False Stop

I began my ministry in a beautiful little church made up of gracious and loving people in South Louisiana. After four happy years, I was asked to become pastor of the church I attended as a boy. The thought of making a difference in the church of my youth was a joy I had not anticipated. While I was content in the bayous, the desire to reinvest in the place that had first invested in me was too great. My wife and I packed our bags and headed to Alabama.

Perhaps I should have known better. The church had positions for three full-time staff, and all of them had recently resigned. Instead of being a catalyst for unity, I made the division worse. The trust they gave me in Louisiana was not so easily given in a church already cracking with division. It did not help that my theology and personality did not mix with a few key leaders.

My undoing began with a few "concerned" members meeting behind closed doors, followed by long deacons' meetings that I was not invited to. Cracks turned to fault lines when the committee tasked to find a student pastor recommended a candidate who managed to get only 60 percent of the vote. People began to step away from positions, and those who supported me washed their hands of the church. I was a lame duck pastor. Within six months of moving home, I had resigned.

I thought about pursuing a career in banking. Or farming. Or anything. I thought it might be a great idea to work a steady job and just teach Sunday school. I thought I might not be cut out for pastoring after all. I wasn't even sure I wanted to be. In retrospect, I see that I lacked the ability to quickly process everything that had unraveled. I was emotionally stunned, in a state of spiritual shock. I was preparing to quietly walk away and chalk the entire thing up to a major life lesson.

Some of my closest friends told me they were starting a new church. I advised them to go and join an existing one. I knew that planting a church would be hard work, and I knew that many of them were carrying anger and sadness from the previous situation. They needed a pastor's help, and I did not feel up to the task.

One night, another dear friend stopped by my house, and he told me again that their intention was to start a church. I wished him well. He looked me in the eye and said, "We called you to be our pastor. We may have left, but everyone still looks to you as the pastor. We want you to come with us. We called you, and I do not remember us telling you that you could quit being our pastor."

I'd like to say that his words stirred me into a sense of godly duty to care for the Lord's people. Instead, it set my heart toward a slow realization: this wasn't about an office, a title, a dream to be a great pastor, or what I thought pastoral duty ought to look like. These were my friends asking me to help them work through their sorrow, and they were asking me to help them establish a church.

That was years ago. I confess that some days I don't feel like being a pastor anymore. Most days I'm not certain that I am doing a great job at it. But being a pastor is what the church has called me to be. It is my pleasure to serve them for as long as they will have me.

Brad Williams is pastor of New Covenant Baptist Church in Albertville, Alabama