Ministry forms you in ways seminary cannot. The real classroom isn’t the lecture hall—it’s a church hallway, a living-room visit, a late-night prayer, and sometimes a pointed letter from a longtime member. If you allow it, ministry will humble you, teach you, and even sanctify you. And much of that formation comes through the gift of correction—often unsolicited, sometimes uncomfortable, yet undeniably formative.
The first letters
Few things can humble a young pastor quite like a letter from a seasoned church member. I’ve received more than I can count. Some were tough to read, others less so. But every one of them shaped me more deeply than I anticipated. Initially, I thought pastoral leadership was mostly about vision and preaching. I soon discovered it also meant learning to listen carefully, even when the words sting.
At 26, single and fresh from seminary, I became senior pastor of First Baptist Church in Covington, Georgia. With three years of seminary behind me, I was convinced—maybe overly so—that I already knew what I needed to know. In my mind, I was ready. In reality, I still had much to learn.
The church, of course, knew this long before I did. Thankfully, congregants were both kind and courageous enough to help me see it. Letters arrived regularly in those early years. Some were gracious, others not so much. They identified ways I could grow, noted my failures, or expressed concern that the church had changed in directions they wished it hadn’t. Looking back, I’m genuinely grateful for every letter. Those letters were a kind of discipleship, reminding me that pastoral ministry requires more than conviction. It requires humility and a willingness to listen to the very sheep you’ve been entrusted to shepherd.
Fred’s letter
One of the most memorable letters I received came from a man named Fred. Fred was never shy about sharing his opinions. Usually he didn’t need a letter—a dinner-table or parking-lot conversation would do. But one day he handed me a long, typed letter. Clearly this one mattered deeply to him.
Fred had been reading through the newly published 2008 edition of the Baptist Hymnal we’d just placed in the sanctuary. And he was not pleased. His favorite hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” had moved from No. 8 in the 1991 hymnal to No. 656 in the new one.
“Six hundred fifty-six,” he wrote. To make the point, he repeated it: “Six hundred fifty-six.” He added, “I am sure in the next edition of the Baptist Hymnal the song will be purged altogether.”
I braced myself, expecting him to hold me personally responsible for the editorial decisions being made at Lifeway Worship. But the blame never came. Fred just wanted me to know.
More importantly, Fred wanted me to keep singing that hymn. Even more than singing, he wanted me to keep believing its truths: that our God is indeed a mighty fortress
and that he will never fail us.
Why younger pastors need to listen
Fred’s letter wasn’t really about me. But many letters were—and those were much harder to read. Some were gentle; others were quite harsh. But one way or another, each was formative.
As pastors, we’re tempted to dismiss criticism, to filter out the voices we would rather not hear. Yet let me encourage you not to discard these hard letters too quickly.
Some letters carry critiques. Others carry cries for help.
Some express frustration. Others communicate grief.
And some—like Fred’s—reveal a deep love for the Lord and his church, rooted in a history that predates your tenure and possibly even your birth.
Listening doesn’t require you to agree with every word. But it does mean receiving each word with humility. It involves asking, What can I learn from this? It means choosing personal discipleship over defensiveness.
As Proverbs 9:9 says, “Instruct the wise and they will be wiser still.” James 1:19–21 calls us to be “quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,” recognizing that anger rarely produces righteousness. The pastoral life demands teachability, not just in theory but in everyday practice—email inboxes and church mail slots.
Similarly, 1 Peter 5:5 offers a word of wisdom to pastors: “All of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because, ‘God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble.’” This humility extends to how we handle feedback—even when it’s clumsy, unsolicited, or a bit unfair.
Not-so-nice letters
In my early days at First Baptist, I received many letters critiquing the length of my sermons. The church had long been accustomed to a strict one-hour service. The service began at 11:00 a.m. with sermons typically lasting 25 to 30 minutes and a noon dismissal sharp enough for congregants to beat the Methodists to lunch at the local eateries.
Fresh out of seminary and full of zeal for expositional preaching, I believed the church needed longer preaching, not shorter. My sermons regularly clocked about 40–45 minutes. You can imagine how people reacted to this change and what type of feedback I received.
Initially I felt defensive. I would think to myself, Did they even listen to the sermon? Are they interested in worshiping and growing in Christ together—or just getting to lunch?
To be fair, my frustration may have been understandable. But over time I realized my own errors. I had led the church into this new norm without sufficient wisdom, grace, and tact.
Around this time, a friend drove Alistair Begg to the seminary chapel, where he had been invited to speak. Knowing Alistair was a hero of mine, my friend asked him to give me a call. To my surprise, he did.
I jumped at the opportunity to ask him a burning question: “How do I correct my congregation? How do I get them to embrace longer sermons?”
To my surprise, he replied, “This Sunday, give them a 25-minute sermon.”
He was right. What did it matter how long I preached if my congregation had stopped listening? They had to know I was willing to meet them where they were before I could lead them forward into greener pastures.
Alistair’s gentle rebuke reminded me again: Receiving correction is central to pastoral life. The challenge is learning to welcome it well.
Receiving the letters
So when the letters come—and they will—receive them as an invitation.
Sometimes they’re invitations to change.
Sometimes to be encouraged.
Always to listen carefully.
Even the harshest letters often echo Fred’s underlying message: The history of this church is important. The truth of God is important. And both can be hard to hold on to.
Over the years, I’ve found a few simple practices that help me receive these letters wisely. I offer them here in hope that they’ll help you too:
Don’t respond right away. Sit with the letter. Pray. Quick responses rarely reflect careful thinking or spiritual maturity. Give the words time to settle, allowing God space to quiet your spirit and clarify your thoughts.
Ask what’s true. Even if 90 percent feels off, don’t miss the 10 percent that’s right. Every piece of feedback may contain a kernel of truth worth hearing—even when it’s delivered poorly or laced with assumptions and misunderstandings. Your personal growth requires you to spot the small but valuable insights hidden beneath the critiques.
Talk to a trusted voice—not to vent but to discern. Choose someone mature enough to help you separate genuine correction from unfair criticism. A trusted friend, mentor, or elder can help you see clearly and respond wisely.
Say thank you. Even if you only acknowledge the letter in prayer, give thanks for the chance to grow. A heart of gratitude will often soften the heart, even toward difficult people and harsh words. It turns criticism into an opportunity for grace and growth.
Let the letters shape you
The most formative lessons I’ve learned in ministry didn’t come from books or conferences. They arrived in envelopes—sometimes written in a tone I didn’t enjoy, but still rich in wisdom. Those letters shaped me. They refined me. And in some cases, they reminded me of truths I needed to believe again.
Keep a file of meaningful letters. Read them slowly. Pray over them. Resist the urge to rush past discomfort. Let them sit with you longer than your instinct wants them to. And then keep singing the songs they remind you not to forget.
Especially the ones that declare,
“A mighty fortress is our God.”
Not every letter will be accurate. Not every word will be fair. Yet received with humility, even the hardest ones can foster growth in us.
In a culture quick to defend, dismiss, and cancel, the church desperately needs pastors who listen humbly. Ministry isn’t about remaining unchanged. It’s about being reshaped.
So let the letters shape you. And keep singing.
Jason Edwin Dees is the senior pastor at Christ Covenant Church in Atlanta.
