The pastorate isn't so predictable anymore. As the role broadens, at least one similarity remains: the call to lead the local church.
These five pastors' stories point toward a bigger story: God's care and concern for the local church, the only institution designed to represent God's character and work.
The pastorate is more than just a profession, passion, or trade, and the church's success is about more than mere job security. Pastors play an active part in the forward march of an inevitably successful enterprise, destined to play a central role in the world's redemption and glorify the one who created it. These are stories of ministry in various contexts, in the face of various challenges, from people with different perspectives. In essence, it's the story of God's church, writ large.
Chi Chi Okwu
Chi Chi Okwu was in the middle of a dual degree MBA/Masters in Public Health program when her father died.
"I hit rock bottom," said Okwu, who had drifted from Christianity after high school. "But I also felt the Lord come to me and say, 'I was here the entire time.'"
After graduating from the University of Alabama, Okwu accepted a job at a consulting firm up north and began attending Willow Chicago, an urban plant of Willow Creek, the well-known suburban megachurch. Okwu was attracted to its downtown location, but didn't see her church community as a future employer.
"My identity drives my belief in the need for multicultural churches where voices like mine can be heard."
Church leaders did. After three years at Willow, the ministry director approached Okwu to see if she might be interested in serving as the church's connections director and leading its young adult ministry. After a five-month interview process, Okwu left the for-profit world for the ministry.
In her seventh year at Willow, Okwu, 34, is Willow Chicago's associate pastor, oversees community care, and serves as the church's community liaison to the city. The daughter of Nigerian immigrants, Okwu is passionate about promulgating the church's multiethnic vision.
"There are not a lot of female black pastors in my circles, so usually my voice is different from many of those I work with," said Okwu. "My identity drives my belief in the need for multicultural churches where voices like mine can be heard." Okwu is passionate about "creating spaces where there's true equality and value given to everyone." For Okwu, a diverse environment is better for everyone.
Okwu also helms the compassion and justice ministry. Her proudest accomplishment: Willow Chicago's three-year partnership with an elementary school in a predominantly African-American neighborhood on the South Side.
Not interested in replicating existing work, Okwu reached out to neighborhood and non-profit leaders about where the church could best address the city's needs. Neighborhood schools lacked community support, they told her. Today, church volunteers tutor, hold dinner celebration for Honor Roll students, take students on business field trips, donate to school supply drives and teacher wish lists, and actively listen to teachers and administrators on how they can best serve the school.
Compassion and justice shouldn't be limited to one ministry; it should be infused in everything the church does, says Okwu.
"We want the school to know that we're here with them and they're not alone," said Okwu. "We want to look at our resources and see how they can serve that community. We don't want this partnership to be an us and a them but a we."
Misael Guzman
Earlier this year, Misael Guzman received a phone call from a woman at church. She was concerned about her nephew, Ramon (not his real name), who had moved in with her shortly after his father was deported. He had been acting out in school and had begun cutting himself.
Through intentional conversations with Ramon, Guzman learned that he had been spending time with peers who had also been self-harming, and that at times, Ramon had harbored suicidal thoughts. Guzman called Ramon on a weekly basis to check up, and visited him at his home. Eventually word of Guzman's efforts made it back to Ramon's father.
"He told me, 'I know my son needs a father figure in his life, and I've not been there,'" said Guzman. "'I've been praying here in Peru that God would put a man in Ramon's life who would help him navigate some of these things.'"
"We want our young people to know that church is more than just youth ministry."
This is the kind of feedback that motivates Guzman, 35, a bi-vocational pastor out of Newark, New Jersey.
"When you hear stories like that you begin to realize the effectiveness of the work you do," said Guzman.
Guzman's parents moved to Newark from Puerto Rico before he was born and brought up their firstborn son at Centro Cristiano Calvario (Calvary Christian Center, or CCC). The church serves predominantly first-generation Latin American immigrants, and has Spanish and English-language services.
Guzman relies on outside employment as ministry support. Currently in-between jobs, Guzman has worked in I.T. since he graduated from high school. At his last company—where he worked for seven years—Guzman was based at home. Guzman, who has four children, credits its flexibility for allowing him to balance the demands of his pastoral position and his role as a husband and father.
Guzman works alongside four youth leaders who serve around 40 primarily first-generation American students. "They're grounded in today's culture" said Guzman, who adds that they don't always see the relevance of church—especially once they age out of youth ministry.
"We want our young people to know that church is more than just youth ministry," said Guzman. "Until recently, we had our youth service simultaneously with the Spanish service on Sunday. One of the drawbacks was that it caused a disconnection between young people and the congregation."
Guzman coordinates an annual prayer walk with other churches and organizations; they travel in groups praying for the city as they walk toward City Hall. Guzman's also serves on the Police Clergy Affairs unit and is on a policy review board for President Obama's fatherhood initiative, My Brother's Keeper.
"Part of my calling is to flourish where I'm at," said Guzman. "My heart is in the city of Newark."
Michael Warren
Michael Warren was 21 when his mother died. A junior at Villanova University in Philadelphia at the time, her death sent him into a tailspin. Despite a childhood of Catholic education and church attendance, the grieving Long Island native didn't find himself turning to his faith.
Instead, upon graduation, he accepted a volunteer radio gig in Nome, Alaska. Population 5,000.
Warren threw himself into the community. "I figured if I chose a place where just living would be hard, that I would get closer to the heart of 'giving your life away' to serve others."
"There's a survival aspect to living here," said Warren. "When you make friends, they're your family."
After two years, Warren—feeling guilty for not using his teaching credential, and with friends and family bewildered by his stint up North—returned to Philadelphia and became a high school teacher. But he was determined to stay in touch with the people he'd met in Alaska, and as "a single dude with massive amounts of free time," he found himself in Alaska over Christmas, during Easter, and most of his summers.
During one of his trips, Warren took his friend up on an invitation to attend a megachurch in Anchorage. In the middle of the service he "felt the spirit of God" and broke down, an experience he wrestled with for the next several months. When the church recorded its 9/11 service and posted it online, Warren recalls watching it over and over again.
Warren continued to visit ChangePoint, and several years later, became a Christian. Warren moved to Alaska and accepted a middle school teaching position.
"There's a survival aspect to living here. When you make friends, they're your family."
Simultaneously, he and his wife Tara, whom he met in Anchorage, were increasingly interested in a theology of family. As parents of four children, they found themselves exploring the subject often, eventually discussing what larger plan God had for their passion.
"When ChangePoint offered me a position that let me cast vision and help families understand what discipleship could look like in their homes, I was in."
Now in his fourth year of ministry, Warren, 39, leads a team responsible for up to 1,000 children from birth to fifth grade over two Sunday morning services. In addition to preaching, he organizes workshops on child dedication and raising teenagers, and leads a parent-child discipleship class.
Located in Alaska's largest city, ChangePoint averages about 2,700 people on weekly basis. The city is home to hundreds of Native Alaskans, Americans from the lower 48, and Filipino, Vietnamese, Hmong, and Samoan immigrants.
"People move to Alaska with a spirit of rugged individualism," said Warren. "The things people do in their free time are pretty extreme. Last night, there were probably more than 100 people that went fishing and caught over 100 fish, filleted them, vacuum packed them, and drove back at two in the morning in time for work the next day. It's pretty extreme."
The state has some of the highest rates of suicide, domestic violence, rape, and sex trafficking, says Warren. But along with those challenges comes a "unique openness to the Gospel."
"They've come all the way to Alaska to search for it."
It's an impulse Warren knows as well as anyone.
Pranitha Fielder
For much of her childhood, Pranitha Fielder felt like she didn't belong anywhere.
As a little girl, she was raised by her grandfather in Andhra Pradesh, India, while her parents were working. She moved to be with her parents in Maryland at the age of seven.
"I grew up really angry," she said. "The first time I remember praying, I was eight. I cursed God the best I could."
Fielder attended a Christian high school but had no interest in faith. During a school-sponsored prayer service, a pastor gave an altar call. While many students came forward, Fielder got annoyed and walked out.
"I grew up really angry. The first time I remember praying, I was eight. I cursed God the best I could."
"As I was leaving, I had this overwhelming feeling that I belonged to God," said Fielder. "I broke down crying."
Outside the chapel, Fielder ran into a senior at her high school who had been praying for her along with several of their classmates. When he hugged Fielder, she realized how much she wanted others to feel this same sense of security. In that moment, she decided she wanted to go into ministry.
Not all supported her.
"Someone told me that they thought that meant I was going to be a church secretary," said Fielder. "Another asked, 'Who's going to marry you now?'"
Fielder did have the backing of her church, Sligo Seventh-day Adventist, which had employed more than a dozen female pastors since the 1970s. Fielder worked a church plant there before eventually becoming their youth pastor.
Last December, Fielder, 30, was ordained as the SDA's first female Indian-American minister.
One key supporter is her husband, Kelan. Fielder and Kelan work at different churches and don't always have the opportunity to closely connect with each other's congregations. But Fielder doesn't wish either of them had a different job.
"Kelan is there when people tell me I can't do something. He pushes me to share my story," said Fielder. "We can talk about theology and ministry, and we understand each other's schedules."
This year, Fielder transitioned into a role of discipleship and congregational care. Many of Sligo's regular attendees are older and are beginning to lose their spouses, parents, and siblings.
"We need a team of people who are checking in on those who have lost loved ones and can help them adjust to a new time of life," she said.
"My vision is that every member of the church is part of a small group so they are continually growing in Christ and caring for each other," she said.
"No one should feel alone."
Harmon Li
Trailblazing comes naturally to Harmon Li. A longtime pianist and saxophonist, the first generation Taiwanese American often found himself turning to his instruments as a way to escape the stress of high school. But his parents had banned guitar, concerned his musical interests were keeping him from his academics.
Then Li got his diploma.
"I remember that summer before college, sitting down, learning and practicing chords over and over again for hours," said Li. He would play all night, well into the morning.
While he majored in government at the University of Texas and felt pressure from his parents to aspire to a financially secure profession, Li continued to pursue music, leading worship for campus ministry, performing solo gigs, and improvising with friends.
"Could we, as Asian Americans, birth a church that was more representative of Austin?"
During college, Li, 36, attended a church that predominantly attracted Chinese and Taiwanese immigrants. Recognizing its difficulties in connecting with the younger generation and the Austin community at large, the board reached out to Li and others about starting a church.
"Could we, as Asian Americans, birth a church that was more representative of Austin?" Li remembers thinking. "We wanted to build a bridge between our identity and the community."
Thirteen years later, Vox Veniae meets in a former night club in the rapidly gentrifying neighborhood of East Austin. About 20 percent of current attendees are Asian American. The rest are white, Hispanic, and black. Li directs volunteers responsible for serving coffee, greeting newcomers, and facilitating the liturgy. "I equate my role to planning a wedding every Sunday," said Li.
Li works to curate songs and prayers that thematically reflect the service's text. A recent service based around Ephesians 3 included works by Jon Foreman, Sufjan Stevens, and Aurelius Prudentius, a 5th century Roman poet.
"Lately, we've been exploring what it means for people when they walk in the door to our services. We want that time to be transcendent," said Li.
For Li, capturing transcendence is more than just attractive interior design or beautiful music.
"If people are simply coming to our service to be entertained, then we have failed in being a community," he said. "It's not about putting on a production. We want to build a solemn space where people have time for reflection."
During the week, the Sunday morning location turns into a community center known as Space 12. When they acquired the building in 2008, Vox leaders reached out to non-profits and neighborhood groups and encouraged them to use the space. Li is in charge of hosting the community partners that use Space 12 as a special events venue.
For Li, pastoring has been mostly about improvisation.
"There is no formula for being a pastor, just like there is no formula for being a musician. It takes a lot of time, a lot of patience, and a lot of grace."
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