Can I Really Be Honest With My Church?

I have cancer.

It stinks. I know a lot of people get cancer at some point in their life, but I am only 42 years old. It has come as quite a shock to grapple with my mortality. I am in the prime of my life. I should be thinking about the next phase such as avoiding a midlife crisis or dreaming about future ministry rather than whether I will be attending my daughter's wedding. Fortunately, I have chronic leukemia. While it is not curable, it is manageable. There is a good chance I will live a normal life. For this, I am very thankful.

Since the diagnosis, the emotions have been all over the place. There have been moments of despair. When I get sick I get nervous wondering how my body will respond. I grow anxious as the next appointment approaches. On the other hand, I have grown in honesty with my wife. Petty issues in my extended family dissolved as I now have a different perspective on what's important. I am quicker to make decisions around meaningful priorities with my kids. On the home front, it has been for the most part wonderful.

But what about the church? What has been the impact there? It's a more complicated issue.

Sharing the mess

I was sharing my diagnosis with someone I had not seen in awhile. He asked me if I had told my congregation. I immediately said, "Yes." In fact, I told him about the blessing it has been to lay my heart bare with the church.

This conversation made me think about the issue of pastoral honesty. Why it is so hard for us as pastors to share the mess in our lives with those we serve on a weekly basis? Is it because we desire to preserve our reputation as strong and invincible? Or possibly, we don't want to allow ourselves to be cared for because we have much more control when we care for others?

Maybe we don't want to be disappointed if we don't receive the love we have shown to others? Honestly, maybe we are just scared to open up about our pain, our doubts, and our struggles in a public way—with so many people.

Why it is so hard for us as pastors to share the mess in our lives with those we serve on a weekly basis?

To be honest, I wrestled with some of these issues prior to sharing with my church. It was risky. It was uncomfortable. But it was also freeing and comforting, both personally and pastorally. The conflict of struggling with an issue privately but maintaining a placid pastoral image in public was gone. I found our congregation quick to love and comfort us as a family. They now could genuinely care for us when in the past they found it hard because we didn't have visible needs. In addition, my sermons took on a depth and richness as I shared my deep wrestling with matters of death, resentment, unfairness, and fear.

There is a newfound freedom that authenticity has brought to my life.

Nevertheless I confess there are times the longing to appear perfect rears its ugly head again.

Flawed perspectives

In hindsight, I realize I have cultivated some deeply flawed perspectives over the years.

First, there was a subtle pride. I would share with people the importance of being honest with others about hardships in life. In counseling sessions, I would encourage a couple to get it out so that we can deal with the real issue. I would regularly invite people to share their testimony in overcoming an addiction or illness. Then, I would proclaim the value of heartfelt honesty. All the while, I would remain guarded about my personal struggles. I would share in a sermon a "safe" illustration for effect. These moments were controlled and calculated. I had already moved past the emotional phase by the time I shared them.

Rather than allowing people to see the deep emotion that a present difficulty creates, I would use pain as a prop in a message. I want others to share the mess of life while I maintain a safe emotional distance.

Cancer forced me to share because I desperately needed to live in community. I could not live with such a façade. Granted, I don't share everything in the pulpit. There are emotions that are better reserved for private moments. But the moment my voice cracked before the congregation, I experienced a measure of humility that had been lacking. The walls of pride I had built up over time were knocked down. People were seeing me in my weakness.

Second, the image that I had been presenting to the church was not what they were looking for in their lives. They didn't want to see perfection. They didn't come to church to see a man without weakness, concerns, or anxiety. The congregation desperately wants to witness transformation at work in the midst of imperfection. The fragile hope that existed in the midst of what seemed to me unfairness encouraged them more than a nostalgic story of conquering faith. They know that life is hard. They look in the mirror and see doubts and failures. Then they arrive on Sunday to see a life that is nicely put together. They smile as they greet me only to leave with guilt that they must not being doing the Christian life correctly. In essence, I was giving them the wrong stuff.

There is a newfound freedom that authenticity has brought to my life.

Leukemia compelled me to live my faith in front of them rather than simply talking about it. Logically, it makes perfect sense. It is the very thing we tell others all the time. It is simply hard to live out. The unrelatable pastor has been replaced by a man with clear struggles in life, just like them. Themes like grace, and faith, and trust in God are no longer topics I teach about but elements I am living out daily in and through community.

Third, I had an ongoing sense of misplaced pastoral ambition. Of course, I would have denied it. I would proclaim the benefits of transformation over numerical growth. I would explain why we were not growing while growing jealous of a larger church. Yet those ambitions still existed.

As I processed my diagnosis, I realized the vanity of "earthly" ambitions. It was robbing me of my soul. It was motivating me to live for self, i.e. pastoral credibility and accolades. It was eroding my joy for ministry because I was not content with what God had given to me. Now, however, I see with new eyes.

The now or the what-if?

Cancer made me deeply appreciative of the "now" rather than the "what if." The moment I shared my frailty with the church, I realized how precious the flock is to God—and to me. Concealing my pain from them possibly would have fostered resentment in me toward them: "They don't understand what is really going on in my life." Honesty freed me from this mental game. It has allowed me to focus on what God has called me to do and not worry about the vain ambition I had been pursuing.

Concealment of pain stems the faulty cycle of death that a pastoral image brings to our lives—living for the ideal and not the real. Honesty provides a freedom to share more honestly what Christ is truly doing in me.

I'm learning to see that real faith and real problems are not contradictory realities.

Kevin Gushiken is the teaching pastor of Harvard Avenue Evangelical Free Church in Villa Park, Illinois.