot passion to see others experience freedom in Christ as well.

Not every failure in your life is always and entirely your fault. But there's something to be learned in every setback. That friend of mine who left my church? He moved out of state. I still value his friendship. That Baja Fresh? It's not there anymore. There's probably another bitter quesadilla in my future, but I'm hoping to bring a little more self-awareness to the table next time.

Steve Norman is pastor of Kensington Church in Troy, Michigan.