Pastors

TO UNLOAD OR NOT TO UNLOAD

Jay Kesler

How emotionally transparent can a church leader afford to be?

For Christmas, my kids gave me the Gospel Birds tapes by radio storyteller Garrison Keillor of “Prairie Home Companion.” In them, Keillor talks about pastoring, and he mentions that if a pastor stands before the church and says, “I’m a human being just like you,” the first questions in the minds of the congregation are Who was she? and For how long?

Their immediate conclusion, Keillor suggests, is that he must have committed adultery. Why else would a pastor admit humanness?

That humorous insight got me thinking about the ways people see us as pastors and up-front Christian leaders. I wondered if most congregations don’t assume their pastors are more like Old Testament prophets, who stood apart from the people and judged sin, rather than like biblical priests, who took part in community routines and whose daily behavior and family relationships could be observed. Many people seem to be uncomfortable with even a Christlike priest, as described in Hebrews 4, who can be “touched with the feeling of our infirmities.”

I began to grapple with the question: What do we do with our infirmities-our misgivings and fears, our failures and sins? How transparent can a public figure afford to be?

Emotional Exhibitionism

There are dangers, of course, in readily baring all our defeats, doubts, and discouragement from the pulpit. It can be cathartic for the speaker, but a public pity party does listeners no real good. Raw emotion can baffle and embarrass an audience. They feel used, almost as if the speaker had become a flasher. What he’s showing may be legitimate and God-given, but in public it should remain dressed.

Indiscriminate expression can also damage a leader’s ability to lead.

At times a pastor, like any business executive who’s just made a necessary but unpopular decision, cannot publicize his inner uncertainty about the decision. If he waffles publicly, he’s perceived as weak. That prompts any natural uneasiness people have toward change to grow into murmuring dissent. Then the workers carrying out the decision will doubt whether the leader really supports them. In order for the decision to stick, leaders have to back it up-firmly-even if they feel emotionally torn. Double-minded statements don’t inspire commitment.

Doctors often are not 100 percent sure the operation will succeed, but when it’s time for surgery, they must make the incision with a firm, sure hand. A tentative stroke guarantees failure. So, too, sometimes pastors must act with more confidence than they feel.

In addition, there are times when leaders can’t express what they’re feeling because the emotion can’t be explained without revealing situations that must remain confidential. Certain parts of the story can’t be bared without hurting or betraying others.

For instance, I don’t feel I have a right to talk from the pulpit about my sexual life. That’s something my wife and I share. Out of respect for that relationship, I don’t invite the public into that setting. Sermons are not for voyeurs.

I’m also careful about illustrations involving my children. I do use family illustrations, but only where the kids look good. If I’m going to use an illustration of weakness, I use myself. I don’t feel I have permission to confess other people’s sins. Only my own.

So there are dangers in saying too much. But there are also pitfalls in the other direction, when we aren’t honest enough in expressing our emotions.

Emotional Isolation

Some pastors, for the best of motives, refrain from expressing what they feel, especially doubts about their faith.

“Preach your convictions, not your doubts,” we have all been told. And that’s good advice. We do have to preach beyond ourselves-pointing to truths so enormous no human can fully grasp them, let alone live them. But sometimes this leads us to put up a false front.

One pastor put it this way: “In preaching, I have to project an image of sureness or certitude I don’t really have. Why? Because in the pulpit I’m unable to offer all the qualifying factors or apply the principles to all the unique situations in people’s lives. Therefore I simply say, ‘Believe A, B. and C.’ Then, in personal conversation or in counseling sessions, I can go into more detail-‘but A and B are tempered with the truth of X, Y. and Z.’ “

Another pastor said, “I can’t share my doubts about eternal security because, like it or not, many people in the congregation are hanging onto my faith. Their theology is still undeveloped. Their assurance of salvation is to some degree secondhand-based on my ability to assure them God is holding them secure. It takes a mature congregation to work everything through firsthand.”

Many people, even of considerable stature, quote their pastor. “Well, my pastor feels this way.” They’re thinking, Pastor seems so secure, so godly, so at ease, this must be right. I’ll hang on to it.

Unfortunately, each of those statements adds another brick to the pedestal, which gets higher and higher until we are scared to death to fall off. Yet we realize how shaky this tower is. If the congregation is saying, “What a beautiful faith our pastor has. He has no doubts in the world,” then we, and they, are in trouble.

The same is true of other weaknesses. Some vulnerability is important for what it communicates to the congregation. There is a correlation between the amount of healthy self-disclosure in preaching and the amount of counseling the church staff will do. In a church where pontification and advice reign supreme, fewer people are willing to speak to the pastor about their personal failures. As we give glimpses of our humanity, people come and say, “I think you might understand this,” and they ask for help.

So there are dangers in being too guarded in expressing emotion, and dangers in being too unguarded. Where is the balance? When do we unload and when do we not? How are emotions expressed appropriately? Here are several principles I’ve tried to practice.

Point Beyond Weakness

In public settings, my rule is that self-exposure must have a purpose. I’m not simply going to “express myself.” There are other situations for that. The purpose must be to help the listeners, not to help myself. Any of my public statements must be for their benefit, not mine.

At times, it is legitimate to present our struggles to the entire congregation. By showing our own struggles, we identify with our people. But if a sin or weakness is shared publicly, the point is not simply to say, “I’m just like you.” The point must be to model faithfulness amid the struggle.

Along with broadcasting our failure, we owe it to our people to express, just as strongly, our determination to do whatever we can to make right the situation. It does no good to illustrate our imperfection. Most of our people know that already; what they need to hear is our desire to honor God in this situation.

One pastor I know has built a strong and vibrant church, and one of his secrets has been taking the “fellow struggler” stance with the congregation. He respects the people enough to be honest with them.

He has dared to say, “I am deeply committed to Jesus Christ, and I’m going to be honest with you about how well I’m doing at it.” He is willing to say, “Follow me as I, a sinful human being, follow Christ.”

Without fear, he’ll occasionally get up in the pulpit and say, “I’ve been trying this particular approach to Bible study, and it’s not working.” Or, “I find it hard to maintain myself in prayer; I go to sleep, or my thoughts stray. But I’m determined not to give up. Recently I’ve begun to write down my prayers, and I try to pray one good, short prayer rather than a long, impressive one.”

He’s been honest with people; he’s shared his struggle. But in the process he has been leading his people, not dragging them down. Both his words and his life continue to point them to God, not his sinfulness. He always reaffirms his desire for a stronger relationship with God.

Point to Christ, Not Myself

Several years ago, I noted a change in the preaching of a pastor friend of mine. Every time I heard him, he would speak with what I considered inappropriate candor about sexuality. Every illustration of sin was a sexual sin. His tone was extremely condemning; very little spirit of forgiveness came through.

Shortly thereafter, it was discovered he was involved in adultery.

Looking back, I realize he was exposing through his harshness his own need for cleansing and restoration. But all that came through was judgment.

There’s a major difference between representing Christ and trying to be Christ.

At times we’re tempted to be Christ, and we feel a compulsion to live as perfectly as he lived. When we see sin in others, we either condemn it or forgive it rather than let Christ do that. We begin to dispense grace rather than participate in it.

I’ve always been intrigued by Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians: “For God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them, and has committed unto us the word of reconciliation.” How many times we think it’s committed unto us to condemn sin, to preach against sin, or even to forgive sins! But it’s not. We preach Christ, who reconciles people to God.

The person who represents Christ, I think, is first of all at ease with grace. That is, “Oh, to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be.” He is overwhelmed with gratitude.

When such a person sees his own sins, he feels appropriate remorse but no compunction to cover them up. He would be first to say, “Yes, I notice them, and so does Christ, and that’s the point of the gospel: he loves me even though he sees them.” Such a person is at peace with grace.

This attitude affects our preaching. It means we don’t tell them how we solve people’s problems, but how Christ solves them. We lead them to Jesus Christ, not to ourselves.

I used to see myself as a surrogate Christ, taking Christ’s place in the world and ministering as he would minister to others. I have come to the conclusion, however, that I am not a surrogate Christ. He is my model. I don’t become him; I represent him. I tell others about him.

But if I bundle up myself as Christ-my time, knowledge, empathy, honesty, and every other noble trait I have-and I offer that to people, it’s still not much of a package. It’s a poor bargain. How much better to point people to Jesus and let them receive him instead.

If I am pointing people to Jesus and his power to transform lives, I can be honest about how he’s dealing with my imperfection.

Unusual Friends

Emotions that cannot be shared publicly can often be shared privately, which is usually the best place anyway. Many pastors find another pastor who shares their outlook on ministry-and who is willing to share the emotional peaks and valleys, too. Other pastors, I’ve discovered, have developed different kinds of relationships to maintain their emotional health.

I enjoy reading biography, and I’ve come across many famous people, among them preachers, who’ve made confidants of some unusual friends.

Some preachers develop a close relationship with someone from an entirely different background. They somehow stumble across this person with whom they can mentally take off their shoes, relax, and speak unguardedly. Usually these are people who allow them their pastoral dignity, who perhaps hold a station in life as high as the pastor, but who accept the pastor’s humanity.

One older pastor I know developed a close friendship with a physician. They initially got acquainted because they’d bought dogs that were litter mates. Then the men began playing chess every Saturday night. The dogs grew old together-into their twenties-and their masters’ relationship deepened. The town’s leading clergyman and the town’s leading surgeon became closest of friends.

The interesting thing was that the doctor was an atheist. He told the pastor many times, “Don’t evangelize me. I’m not about to become a Christian, but I enjoy being your friend.”

I’ve often wondered at the dynamic that made the friendship so deep and lasting. Part of it was they both knew the other had a professional image to maintain. The doctor realized he didn’t know everything about medicine, despite what the town thought. He’d buried enough of his patients to know he wasn’t perfect, but he had to maintain his confidence in the healing process. The pastor certainly knew the feeling.

Part of it was a mutual ability to maintain confidentiality. The doctor knew enough about the pastor’s congregation, dealing with teenage pregnancies in the congregation and so on, that he and the pastor developed a deep trust.

The pastor continued to long for a change in his friend’s spiritual condition, but other elements cemented their bond. Telling the truth to each other, handling sensitive secrets, maintaining respect for both one another’s office and humanity-all were part of this abiding friendship.

Anyone who has a friend like this is a fortunate person. Other pastors I know have found these kinds of friendships in groups where they’re seen as peer rather than leader, which is not easy in church groups. They’re involved in Rotary or the school board, where they meet interesting individuals who are not necessarily in the church.

One pastor was talking about his friendship with the superintendent of schools and the manager of a local plant. “We’re peers,” he said, “because we all recognize each of us is trapped in his professionalism. We all sense a need for a sounding board-to know someone at our level but not in our field.”

Another pastor was amazed to find how vulnerable highly placed business executives feel. For instance, the executive decision to put a group of people out of jobs is a lonely, lonely decision. Even if a manager saves the company by doing it, he still is a lonely man. He’s misunderstood and needs a confidant.

In these kinds of relationships, many pastors have found an appropriate setting to express some of their own emotional load.

Two Sides of Expression

There are two sides to being a Christian leader: the proclamational side where we proclaim the power of God, and the confessional side where we deal with our own sins in a more intimate and personal manner. Both are necessary for effective ministry.

My friend Ted Engstrom put it like this: “As a Christian leader, you need to have a Barnabas, a ‘son of consolation,’ who’s a brother with whom you share everything. And you need a Timothy, someone who is following you. This relationship is also honest, but you keep it a bit more circumspect because you know this person is going to follow in your footsteps.” Having these two relationships-the Barnabas type and the Timothy type-is good for mental health.

It helps keep us from condemning ourselves to solitary confinement. It keeps us off the pedestal.

I heard a pastor say recently, “I feel lonely. I feel isolated. I feel hypocritical. I feel I’m preaching beyond myself. I feel like I’m claiming things I’m not. I feel like I’ve created a monster, and I am the monster!”

He needs a Barnabas relationship, an individual or small group with whom he can unload.

From that relationship, he can then touch in an open yet uplifting way his congregation of Timothys, people who look to him for direction. Preaching to people who also feel isolated and trapped by their own lives, he’d have compassion. And that kind of balanced expression, avoiding the extremes of emotional exhibitionism or isolation, creates an environment where we can bear one another’s burdens and thus fulfill the law of Christ.

Jay Kesler is president of Taylor University in Upland, Indiana.

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

INTERIM PASTORS: PREPARING THE WAY

Ian Dixon

Not long ago I was asked to become interim pastor for a pastorless church. A gifted but somewhat erratic pastor had gravely divided the congregation and been asked to resign. Thus began my fourth experience in an interim role.

I have learned that as an interim pastor, I serve as comforter, preparer, facilitator, intercessor, encourager, and, if need be, admonisher and exhorter. I’m not there just to fill a space or hold the line. I’m supposed to see that the interim becomes a time of growth.

Individual indicators

The difficulty is that each congregation is unique and has particular needs during the transition between pastors. What works in one church during this period cannot necessarily be transplanted to another church in a similar situation. And as interim pastor, I have limited time to observe the church, determine its needs, and provide appropriate care.

I learned this the hard way after I served a church where things ran smoothly. Every Tuesday at lunch, a steering committee met with me to review the past week and plan the week ahead. An efficient lay leadership program kept us in touch with every home connected with our church.

When I was called to a similar church and tried the same methods, they didn’t work. It took time for me to realize those fine procedures could not simply be imposed on a new situation.

The first thing I do as an interim pastor, then, is observe carefully what the church’s needs are and what my role should be. In my new charge, where the former pastor had been asked to resign, I knew my work would be quite different from my other interim assignments, which followed the retirement of effective ministers. Churches, like individuals, can have sad memories, and these call for tender care.

Gradually I discerned several groups within this congregation: a loyal core, who would stay no matter what; a group who enjoyed the power they held and wanted the former pastor to return so they could retain that power; and a third group who had moved out because they disliked the former pastor, but who would return once they felt the church was properly led. There were also those who followed the former pastor to a new church but still held emotional ties to the old congregation.

Some people in the church said they saw my role in this situation as a trouble-shooter. I, too, wanted to lead this church through the troubled time. Knowing I would have but a minor place in that church’s history, however, I made it clear I did not see myself primarily as a mender or fixer. My task was to establish, if possible, a working base for a new pastoral leader.

Guiding principles

In spite of the unique challenges of each interim pastorate, I have found some common principles to guide me.

1. The church’s stabilizing activity is its weekly worship. I’ve been tempted to try spectacular and innovative approaches to worship that people will miss after I have gone. But for interims, usually a low-key pulpit ministry serves best. I’ve tried to take a middle path in worship and preaching, neither flashy nor dull.

In the troubled parish, I followed my usual custom of preaching from the lectionary. I wanted the congregation to know I was brooding on the set biblical text, not fishing for special themes I assumed they “needed to hear” or airing the best of my old sermons. The lectionary text is likely to contain encouragement, but if it holds admonition some particular week, so be it. I choose to follow the Word.

2. People need to know I am prepared to listen to them. Little is gained by sitting with some select committee to discuss what went wrong in the previous ministry. Rather, I try to draw people out in ordinary conversation.

A parishioner might say, “I used to go home after every church meeting fuming at the arrogance of that man and the way he rode over us!”

“I’ve felt that kind of anger,” I’d respond. “Did you ever try to tell him how you felt?”

“No, I doubt if it would have done any good.”

“But perhaps in general you would agree that discussing differences can at times help resolve conflict-you know, going to the source of trouble rather than just talking about it with friends?”

“Oh, sure.”

“And did you ever think of giving your pastor a word of encouragement?”

“I suppose I never did. I don’t think anyone did!”

“Might that have helped break down barriers?”

“Perhaps that’s where we failed. Maybe we need to look at what went wrong.”

Such conversations have worked for me much better than protracted investigations by some committee.

3. My primary job is to foster hope and vision. When I serve as an interim, people work to make me feel welcome. I receive a lot of appreciation for my sermons. Instead of being beguiled by flattery, I seek to turn such conversation into discussions of what the church is meant to be and what discipleship means. In other words, I want their positive emotions devoted to church ends.

When someone tells me, “That was a great sermon, Pastor,” I have two options. I can bask in the glory or I can dialogue like this:

“Thank you. What was significant in it to you?”

“Well, it was something I felt more than anything. But now that you ask, I guess your vision of the church as the family of God grabbed me.”

“And like a family, we, too, have our ups and downs-and our preferences-don’t we?” It becomes an opportunity for growth.

4. I should not leave too much of my own mark on the congregation, a mark the new pastor might have to live with. I find it better to expose the people to new options rather than to start something the incoming pastor may not want to finish.

One church I served was in the center of a flourishing tourist area where overseas visitors sometimes outnumbered regular worshipers. But apparently no one had thought of developing a tourist ministry. So I frequently discussed the idea, pointing out the possibilities. But I didn’t launch a new program. When they called a pastor, he found not a fledgling program to operate but a church receptive to the idea.

5. My most satisfying task lies in building anticipation for and commitment to the coming pastor. The diverse elements in the leadership of one church made me wonder how they might pull together as a team. So in our final meeting together, I asked the elders to express in turn how they felt about the incoming pastor and what steps they intended to take to express their loyalty. They seemed inspired as they heard themselves and others speak of prayer, encouragement, assistance, and so on. From what I heard, there was no wavering when the new pastor arrived among a prepared people.

Much healing and renewal can occur without endlessly rehashing a rocky past. While being frank and, if need be, ready to confront, I have to remember that as interim pastor I may mend fences and help integrate a congregation, but my most significant achievement is to enable an incoming pastor to lead the church to a new and better phase of its history.

-Ian Dixon

Dunedin, New Zealand

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

BRUISED CAMELS AND THEIR MONEY

John Crosby

What am I doing here? I was sitting at a 6:30 breakfast with a handful of men from our congregation, and the talk was about money. Our money. Specifically, how much we made, and gave, and saved. And now they were looking at me.

Our idea was that together we could learn more of what God wanted us to do with our money. I had been praying for the opportunity for months. The group had formed, and now, suddenly I was scared silly.

One problem was my salary, only a quarter of the next lowest. After all, these men were impressive: a wealthy heir, the vice president of a pension plan, an entrepreneur who left a bank to start his own business, an editor/author on the brink of a major book deal, and two successful real estate brokers. Each had responded to a sermon and class on Christian faith and wealth. They wanted specific help, but now I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.

My nascent convictions on wealth and faith came out of a growing concern for the poor, who are so close to the heart of God. I was quick to see the needs of the deprived, and in our society the rich make an easy scapegoat. How easy to blame them, as long as we are vague enough. But what about the godly wealthy, such as these men sitting across from me? Growing disillusionment with “things” turned these honest seekers to me for direction. They wanted to talk about the faithful use of money.

Though our group may be richer than most, many churches have people with discretionary income, people wrestling with issues of faith and money. They may be only a few, but when they come to us, we want to offer sound pastoral counsel.

What I didn’t know then, I have been learning along the way. Our group-dubbed the “Bruised Camels” by one member who said he felt like a bruised camel trying to squeeze into the kingdom-is now in its fourth year of biweekly breakfasts. Perhaps the insights from our struggles can help other bruised camels and camel trainers.

Admitting our needs

I began the group to teach, but I continue to learn more than I give. Indeed, for two years now, we have rotated leadership. This quickly changed my “students” into friends. During our time together, I married and had a child. These businessmen had struggled to raise their children amid the trappings of wealth, sometimes with pain. Now they shared with me humbly, out of both failures and good times.

These men were nobody’s fools; they wanted credible models in the real world for the theories we clergy are quick to give. Too often I found pot shots others had taken at the wealthy had not hit the enemy but had wounded these sensitive believers.

The Camels’ first insight was that no one has arrived; everyone on the journey toward godliness struggles with handling money. We once shared where we were in our practice of using wealth faithfully and where we would like to be in five years, and every one of the Camels felt dissatisfied, wishing he could bring himself to do something else, no matter how much he had changed.

It soon became clear that as Christians genuinely concerned about their money, they felt isolated since not everyone understood their tension. One met with a philanthropist who said, “I long to talk to someone who has the same spiritual agenda.” The group at least gives these men the realization they are not alone.

As we talked, we saw other needs surface. Some felt guilty about giving, a feeling that often increased the more they gave. They couldn’t determine when enough was enough. Other worried that their substantial gifts would discourage giving by those with smaller incomes. Others had difficulty finding meaning in work once they had reached financial independence. Hashing out their feelings with fellow seekers proved helpful.

Shaping our meetings was a commitment to Scripture. We sensed if God were to speak a life-changing word to us, we had to go deeper than occasional glances at Scripture. Reading the Bible without predetermined answers is always risky, but rarely are the stakes higher than in examining our lifestyles. The bulk of biblical material brought two tentative conclusions: wealth is clearly central to biblical thought, and the Christian is not free to exclude money from faith, to pretend wealth is without danger or obligation.

We discussed the perils of wealth, and lumped them into three broad statements:

-We are all prone to idolatry, and comfort can cause us to put security in dead money rather than in a living God.

-There is danger in covetousness; our materialistically oriented society will only be satisfied with “just a little more (or better) than now.”

-The Bible warns over and over that wealth desensitizes us to the poor. In America, out of sight is out of mind.

Interestingly, we found each of us was weak at different points and often comfortably blinded to his own particular sinfulness.

One of the brokers got frustrated. “What’s right? Should we junk this simple-lifestyle stuff or go with it?” But the Camels found the variety of biblical examples precludes exclusive, clear-cut role models. Yes, wealth can lead to false security and hardness of heart, but the Bible does not equate salvation with vows of poverty.

The Bible’s passionate concern for justice and mercy calls for “reckless generosity,” and that is possible only for those who hold lightly the riches of this world. One Camel had inherited wealth, and termed God’s call to deal with it a “second conversion.” As he strove to balance love for the poor with management of the family money, it seemed obvious he could do more by increasing giving than by reducing a relatively moderate lifestyle. Giving away over 50 percent of his income brought plenty of trepidation into the hearts of his family-and his accountant!

Still, others might feel led to a totally different conclusion. We wrestled with questions: Does commitment to the poor mean one member should give up a club membership if another does? Are the rules the same for everyone?

No family member can be an island

The Bruised Camels found one issue in common: the impact on families of any change in lifestyle. We found growing conflict with wives and families as attitudes changed. A father in our group told what happened shortly after his family hired a cleaning lady to come in weekly. When he reminded his daughter to clean up a mess, she replied, “Oh Daddy, that’s what we have Ruthy for!” The narcotizing effect of wealth on the young brought the men to reexamine the atmosphere they provided.

Peer pressure comes up again and again. One man wonders, “Should I limit the amount my daughter spends on clothing, when so much of an adolescent’s self-regard is tied into acceptance and looks?” Another asks, “Are braces a luxury or a necessity when children starve and rich children are mocked mercilessly for ‘looking funny’?”

Most affected were the wives. One woman said she felt powerless to alter her husband’s “sellout” to a simpler way of life. “I feel like we are halfway through the game, and all the rules have been changed. So many goals we set are out the window, and I had little choice.” The wives struggled with resentment, curiosity, and even suspicion over a process that affected them deeply. They feared where things would end, what would come next.

The group turned out to be much more than just another church program for me. Like many suburban pastors, my income is adequate but below the community average. Combine that with my views on simplicity, and my family could easily stick out like a sore thumb.

The men in the group were quick to point out my wife’s need to dress like the other women in the church, no matter what I thought it “should” cost. Since we entertained and represented the church, the other Camels pressed me to practice what I preached about the importance of family.

The clear signal came through to all of us that any lasting change had to have the approval of both spouses. Wives who felt included evidenced a tremendous shift in attitude. When we invited them to join us at a fund-raising brunch for a project, their support was enthusiastic, even when it involved sacrifice.

The Camel-men were used to making large-scale money decisions alone. Slowly we came to realize that consensus at home had to be won through dialogue rather than imposed by fiat. That sometimes meant postponing or slowing change, but the long-term consequences of by-passing family opinion would have proven much more costly in the end.

Healed bruises

What a privilege and joy to see the Bruised Camels move from theory to action! There came a point when further conceptual progress was impossible without acting on what we already knew. Our entrepreneur said, “I’m discipled out! I need an outlet for some of this or I’ll pop.”

So, to set priorities on the myriad demands on our money, we began to research organizations helping the poor. Our response was the creation of a “mini foundation.” Each of us contributes to the fund, and we give anonymously to prevent the biggest contributors from having undue influence.

Each Camel is responsible for presenting at least one new project a year. We evaluate the possibilities, and the money is distributed each December. Part of the process is learning to make choices in the face of huge need and limited resources. Last year we chose five projects from a dozen proposed: the down payment on a school addition, a cow to provide milk and employment for children in Burma, support for five church planters in the rural Philippines, seed money to help finance entrepreneurs in the Dominican Republic, and a washer and dryer for a relief agency in rural Tennessee. We found even our contact with the recipients has had impact on us. Those we have helped have taught us about our personal priorities and giving.

Our tension grew whenever we saw the needs around us, and eventually we knew talk wasn’t enough. Yet action seemed elusive, or threatening, or mere tokenism at times. We learned that progress comes only over time and with a common commitment.

The Camels began to involve themselves in the lives of the poor, in ways as diverse as themselves. One became a part-time “go-fer” for a disorganized inner-city program, and began to bring some order out of the chaos. Another took the Camels group to observe a tutoring program, exciting the men about a similar program for our church. We visited jails, gave talks to high school kids about how to get a job, and even attempted to form a food co-op in a housing project.

Sticking together

Howard Hendricks says, “We can impress, convict, even motivate from the pulpit; but to change lives we must spend time with individuals in small groups-and let our faith rub off.” Dealing sensibly with money happens best within a fellowship. We found our group helped balance the pressures of society and our tendency to rationalize.

Support, perspective, and accountability are crucial to long-term growth. One man who had to move away said, “I’m losing my life line. Who will be there to tell me that I’m kidding myself, that I don’t really need both country club memberships for business?”

Because of that group, I eventually saw changes in the men that would have been inconceivable at the beginning. I believe we changed because over the years we felt affirmed in spite of shortcomings.

Personal life has taken unforeseen turns for some of the Camels. Three of the men have taken new jobs. In each case, we prayed for them and offered support and counsel. One has moved from the business world to head a private agency for Third World small-business development. Another Camel felt motivated to tithe the profits of a windfall. That may seem a small start to some, yet it was the first time such an act even would have been considered.

We have decided that living with wealth should be spiritually difficult-and remain so. Without the prod of conscience, wealth paralyzes. Smooth rationalizations and tempting power are too much for most of us when we stand alone. There are no comfortable, clear answers, but the Camels learned how the body of Christ can begin to help members in need.

Tony Campolo says, “The correct response to human sin is guilt,” and I agree completely. In the long run, however, guilt is insufficient to motivate wealthy Christians. Only acceptance and mutual respect will develop the accountability needed for costly discipleship.

Jesus not only challenged the rich young man to sacrifice but, Scripture says, looked on him with love. We’ve found that challenge and love can be combined in ministry to-and with-those bruised camels who love the Lord and seek to honor him with their wealth.

-John Crosby

First Presbyterian Church

Glen Ellyn, Illinois

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

THE TUNES OF PREACHING

Fred Craddock

Words and moods can either make toes tap or set teeth on edge.

Everyone knows a sermon has points, but not everyone knows a sermon also has a tune.

I applied the word tune to preaching a few years ago when I began to wonder, Why do I especially like certain sermons? What makes certain ones really work? There was some important ingredient in effective sermons that went beyond the normal considerations of content. That ingredient, I realized, was the tune.

A sermon’s tune-its mood or spirit-is not easy to define precisely, but it’s unmistakable. Hearing some sermons, I think of seventy-six trombones coming down Main Street. Other messages make me picture a violin and a crust of bread.

We don’t often think of the tune we’ll play when we’re preparing a sermon, because our preparation tends to focus on the content. But afterward, when we evaluate how we spoke it and how people responded to it, then we recall the tune: the subtle atmosphere that was projected, the mood that filled the sanctuary as the sermon was preached.

Complicating matters is that not just sermons but preachers have tunes. I ask my students to imagine what sound track would best complement their preaching, and they give me answers ranging from Willie Nelson’s music to something majestic from Handel’s “Messiah.”

In fact, when I open my ears, I find tunes all around me. Churches have their tunes. Communities do, too. In Appalachia, most of the tunes are somber; “We’re going down the valley one by one,” ” ‘Tis midnight, and on Olive’s brow,” “The Old Rugged Cross.” Pathos flows through these tunes.

If I want to preach to Appalachia a greater sense of Easter, I can’t fuss at them for not jumping up and down the first Sunday I sound that unfamiliar refrain. Joy is a strange tune to their ears. They need time to catch the beat.

So I’ve realized I need to be aware of the tunes of preaching. My sermon, the text it’s based on, my church, and my own personality-each has a distinctive “sound.” A sermon’s tune may not play well in every situation. The idea is to harmonize our preaching with the notes being sounded around us.

Your Predecessor’s Tune

Preachers new to their church need to discover their predecessors’ favorite tunes. It’s especially important if the predecessor had a lengthy tenure, because that preacher’s style has defined the word sermon for that congregation. In the minds of the hearers, any variation from that tune has to struggle even to qualify as a sermon.

Suppose for twenty-three years my predecessor said each Sunday, “I have four things I want to say about the text this morning. In the first place . . ., and the second . . .,” and so on, and at the end summarized the sermon. That’s a precise, ordered tune, like a military march. The congregation is accustomed to a methodical, logical sermon-major premise, minor premise, and conclusion-so when I come in singing another song, I can’t expect everybody to ooh and aah. If I don’t preach that way, I can expect, at least for a while, that the congregation will not accept my “talks” as sermons. They’ll probably say, “Well, it just didn’t seem like a sermon.”

This is not unreasonable. For many listeners, a change in form is equivalent to a change of content. Preach a narrative sermon, and the people who have been used to hearing Reverend Outline preach “One, two, three, four” will say, “Well, it was real interesting and all, but we like more Bible.” You may have included more Bible in your sermon than he ever did, but the only way listeners have to register the different tune they heard-even when the content or theology of the sermon was virtually identical-is listing some vague problem with the contents. They couldn’t take their usual notes on the sermon, so they figure it must have had an unbiblical melody.

Now in a new church I wouldn’t try to imitate the previous pastor. Nobody preaches well enough to imitate, and no one can sing someone else’s tune anyway.

However, I need to prepare the people to hear a new tune. And that takes time, just as it took me time to get used to new translations of the Bible. I first memorized Bible verses from the King James version, so I talked about using other translations long before I was comfortable with them emotionally.

Second, I must respect how hard it is on a congregation when I change the form of the sermon. If the form is always new and different, congregations don’t hear it as well. It’s like hitting them with a hymn with unfamiliar words and tune. But if the basic form of a sermon remains predictable and clear, I am allowed to work creatively within it.

Most congregations can handle only one variable at a time. So if I am going to vary the form of my preaching, my message had better be familiar. Or if I plan to hit them with a novel message, then my preaching style ought to be predictable.

That rule extends to the service itself. If I plan to preach a different kind of sermon, the rest of the service ought to be straightforward and predictable, and if I’m going to experiment with the service, I’m wise to preach my standard sermon.

Since visually and vocally I’m a new variable to the congregation when I first come to a church, I try not to add a lot of clever innovations initially. Once they get accustomed to my voice and appearance, then I can make some changes. Whether I like the waiting period or not doesn’t matter. What they’re accustomed to has shaped the ear.

The Congregation’s Tune

I work with not only my predecessor’s tune but my congregation’s. I analyze a congregation somewhat like I would a group of people going down a street. I ask myself, What are they doing? Is it a parade? Are they just out for a stroll? Or is it a protest march?

For some congregations, every Sunday is a protest march. Some issue must be taken on: arms control, taxes, poverty-whatever. They’re marching to city hall, and you can almost hear the drumbeat of protest, protest, protest.

Certainly there are things to protest. But if you protest all the time, people get weary of that tune: Here we go again to city hall. It’s not effective. I may thump my suspenders and say, “I’m a prophetic voice in this age!” but the point is, I’m not getting anything done.

Some congregations are on parade. You get a sense of John Philip Sousa. It’s triumphant. Every day is Palm Sunday, and everything is grand and glorious. But there are always people recently widowed or hurting or whose daughter is on drugs or whose job just disappeared. These people are not in the parade.

That means the music has to vary. Some sermons need the feel of a friendly stroll down the street, just a couple of you talking. Then the parades and protest marches provide a different beat, a new sound that catches one’s attention.

The Text’s Tune

The tune of a sermon also needs to be appropriate to the tune of the text. With some of the Psalms, you’re excitedly on the way to Jerusalem. With others, you’re sitting in a trash dump, saying, “I just want to die.” There are some where you’re sitting in a circle with your kids. In some of them you’re all by yourself: “My soul is quieted within me.”

So sometimes the biblical material itself may say, “Don’t play the wrong tune here. This is a penitential psalm, so don’t try to inspire people.”

Once I listened to a pastor preaching on the Beatitude, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be satisfied.” But he started hitting people with what was wrong with them. “You’re out hungering after this and thirsting after that,” he fumed, “when it should be righteousness you’re after!” He said some good things, but the words hunger and thirst did not flavor the sermon, and as a whole it never came across as a blessing. He turned a beatitude into an exhortation, and thus changed the music entirely.

Later I asked him, “Do you have other words for blessed?”

“I don’t like the word happy,” he said. “I would rather just say blessed.”

“That’s an important word in the Bible,” I said, “but blessed are those who live within earshot of the Beatitudes.” I wanted him to know that somehow the soft oboes of blessing needed to be heard.

Your Weekly Tune

My personal experiences during the week-my work, my prayers, my study, my attending all kinds of events-have set up a certain rhythm, a tune, in my own life. And I may discover my tune doesn’t fit that of the text.

My tendency at times like that is to tell the congregation, “When I chose this text with its stately marching cadence, it echoed the way I felt. But this week I’ve had 487 committee meetings, and everything is still hanging. I’m exhausted. Yet this passage arrives so beautifully in Jerusalem that I wish it were my experience today. So if you detect in my voice some longing, some wishing, it’s really there.”

That’s the course I take when my personal tempo is out of sync with the text. It works better than saying, Fred, get up to that text! That’s often unrealistic. I say to the people, “I’m down here, and the text is up there. If anyone wants to try to reach up to it, let’s give it a try.”

I want to understand my personal tunes, but unless they prove unhealthy, I don’t feel obliged to alter them. If I’m constantly sucking melancholy out of every situation, however, then I may need some help. But within the normal variations of my life, it’s wise to recognize my own tunes and share from them.

Most often, people will be able to pick up our tunes. There will be days when we show up with a violin and everybody else brings drums, but most people can adapt. And next Sunday will probably be better.

Your Dominant Refrain

Although we will play variations on our theme, most of us settle into a dominant refrain. The gospel playing in our lives for years has created in us a distinctive sound. Congregations usually accept the theme to which their pastors return.

But it’s dangerous to assume that ours is the tune everyone must play. In the best of circumstances, we know and the congregation knows that ours is not the only tune the gospel will play, but it’s what it plays best through us. Others will have their distinctive tunes as well.

Understanding individual tunes can help avoid a lot of heartache and jealousy. When we invite guest speakers, we can say, “We’re bringing in a set of tympani, folks. You’ve been listening to this little ol’ clarinet, but the gospel in this person’s life sounds with extraordinary resonance, and you’ll love it!”

That little speech helps keep people from saying “This preacher is better than that preacher,” because that’s like saying a drum is better than cymbals. You can’t compare them. It’s also a good way to get people ready for a new minister.

Over time our tunes become like theme songs. Thirty years later, people will recall my ministry and say, “He was the violin we had way back before we brought in the trumpet.” And once my tune becomes a theme song, I can talk about it at points where I know there will be dissonance, like at the beginning of a difficult sermon: “This is a tough one today, folks, so I’m going to bring out the violins.”

Of course, overuse turns it into a ploy. But it’s useful every now and then when I know my experience and theirs are at cross-purposes, or the text and I are on different wavelengths. And it sure beats getting mad because they are not in tune with me.

Tunes You Can’t Play

There are many things I cannot do physically. I’m small; I weighed only 120 pounds when I entered the ministry. And I have a weak voice that doesn’t project well. All the preachers I heard growing up, however, were big, tall fellows full of physical prowess. Their voices were full of thunder and lightning.

When I started preaching, I tried to be like them. I tried to be bigger than I was. As I struggled to get my voice and my body to do things they couldn’t do, I must have looked like a cartoon character. Of course it didn’t work, and learning that was painful. Finally I had to accept my limited range and find some way I could use my weaknesses as well as my strengths.

One of the ways I have compensated for my shortcomings is to use the dramatic. People like stories, and stories evoke strong feelings, especially if in telling the story we experience it ourselves. Take the story of Hannah giving her child Samuel to the Lord to live in the Temple. You can get inside that story and tell it in a way that travels the full range of your emotional capacity, even though you’ve never actually given up a child for adoption.

Storytelling allows for great emotional impact. Even if your voice or physical presence in the pulpit are not all that exciting, the story itself will do it. One of my students told me my voice is like the wind whistling through a splinter on a post. So even though I’m not exactly a prime candidate for the Met, if I can get the attention off my voice to the compelling melody of the story, people forget my limitations.

We are all limited in one way or another. I recently heard a New York actress with years of training do a dramatic presentation from memory of the Gospel of Mark. Her dramatic range was extraordinary, but even with all her ability, the apocalyptic sections of Mark were too much for her. She could not climb that mountain, but she was comfortable enough with herself to do well on the foothills.

The Bible is bigger than her talent or mine. Luther said, “I cannot preach on Abraham offering Isaac. That is a demonstration of faith far beyond anything I have experienced. Why should I even attempt it?” Maybe he could have attempted it had he said, “I’m only pointing you to a mountain I have not climbed,” and then shared in a humble, clear way. So sometimes I’ll walk around the foot of the mountain and point to the top with no claims of having climbed it.

Fortunately, the Bible has such a wide range of possibilities that most of us can find a unique method to compensate for our inability to pull out all the stops. Sometimes I’ll say, “Look, if we had the full orchestra here and not my thin clarinet, this would be the point for a full crescendo.”

I can also accomplish the same effect by planning the flow of the worship service. For instance, a brief but magnificent doxological anthem following the last words of my sermon can accomplish what my voice alone is unable to do. I can supplement my tune by orchestrating other, more dramatic parts, such as Scripture readings, vocal numbers, or instrumental pieces. These added voices provide what I cannot achieve for any number of reasons.

Our apparent limitations can be transcended. My students are so concerned about the little things of preaching-how they look and what they should wear and all that. Three times in one sermon, I heard a minister with an artificial limb thump that leg and tell us not to think about it: “Now I don’t want you feeling sorry for me because of this leg.” I hadn’t thought about the leg until he told me about it, but it was obvious the main thing on his mind was that leg. And that makes for a sorry tune.

On the other hand, I heard a preacher once who had been severely burned in an automobile accident. The tissue on his face, arms, and hands appeared practically melted away. When he first stood up, I thought, I’ll have to close my eyes. But he was a man of extraordinary passion and love for what he was doing, full of interest and delight and humor. Before long I forgot about his appearance. It’s like a well-dressed person; you don’t remember what the person wore.

Beginning with the Ear

Often I go into the sanctuary and sit in the pews to do part of my work on a sermon. There in the quiet, I ask myself, How would this part sound? If I heard this tune in the sermon, what would I think? I want to be sensitive to the tunes of preaching, to operate from the ear to the mouth.

Isaiah writes, “The Lord God has given me the tongue of those who are taught, that I may know how to sustain with a word him that is weary. Morning by morning … he wakens my ear” (50:4). Preaching, like music, begins with the ear. If I get the tune right, people will not only understand my words but sing along.

Fred Craddock is professor of preaching and New Testament at Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia.

Leadership Spring 1987 p. 64-8

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

DEVELOPING A CHRISTIAN MEAN STREAK

Stephen Brown

Being a gentle shepherd, meek and mild, may get you into trouble.

A number of years ago, a pulpit committee representative from a large southern church took me to lunch and asked if I would consider becoming their pastor.

“Tell me about the church,” I said, and after touching on a number of points, he squared with me: “Steve, our church has a serious problem because it is controlled by one man. He gives a lot of money and has probably been there longer than anyone else. Because of who he is, he pretty much gets his way. The last three pastors have left because of him. But we believe we have a majority and we can take him.”

“You’re not looking for a pastor,” I commented. “You’re looking for a drill sergeant.”

“Well,” he replied, “I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes, that’s probably it, and you’re the only one we know who is mean enough to clean up the mess.”

I quickly told him I didn’t feel led to become their pastor, but I did have a hit list of fellow clergy I’d be glad to submit for the committee’s consideration.

As I thought about that incident later, I was horrified at the reputation I had somehow developed. How could I have gotten known as a drill sergeant when all I wanted to be was a faithful and godly man? That incident happened a long time ago. Now I am a lot older and a little wiser, and I have come to value my drill sergeant reputation. In fact, I have begun to see it as a manifestation of faithfulness and godliness.

No More Mister Nice Guy

I spend a portion of my time teaching seminary students, and one of the pastoral traits I urge my students to develop is, for lack of a better term, a “mean streak.” All too often in American churches, pastors have become sitting ducks for neurotic church members (and they are a small minority). If people don’t like the way a pastor parts his hair or ties his tie, they feel free to tell him. If they don’t like his wife’s dress because it clashes with the curtains in the church, they tell him. You wouldn’t believe the comments on my beard I have received over the years! Some people feel free to criticize and correct pastors on things for which they’d never think of criticizing anyone else.

Not long ago I was talking with a pastor in serious trouble with his congregation. He was being second-guessed and ridiculed in a shameful way. As we talked, it became apparent this young man needed to develop a mean streak to survive. He told me he felt he had been called to love his people, to understand them even when they were cruel and abusive.

“While you should be loving and kind,” I said, “it’s equally important to be honest and strong. Why don’t you bring the people making those comments before the ruling body of the church and have them justify their disturbance of the peace and unity of the church, or leave.”

The young pastor’s reply was interesting: “Steve, I know that’s what I should do, but I’m just not made that way. I feel my ministry is to pour oil on troubled waters, not put a match to it.” Needless to say, that young man is no longer in the ministry. He didn’t have enough oil for all the troubled waters, so he is now selling insurance.

Former professional football player Norm Evans told me once about a massive freshman lineman-six foot five-with whom he played. In the lineman’s first game, the opposing lineman kept pulling this man’s helmet down over his eyes. The young lineman went up to the coach and said, “Coach, he keeps pulling my helmet down. What should I do?”

The coach smiled and said, “Son, don’t let him do it.”

The Urge to Please

One of the hardest lessons I ever learned was that I can’t please everyone. I want to; I desire to be what everyone wants me to be. I want everyone to love me. The problem is, I simply can’t do it. And until I understand that, I will never be effective.

I’ve noticed the problem isn’t confined to clergy. Many Christians share it with us. We swallow spurious doctrines, refuse to ask questions, avoid confrontation, stifle protests, keep quiet when we ought to speak, allow ourselves to be manipulated-all because we’re afraid people won’t love us if we don’t please them.

In an insightful essay entitled “The Inner Ring,” C. S. Lewis wrote, “I believe that in all men’s lives at certain periods, and in many men’s lives at all periods between infancy and extreme old age, one of the most dominant elements is the desire to be inside the local Ring and the terror of being left outside. … Of all passions the passion for the Inner Ring is most skillful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things.”

I can understand that need to be in the inner circle, to be liked, because it is one of my problems. Have you ever noticed the Christian liturgy that takes place not during the worship service but after it? The pastor goes to the door and everyone files past. As they pass, the liturgy requires them to say, “Pastor, that was a wonderful sermon.” Then, according to liturgy, the pastor responds by saying, “Thank you. I’m pleased God used it.”

This practice works fine except on those occasions when I have preached a bomb. I know it, and the congregation knows it. During the sermon, people were checking their watches, and then they were shaking them to make sure they weren’t broken. Everybody was bored, and the sermon died before it got to the first pew.

Never mind. The Christian liturgy is chiseled in stone: I still must go to the door, and the people still have to file past me mumbling the same comment and receiving the same response. I’m sure you’ve had those days, too.

The problem comes, however, when we decide we have to avoid those days more than anything in the world. So we pen sermons to please the congregation. We know there is truth to be said, but we don’t say it because it might offend someone. We know we need to be strong, but if we are too strong, people might be upset, so we pass out pious pablum that doesn’t offend anyone.

Because our self-identity as pastors is so caught up in what we do in the pulpit, the distance soon narrows between being kind, sweet, and insipid in the pulpit and being kind, sweet, and insipid in every area of life.

The Courage to Offend

I used to have a book in my library (since borrowed and never returned) with a great title. I don’t remember who wrote it, but it was titled Bible in Pocket; Gun in Hand. It was about the frontier preachers in America and their determination to preach the gospel whether or not anybody wanted to listen. They would have been uncomfortable in many contemporary churches. In fact, most of our churches would have been uncomfortable with them. Those gun-totin’ parsons simply would not have been able to play the game.

If we examine the biblical record without bringing preconceived ideas, we become acutely aware that most of the men and women of the Bible and church history would also be uncomfortable in many churches. Moses might get angry enough to find some stone tablets to break. Joshua might call out his fearless troops and fight to give the land back to the pagans. Gideon, Deborah, and Samson would probably wonder who’s leading, and the prophets would laugh. John the Baptist would never get invited to dinner-and be glad.

Somehow many have translated leadership into terms of servanthood and love that are divorced from the biblical sense of the words. As a result, a mild style of leadership has made them targets for every upset church member with a theological or cultural gun. Such pastors could benefit from a Christian mean streak.

We’ve got people thinking pastors are supposed to be nice people whose calling is to tell other people to be nice. Then they talk of “a crisis in pastoral leadership.” I believe the crisis has more to do with the inability to develop toughness than it does with burnout or lack of money or training.

If every media representation of a pastor paints a smiling, harmless wimp, and if we begin to interpret the Scriptures from that cultural perspective, after a while we start becoming what everybody thinks we are. Much of the anger directed at outspoken Christian leaders, I believe, is not from what they say but because they aren’t supposed to say anything at all. They break the established tradition of niceness, and that simply is not done.

Get-Tough Principles

I’m no expert, but I am a survivor, and after more than twenty years of survival, I have isolated four principles that I violate only at my own peril. And, preacher that I am, the principles are in the form of an acrostic spelling out WIMP. Let me share them with you.

First is the principle of waves: Any time you refuse to make waves when you ought to, you will face greater waves later.

Almost every time I have tried to avoid a problem by looking the other way or by covering it with sweetness and light, what could have been handled with honest and loving confrontation at the beginning has become so monstrous it requires a major shooting match at the end. By waiting, I needlessly hurt others, the church, and myself.

Elijah’s question to the people, “How long will you falter between two opinions?” (1 Kings 18:21) is an appropriate admonishment to those of us who try to put off dealing with problems. I served a church once where the clerk of the Session (the leading lay office) was constantly resigning when he didn’t get his way. I tried to be nice, to understand and soothe him, but it didn’t work. I finally accepted his resignation, filled the position with someone else, and called him into my study to explain what I had done and why.

I expected the church to fall apart, but it didn’t. Instead, he ended up receiving Christ and offering a public confession before the entire congregation. An elder in the church I now serve says, “Steve, always do right, and it will come out right. But even if it doesn’t come out right, you will feel right having done right.”

Second is the principle of image: People see you as a representative of God, even if you don’t like it, and often will react to you on a human level as they react to God on a spiritual level.

I fully expect to go into an airport sometime and find three restrooms: one for men, one for women, and one for clergy. Our image-and thus, God’s-is sissified.

Paul said we are ambassadors for Christ (2 Cor. 5:20), and an ambassador must truly represent his or her government. If I am sweet when I ought to be angry, weak when I ought to be strong, and nice when I ought to be hard, I do not adequately represent the government. And people might start picturing our “terrible” Lord the way I have allowed them to caricature me.

Peter Cartwright, the early Methodist circuit rider, didn’t allow that problem. When he came into a town, he would often stand on the outskirts, turn to his friends, and say, “I smell hell.” The stench of sin bothered him. How easy it is to try to cover the smell of hell with the perfume of platitudes, but if we will be true to the image we represent, we cannot.

A couple came to me the other day asking to be married. After discussing their situation with them, I realized he was not a Christian and she was. At that point I had a problem endorsing their marriage. I said, “I like you guys a lot, but I’m not going to be able to do the ceremony,” and I explained the biblical reasons why I could not perform the ceremony.

The young woman began to cry, and the young man got angry. He said, “I thought pastors were here to help people, and you’ve made her cry!”

I said to him, “Son, I am helping you; I’m telling you the truth. If you don’t like the truth, you should go somewhere where people will lie to you.” He and his fianc‚e left my study angry, but I can live with that. And maybe when they think of pastors in the future, the image won’t be the same. They may dislike pastors, but they’ll know pastors aren’t afraid to speak the truth.

Third is the principle of mandate: Having been given by God a mandate for leadership, you must lead, or your sin is unfaithfulness.

I love God’s charge to Joshua, and I assume it belongs to me and every pastor called of God: “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (Josh. 1:9).

Someone once said about leadership: “Either lead or follow or get out of the way!” I have recently completed a building program, and in handling that responsibility I did almost everything wrong. I was afraid to lead because any direction I might take could split the church. So I got in the way. My indecision was causing significant problems until my good friend Jim Baird showed me he cared enough about me to tell me the truth.

“Steve,” he said, “if you are not willing to pay the price of leadership, then don’t expect anything to happen.” That shook me up enough to make me take a stand, to lead, and we did complete the project.

Finally, there is the principle of passing: Hold your church lightly and be willing to leave quickly.

I admit it: I used to play a lot of poker, and I learned (with Kenny Rogers) a lot about life from the poker table. I learned there are times when you need to pass and wait for a better hand. Other times you just need to leave the table. I don’t think a pastor should resign at the drop of a hat or over piddling issues, but I do believe there are issues important enough to cause a pastor to leave-and leave quickly.

Jesus knew about us, I believe, when he gave us the sacrament of shaking the dust off our feet. “And whoever will not receive you nor hear your words, when you depart from that house or city, shake off the dust from your feet” (Matt. 10:14). You don’t do it very often, but when the right time comes, it’s effective.

In our city we have an announcer who signs off each morning with these words: “Now, y’all hold on to what y’all have got until y’all get what y’all want.” I suspect that’s good advice for a pagan, but not for a Christian, and certainly not for a pastor.

I keep an undated resignation in my files, and the fact that I know it is there and I am willing to use it keeps me from selling my soul. I won’t capitulate on something important only to stay in my church. The knowledge that I can always go into vinyl repair has covered a multitude of sins.

The Tough Side of Ministry

Developing a Christian mean streak is, of course, another name for Christian boldness. “The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion” (Prov. 28:1). Without boldness, we cannot serve God adequately.

I’m angry at the structures that tell me I can’t be angry. I’m angry at myself when I compromise in the wrong places. I’m angry when society and the church tell me I am not to be what God called me to be-an obedient ambassador of Jesus Christ.

In Perelandra, the second book of C. S. Lewis’s science fiction trilogy, the protagonist, Ransom, has been sent to the planet Perelandra to prevent a fall similar to Adam’s on earth. The adversary, in the form of a man named Weston, is also on Perelandra, working against Ransom’s efforts.

Ransom realizes with horror the evil represented by Weston, and gradually comes to understand he must face and destroy Weston in battle. It is a frightening prospect. In the darkness of the Perelandran night, Ransom considers the fact that he can stand and fight or he can run. Out of the blackness comes a voice that says, “My name is also Ransom.”

With Ransom, we face the same decision. We can stand and fight, or we can run scared. It behooves us to act in a manner that honors the name we bear-Christians. If we are going to carry the name, we must be willing to pay the price. Ransom stood and fought the forces of evil because he was reminded of the name of another who refused to withdraw from the fight.

We also bear the name Ransom. If we are only out to be nice, mild-mannered folk, we should either change our name or change our calling.

Now, don’t you feel a mean streak coming on?

Stephen Brown is pastor of Key Biscayne (Florida) Presbyterian Church.

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

MINISTRY TO MISSING MEMBERS

John S. Savage

Behind every inactive member lies a story to be heard and a hurt to be healed.

Several years ago I was looking through slides I had used in an every-member canvass in my church. When I held some to the window, I was shocked. Pictured in the first three slides were three couples who had held key offices in the church my first year there. Now, four years later, those couples were totally inactive.

These people no longer attended worship, except maybe on Christmas or Easter, made no financial contribution, didn’t participate in the life of the church, and had a negative attitude about the congregation.

How could people move in just four years from active involvement in a congregation to total inactivity? I wondered.

I thought of times I had visited inactive members and seen absolutely nothing happen. In fact, often they were more convinced to stay away after I made the call. I knew I needed to figure out how to keep current members active, and enable inactive ones to return.

Anxiety-Provoking Events

I went to work on these questions as I pursued a doctorate and have continued to search for answers over the last decade.

I tried to find studies about the phenomenon, but I dug up nothing. So, with a psychologist and a theologian, I designed a research project. Thirteen trained pastors and I interviewed inactive members from four United Methodist congregations to find out what caused them to disappear from church life.

We found 95 percent of the people had experienced what we now call an “anxiety-provoking event”-an APE. Subsequent research showed these events usually come in clusters, several APEs compounding within six months to a year.

Anxiety is the emotional alarm system that is triggered when we’re in disequilibrium, when we’ve been hurt or feel that unless a change is made we’re going to get hurt. The inactive members we visited revealed high levels of anxiety, which when unresolved drove them from church membership. Gradually we saw their anxiety fell into four categories.

Reality anxiety. This anxiety is based on some real, historical event; you could have videotaped what caused it. Normally the event is a snub, or an utter lack of church care when a member most needed it.

Suppose a pastor preaches his first sermon at a new church and someone says, “Pastor, we’ve had some lousy preachers here, but I think you’re going to be the worst.” That’s an anxiety-provoking event for a pastor, and it’s reality anxiety.

A while back I preached in a church in Vancouver. Two days prior, a family from the church had their home burn to the ground, and their two- and four-year-old children died in the fire. The father, in an attempt to save his youngest, dashed into the bedroom. The walls and curtains were on fire, as were the bedding and the child’s clothing. Leaning over to snatch the child out of the fire, severely burning himself in the process, the father tried to pick up his child. The child’s body fell apart in his hands.

That is a reality anxiety-provoking event. How many people went to visit him and his wife? Maybe the pastor, but probably not many parishioners. Most would confess, “I wouldn’t know what to say,” as if they had to say something. A family experiencing the horror of this kind of tragedy would have a hard time returning to a church they felt let them down when they needed them.

Moral anxiety. This next type is more difficult because it is not always as obvious. Moral anxiety arises when people experience in themselves or others behaviors they believe aren’t right.

A lay person called me once and said, “I understand you work with churches where people are leaving.”

“That’s true.”

“Well,” he continued, “our senior pastor has admitted having an affair with a woman in the congregation, our associate pastor confessed a homosexual affair with our organist, and we have four choir members involved in affairs.”

That large church has lost more members over moral anxiety than most churches will ever have.

Moral anxiety can also be private yet still drive people from the church. In Meetings at the Edge, Steven Levine tells the story of a devout Christian nurse who cared for Evie, a woman who was given permission by her family to end her life because of the extreme pain caused by cancer. Helen, the nurse, refused to participate in such an act. Yet Evie persisted. She planned to take the barbiturate-laced applesauce at 9 A.M. Helen reluctantly agreed to arrive at 10 and do whatever she could if Evie were not yet dead.

As Helen entered the house, Evie was crying. She was frightened and could not take the applesauce alone. She asked Helen to feed it to her. Helen said, “I cannot,” and walked out to sit in her car.

Ten minutes later Evie hobbled to the door using a chair like a walker. She was vomiting. “Please come help me!” she begged. “I don’t want to be trapped in a coma and only partially die. Please come!” Helen walked into the house, fed her the rest of the applesauce, and held Evie until she died.

There’s a good chance Helen was not in church the following Sunday, and no one would know why. Her moral anxiety-provoking event was private.

Neurotic anxiety. The types get more difficult to handle as we go down the list. Neurotic anxiety is pain caused by the imagination. Someone may claim, “I don’t go to church because the pastor doesn’t like me.” If you check it out, the feeling might be based on reality, but the chances are it’s neurotic. It’s only in the person’s head.

A man goes into the hospital, expects you to visit, but doesn’t let you know he’s there. Then he gets angry when you don’t call. Months later when you do call, you may trace his problem to that hospital stay. The man is convinced you don’t care about him. That’s neurotic anxiety.

Even more frustrating than the fact that the person’s grievance is imaginary is that we can inadvertently foster it. For example, a pastor regularly calls on a couple who are potential members. He spends time with them and makes them feel important. All the time they’re thinking, Look at all the personal attention you get from the pastor around here! Then they join the church, and the attention they receive drops almost to zero. They wonder what happened. The pastor has accidentally encouraged unrealistic expectations, which give rise to neurotic anxiety.

Existential anxiety. Existential anxiety is that feeling brought about by the thought that some day you may not exist, or that even if you do, your life may be meaningless. We hear the refrains, “The church has lost its meaning for me,” “The sermons don’t mean anything anymore, Pastor,” “My kids are bored stiff in church school.”

I visited a family that had been active church members but had dropped out. As I talked with them, I learned that when they were preparing for marriage, the pastor said to the bride, “I believe you’re a born-again Christian, but I’m not convinced your fianc is. If you marry him, your first child will die.” I was talking with them six months after their three-year-old boy had died.

They experienced existential anxiety at its height. Twenty minutes into that conversation, the couple cried as hard as two adults could cry. Tears running down the cheek begin to say something about the nature of the pain encountered when visiting an inactive member.

Clusters of Events

Most often people who drop out have run into these four types of anxiety in clusters. For example, a man in my congregation lost his job, and the family income plummeted to nothing. His wife, under stress, ended up depressed and in a mental hospital for two weeks. Soon after, this couple-active leaders in our church-were told they were doing an inadequate job as youth leaders and then were abruptly dismissed. They became angry and quit coming to church.

When a layperson and I visited them some weeks later, the woman was reading a newspaper. She put it down, said hello, and put it right back up. That’s called resistance. We talked with her husband, and in about five minutes she slammed the paper into her lap. We had before us a red-faced, angry woman.

The first thing inactive people mention is usually the last event in the anxiety-provoking cluster. “We’re just as good youth leaders as anybody else up at that church!” she informed us. “If we aren’t good enough for that, we aren’t good enough for anything.”

It’s easy to assume that’s the sole or primary issue, but it’s not. The unresolved anxiety of the cluster of events has made this final event intolerable. Until we uncover and deal with the original pain of the cluster, even if it happened twenty years ago, people will likely remain outside the church.

We talked for some time with these people. I’m happy to report they did come back to church and eventually accepted new leadership responsibilities.

Arenas of Conflict

Anxiety-of whatever variety-arises from some problem. The most common is intra-family conflict. Husband and wife square off on some issue; parents and kids squabble. This kind of conflict is the most consistent characteristic of people who have left the church.

Conflict with pastors is the second most common problem, and the main cause is avoidance. When pastors avoid dealing with people’s anxiety, the people simply avoid the pastors and their churches.

Family against family, inter-family conflict, is the third arena. It’s the Hatfields against the McCoys; people don’t get along with one another.

Overwork, or at least the feeling of it, presents a fourth problem area. With volunteer church service, too much too soon or too long, with no reward, will drive people from the church.

Suppose you discover a family is having troubles at home, seems to be avoiding you, is feeling disappointed about the way other church members have treated them, and thinks they’re overworked and unrewarded. You will usually find they are experiencing reality, moral, neurotic, or existential anxiety-often simultaneously. Then you can predict the next stage: they cry for help.

The Cry for Help

If we learn to hear and respond to people’s cries for help, we can usually prevent their dropping out, because most of those still crying for help will respond to our efforts to reach them. But cries don’t last forever. Some cry longer than others, depending on their bond to the congregation, but when the cry goes unanswered, eventually members leave. Then the damage is much greater and more difficult to repair.

So how does a cry for help sound? It comes in all forms, sizes, and intensities. A verbal cry for help may sound like this: “I don’t know if I want to continue coming to this church. If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s hypocrites!” Or it could be more subtle, like the one I heard years back: “You know, all the men but me in our Sunday school class have had promotions at work.”

I worked with a woman in Christian education for two years and never once heard any complaint. Then one day in the midst of a long paragraph she let slip just one sentence: “I’m not sure I can do this job much longer.” Those words stuck out to me as if PROBLEM were bracketed in my head.

I didn’t say anything right then, but when I saw her the next Sunday morning in the hallway, I said, “Sally, I have a feeling you might be upset about some things in church, particularly in C.E.”

She put her head on my shoulder and said, “John, can I talk with you this week?”

She came in the following Thursday with all her teaching materials-unmistakable body language. Even before she sat down, she said, “You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but I’m going to resign.” I listened to her story for an hour and a half, and I heard from her the classical phraseology of one who is thinking of leaving: “I don’t want to leave the church. I love the church, but I’m tired.” She was overworked-reality anxiety-so we renegotiated her workload and she stayed. The key is hearing the story first.

The cries for help are more numerous than we realize. At one large church I asked people to listen at church for cries for help. Thirty-three people listened one Sunday morning. The fewest cries anyone heard was two. I heard twelve. The group was shocked by the scores of cries we tallied.

Three Responses

Pastors can respond to cries in one of three ways. First, they can listen and respond to the pain the cry represents, and that can be amazingly beneficial.

Second, they can ignore the cry, not realizing how serious it is, until the cry moves into anger. The person gets more agitated and says, in effect, “Hey, what do I have to do around here to get you to hear me? Somebody help me. Can’t you see I’m about to leave the church?”

Third, they can shoot the person with the gospel gun: “Hey, Buddy, what’s the matter with you? You losing your faith or something?” That’s a mistake of confusing the symptom for the disease, the behavior for the cause. But surprisingly, even if we react to the immediate anger rather than the anxiety behind it, we’ll still recover about 80 percent of the people. Even hesitating steps in the right direction can help.

If we miss the verbal cries for help, we at least have a whole string of nonverbal cries to alert us to the problem. The cries for help become behavioral. The person either leaves or begins the process of leaving.

The first behavior change is the leaving of worship. Second, people leave major committees and boards. They either don’t show up or they begin to show up sporadically. Both of these indicators can be seen on an attendance graph. The one who was always there four Sundays a month drops to three to two to only rare appearances. Or the board member makes one or two meetings a year after nearly perfect attendance in past years.

Third, people begin to leave Sunday school. This may vary from denomination to denomination, but most adults have their closest friends in their Sunday school classes. Backing away from friends is a major change. Fourth, the kids are pulled out of Sunday school. The parents decide they don’t even want to bring them, let alone come themselves.

Fifth comes the letter of resignation, and finally, interestingly enough, the pledge is dropped. That’s the final gasp for help, the last commitment to be given up in most denominations.

The sad thing is, these dropouts are hurting. They’ve experienced not only a private cluster of anxiety-provoking events, but now they are grieving the loss of the church from their lives.

Skunks and Turtles

In my original research, a full third of the inactive people we called on had tears running down their cheeks once we dug out the original cluster of pain. Uncovering that hurt caused them to cry before perfect strangers.

These people need desperately to be heard, and when they aren’t, helplessness sets in. They begin to blame something external-the church, the pastor. We’ve nicknamed them skunks. When you call on these people, you get sprayed on. It’s what happened to me when the woman slammed the paper into her lap and lashed out at me.

When these people drop out, they wait six to eight weeks and then psychologically seal off the pain and anxiety produced by the original cluster. They back away and by all appearances become apathetic. But the pain of that cluster remains in the unconscious and acts as the block to returning to church. In order to get the person to come back, we must deal with that pain. Otherwise we’ll hear every excuse under the sun for not returning.

After they seal off the pain, people reinvest their time, energy, and money in other pursuits. Half reinvest themselves in the family; they buy tents, trailers, and snowmobiles and go away on the weekend. You visit them and you hear, “Now our family is just as close to God up fishing on the lake as we were back at church with that bunch of snobs.” This family still considers themselves Christians. Guess who they consider not the Christian? If we go to them in an attempt to “save” them, we’re in for the scrap of our lives, because they consider themselves more Christian than us.

The other 50 percent reinvest themselves in other institutions: hospitals, PTA, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Rotary. So if we call on them, they’ll point their finger at us and say, “I’ve gotten involved with that volunteer ambulance crew. I’m a dispatcher on Sunday mornings. You know, we really help people now.” That’s a skunk speaking.

Another set of dropouts experiences a different emotion: hopelessness. It’s the antithesis of helplessness. It’s the sense of being incapable of generating any inner motivation. As a result, these people withdraw and become inactive. We call them turtles.

Turtles have incredible power to hook other people’s guilt. A turtle’s cry for help might sound like this: “I’m sure you could get Mrs. Green to teach the class. She would do a much better job than I could.” The turtle drops out, waits six to eight weeks, and seals off the pain, much like the skunk. But turtles point the blame internally, toward themselves.

Whether it’s the skunks’ spray or the turtles’ timidity, the various cries for help can be addressed.

Responding to Cries for Help

So what do we do for these people? We need to teach ourselves and our lay people to hear the pain of inactive people. It helps, too, if we learn how to intervene in the stages leading up to inactivity, before the people disappear from sight in a whirl of emotion.

One way we did this in a church I served was to take fifteen minutes at the end of every board meeting for the board members to report who, in their estimation, was crying for help. We collected those names and gave them to a team of twenty-four trained callers. Pastors can never do all the calling, so as a pastor I aimed for a corps of up to 10 percent of the congregation that I prepared to visit the inactives.

I also extended my secretary’s hours so she could stand near me at the door on Sunday mornings to listen for cries for help. She was good at picking them up, and I could inconspicuously indicate others for her to note while I managed the flurry of smiles and handshakes and small talk. By the afternoon, she would alert the calling teams, who would reach out to these people before their cries turned to the silence of absence. Prior to that, I’d often hear several cries on a Sunday morning but fail to remember them or follow up on them.

When we call on an inactive family, or one heading that direction, the chances are strong we’re going to have to deal with anger. The turtles’ anger will make us feel guilty, and the skunks’ anger will make us mad. Since calling on an inactive member is often painful, it’s easy to enter a cycle: People leave because they’re angry; I’m angry because they left; I punish them by letting them sit in their pain; they punish me. by not coming back.

That’s where reconciliation must enter. Active members of the church go to an inactive member on behalf of the community in an act of reconciliation. If we are willing to bear some pain with the inactive person, reconciliation will often occur.

Look at what God did. We wouldn’t listen to him, so he made a pastoral call to his inactive members. He sent his own Son, who called on us and suffered on the cross for us. That kind of self-giving love got our attention and enabled us to be reconciled to him.

We will not get inactive members back by avoiding pain. We have to take the initiative, go to them, uncover the anxiety-provoking cluster, hear and often bear their pain, and thus pave the road for them to return.

Ultimately, we have to remember we call not to get people to come back to church. We call because people are in pain. If they come back as a result of our ministering to their pain, that is good. But if they don’t, we have still reached out to them in the name of Jesus Christ.

John S. Savage is president of L.E.A.D. Consultants, Inc., in Reynoldsburg, Ohio.

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

MY MENTOR: AUGUST FRANCKE

Steven J. Cole

Last week, if you had happened by my office during one of those rare moments between appointments and meeting the weekly deadlines, you would have found me nose-deep in Charles Hodge’s three-volume Systematic Theology.

Since in seminary I adroitly avoided all but the minimum reading requirements in theology, why am I now spending discretionary time reading theology, something I once considered a soporific?

The blame (or credit) goes to my mentor, August Francke, who convinced me that as a pastor, I’m in the idea business. In case you don’t know him, I’d like to introduce you to Francke. He’s not a celebrity, but he changed my ministry.

I remember when I first met him. I groaned as I read the assignment for my seminary course “Church History from 1500-1800”: “A twenty-five-page paper on some aspect of this period.”

“Another boring paper,” I grumbled. “If only I could find an interesting person to write about.” George Mller, the man with the exemplary prayer life, was the only name that came to mind. But I discovered Mller wasn’t born until 1805.

Rats! Mller would have to wait till next semester. Then I recalled from Mller’s biography that he had been influenced by someone named August Francke. Maybe I could write on him.

I soon discovered there weren’t any decent biographies in English. I had to rely on a microfilm of an obscure dissertation for source material.

Furthermore, Francke was known as a founder of Pietism. In seminary, I knew how disreputable that label was. Calling someone a “Pietist” was no compliment. It was only a shorter way of saying, “You anti-intellectual, socially uninvolved excuse for a Christian!” But in Francke, I discovered a man who has since helped shape my ministry.

Francke and his times

In Francke’s native Prussia, the church of his day was engulfed in dead orthodoxy. As a university student, Francke was deeply influenced by reformer Philip Spener, who stressed the need for conversion followed by Bible study and good works resulting from a heart made right with God.

Francke was converted in 1687, and through Spener’s influence was appointed professor of Greek and Oriental languages at the newly opened University of Halle. Francke was also given pastoral charge of about two hundred families in the Church of St. George in Glaucha, a nearby suburb.

Glaucha was the cheap nightspot of Halle. When Francke arrived, 25 percent of its buildings were drinking dens or houses of prostitution. He began to catechize the children and then preached a series of sermons on the responsibility of training children in the home.

Francke’s preaching was anything but spectacular. Historian F. Ernest Stoeffler notes that his sermons “lack all sparkle and originality,” with “few illustrations, no interesting turns in phraseology, no startling insights.” Francke’s success was due to authenticity and kindness; the hearers knew the messages were backed by his life.

Many think of Pietism as theologically shallow. But Francke’s students weren’t getting devotional fluff. They were equipped with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. The center of the theological curriculum was the study of the Bible in the original languages. He balanced academics with practical ministry, requiring his students to teach the children of Halle in his schools.

Pietism today is accused of being unconcerned about social needs, but Pietist Francke saw needs and started institutions to meet them. He began by helping distribute bread to the poor once a week and then inviting them to Bible classes and devotional services.

He built an orphanage. He started schools for poor children-and for upper-class youth (including a young man named Zinzendorf, who would make his own mark on history). He opened schools to teach the trades and skills.

Out of the trade schools eventually arose a print shop, a pharmacy, a hospital, a dispensary, a chemical laboratory, a bookstore, a home for indigent widows, a library of twenty thousand volumes, a museum of natural science, a home for itinerant beggars, a farm, and a brewery (which hardly sounds “pietistic”!). The profits from some of these ventures helped pay for the nonprofit nature of others.

In addition, Francke had a burden for missions, highly unusual in the religious climate of the day. Many churchmen were not merely apathetic but hostile to world missions, limiting the Great Commission to the apostles. But through Francke’s influence, missionaries were sent to India and the American colony of Pennsylvania.

Thus Francke was a scholar, theologian, educator, pastor, social reformer, and missionary visionary.

If I’m not careful, gazing at a giant like Francke can make me feel awfully inadequate. The day has long passed when I could parse a Hebrew verb. I’ll never found an orphanage (much less a brewery!). And I’ll never spend concentrated time building a theological foundation like he did. Spending a few minutes a day with Charles Hodge is as much as I can carve out. I lack Francke’s intellectual and administrative gifts and fall far short of his example. But he continues to shape my life and ministry. Here’s how.

Learning to be Francke

First, Francke reminds me to keep my devotional life at the heart of a busy schedule. With all that he accomplished, Francke was incredibly busy, yet he maintained a fervent heart for God throughout his life.

I’m like Snoopy: allergic to mornings. I’ve struggled for years to get up early for personal devotions. But whenever I try, my quiet times become real quiet-I fall asleep. I have to fit in time alone with God later in the day. Even then it’s not easy, but thinking about Francke reminds me to keep tending the devotional fire.

He not only taught his students the academic disciplines, he also taught them to feed their souls through Scripture, devotional books, meditation, and prayer. Francke believed many problems of the church in his day were due to pastors “who had theological knowledge without a heart conformed to Christ.” Ouch! That hits close to home. Francke challenges me to develop the head of a scholar along with the heart of a pastor.

Too often, we opt for one or the other. Francke knew his Hebrew, Greek, and theology, but he also led prostitutes and orphans to Christ. He talked comfortably with both seminarians and street people.

Francke reminds me to make the message plain. One of the supreme compliments of my ministry was when a mother who had just started attending our church told me that her junior-higher was listening to my messages and even taking notes. Glory!

Sound theology means right ideas about life. Ideas shape our world. Francke changed his world by teaching proper theology. He showed that simple people can grasp sound theology if it is practically oriented.

Since I have realized that I am in the idea business, I have done several things to promote biblical thinking. I now compose each of my sermons on my word processor. The discipline of putting my messages into print forces me to be clear, concise, and interesting.

To make sure I’m scratching where people itch, we schedule church before Sunday school. During the Sunday school hour, I lead an open discussion of the message I have just preached. People are free to ask me anything. Sometimes they do! Nothing keeps me on my theological toes like a sincere, tough question.

For example, when the California lottery started, I heard on the radio that 74 percent of eligible Californians would buy a ticket the first week. I surmised that the figure included quite a few Christians. I decided to interrupt my series on 1 Corinthians and preach a message: “Should Christians Play the Lottery?” We had a lively Sunday school discussion that day, with questions like “What do you do if the supermarket gives you a lottery ticket when you buy groceries?” and “How is playing the lottery different from mailing in your Reader’s Digest sweepstakes tickets?” Through expository preaching I try to help people think biblically about the practical matters of life.

Finally, Francke helped me deepen my commitment to the local church as the means of worldwide impact. To my knowledge, he never left Prussia, but he influenced the world. Halle was the center, the model, but the world was the goal. He built a solid church as the core of his ministry. That commitment to the church has helped me persevere when I feel like bailing out.

We recently went through a difficult time as a church. A widow in her thirties with two children died a slow death from cancer. Her husband had done the same two years before. Naturally, she wanted to be healed so she could raise her children. We all wanted her to be healed. We prayed fervently, but she died.

It wasn’t an easy death. The last couple of months, she was paralyzed from the chest down, completely bedridden. Hospitalization seemed to be the only route. But a group of nurses in the church banded together and organized round-the-clock home care so she would not have to be separated from her children and home. They gave her injections, and when the cancer moved into her lungs, they arranged to have oxygen delivered. Others brought in meals. One of our elders helped with her business matters. An attorney in the church helped with the will. It was a beautiful expression of the arms of the body of Christ in action.

A hospice nurse outside the church who heard about what was happening couldn’t get over the fact that all these nurses donated their time and help for what stretched to more than two months. The dying woman’s father-in-law was a crusty retired sergeant, hostile to Christianity. At the funeral, he told me that he had never seen anything like the love our church had shown to his son and daughter-in-law. He since has affirmed faith in Christ. It was a gratifying expression of the church modeling the love of Christ to a needy world.

In his book You and Your Network, Fred Smith says, “As a person changes his heroes, so he changes the direction of his life.” August Francke became my hero, my mentor. Go ahead-call me a Pietist. If it means being classed with August Francke, I’m honored.

-Steven J. Cole

Cedarpines Community Church

Crestline, California

A PRAYER FOR PASTORS

O Lord God, I beseech you to give to your church, both now and at all times, pastors and teachers after your own heart, those who shall bring the sheep of Christ into his fold, and who, through the influence of your good Spirit, shall feed them with saving knowledge and understanding.

Make every preacher of your Word know and always remember that he who plants is nothing, nor he who waters, but you are all in all, who alone can give the increase.

Let none of them vainly presume on their skill and ability to do any good and obtain any success by their preaching, but let them all humbly wait upon you. By fervent daily prayer, let them seek for and obtain the aids of your grace to enable them to dispense the Word of Life, and let your blessing render their preaching happily successful to the souls of those who hear them. Amen.

-August Hermann Francke, May 25, 1725

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

THE EXACTING PRICE OF MINISTRY

Kevin A. Miller

The pastorate demands high emotional investment–and sometimes you wonder if there’s a return.

The following account is based on actual events.

The service had ended an hour ago, and Pastor Brian Wells had long since said good-by to the last departing worshipper, but here he was, still lingering in the cool of the narthex. He didn’t know why, really; he’d already sent Carol and the boys home while he closed up, and he knew they’d be impatiently waiting to start Sunday dinner. He leaned forward against the tall panes of glass separating the sanctuary from the narthex, and gazed over the empty pews one more time.

The message had been strong that morning. At times his energies had been so focused that he’d seemed to enter what athletes call the zone, a feeling of effortlessness and euphoria when your concentration is most intense. He was tired now, but it was a good tired, and he wanted to savor it, like a basketball player after a big win.

As he looked across the sanctuary, Brian found it hard to believe he’d been at Community Church of Madison only eight months. He and Carol had fit right in. They’d been asked to dinner more evenings than not. Brian’s eyes followed the smooth oak beams up and across the ceiling of the darkened sanctuary, and they seemed like great arms embracing him.

Well, Carol’s waiting, he thought, and he started toward the door. He noticed a morning bulletin left on the floor near the coat rack. He leaned over and in one smooth swoop picked it up. It wasn’t a bulletin after all, he realized as he looked at it, but some sort of leaflet.

Restore Community Church to Its History of Biblical Integrity! it said in flaming red. Remove Pastor Wells . . .

“Unh.” Brian groaned reflexively, as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

Brian Wells is bent on imposing his liberal views on our church. His utter disregard for the inspiration of Scripture will tear Community Church from its cherished biblical moorings-unless we act now . . .

Brian scanned down, looking for something identifying who wrote it, but the paper ended with only the words ACT NOW! He stared at the leaflet. It was his name all right, but he wasn’t sure they were talking about the same person. If anybody was committed to the trustworthiness of Scripture, it was he. He’d even gone to an inerrancy conference last year.

Who would write something like this? His mind quick-filed through people he’d met since coming, but nobody seemed capable of it. Do a lot of people feel this way, or is it just one or two? Why didn’t anyone say something to me?

Normally, Brian prided himself on his sensitive pastoral antennae. When there was discontent in the congregation, he quickly knew it. But this came without warning. Why didn’t I sense anything? Brian crumpled the paper in his fist.

When Brian walked into the kitchen at home, everyone stopped eating and looked up. “Your dinner’s getting cold,” Carol said.

Brian didn’t feel like talking, much less eating. He unrumpled the ball of paper and handed it to her. Carol read the leaflet silently and then looked up with wide eyes. “Brian, who would write that?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” he said, sounding braver than he felt. He walked down the hall into the bedroom and picked up the phone. Then he put it down again. He wasn’t sure whom to call. From his predecessor, J. Walter Landis, he had inherited one associate pastor and a youth pastor. They were cordial but still tentative about him. Brian had to admit that was fair; he was tentative about them, too. Still, right now he needed solid support. He finally punched the number for Henry Meyers, chairman of the elder board and part of the search committee that selected him.

“Henry, have you seen the leaflet about me?” Brian asked.

“What leaflet?”

Brian explained what it said.

“That’s crazy,” Henry said.

“Henry, who in the world would write something like that?”

“I don’t know for sure. But I guess you should know something that happened just before we extended you a call. Landis heard about our intentions and called me long-distance from his new church. He said, ‘I hear you’re going to extend a call to Brian Wells. Let me tell you, Brian’s not your man.’ “

“But Landis doesn’t even know me!”

“No, but he knows you went to Stanton Seminary, and in his mind that brands you. He used to talk against Stanton from the pulpit.”

“C’mon. I’m as orthodox as they come.”

“I know. I’m just telling you what he used to say.”

“How did you respond when he called?” Brian asked.

“I told him, ‘Thanks for calling and sharing your opinion, Walter, but the committee feels good about Brian, and we believe he’s the person God has led us to call.’ That was the end of the conversation. But my guess is some people are against you because of Stanton.”

“How many people?”

“Who knows? Probably just a handful.”

As Brian hung up the phone, he finally understood why Landis had preached so often on doctrinal dangers. He must have been utterly devoted to purity. But he’d left the people-some of them, at least-ready to shoot anything that moved.

The next ten days were quiet, but unnerving. Brian couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. Writing his sermon was excruciating. No matter how many times he scrutinized each line, he still feared it could be misinterpreted. In the pulpit he knew he was holding back, yet he felt powerless to do anything about it. As he shook each hand following the service, he wondered, Are you for me or against me? When everyone was gone, he searched the narthex floor for something he hoped he wouldn’t find.

The one reprieve was when Larry stopped by. Larry’s wife was a committed Christian and for years had been trying to persuade her husband to come to church. Larry, an insurance executive, was frank about his distaste for religion, but he had finally consented to try church again. They ended up at Community a month after Brian arrived and had attended regularly ever since.

Larry walked into Brian’s office and sat down. He was a big man in his early forties, though he looked older. He leaned forward and looked at Brian. “Pastor,” he said, “I want to tell you something. I’m not a Christian yet, but I’m just about there, and it’s because of you. You’re doing a great job.”

When Larry said that, Brian had to smile. If only you knew how others felt. But something in the words released the tension.

“Larry, I . . . you don’t know how much those words mean to me,” Brian managed. “I’m glad you’re close to becoming a Christian. You know, there’s no time like the present to make that decision, if you’re willing.”

Brian and Larry talked for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then Larry said he’d made up his mind. He knew it might be hard following Christ, but he was ready to start. They bowed their heads, and Brian led Larry in prayer. When Brian looked up at Larry afterwards, he didn’t know which of them was happier. He threw his arms around Larry and gave him a hug even a man his size would remember.

On Friday Brian was sorting through the morning mail and came to a letter with no return address. Dear Pastor Wells, it began, You will have to answer to God for your perverted teaching that there is a Mr. and Mrs. God. We can no longer sit back and watch you lead Community Church into error. …

Brian quickly read to the bottom: unsigned. Brian read the letter again, but there was no clue, either from the paper or typewriter used, to who sent it. The line about a “Mr. and Mrs. God” galled him. And perplexed him. He could understand, perhaps, some people’s misconceptions of Stanton Seminary, but this charge was utterly unconnected to reality. It made him sound like a cultist.

Then it hit Brian: George Mason! George, a devotional teacher with a national reputation, had spoken at the Wednesday evening service. He had said something like, “We need to be careful in our devotional life that we do not view God as the traditional father, if by that we mean one who is aloof, distant, and uncaring. He’s the perfect parent, who also like a loving mother takes a child to his breast.” Brian admitted it was a new thought for some people in Community Church, but it certainly squared with Scripture.

The more he thought about the letter, the madder he got. He hadn’t even asked Mason to come; Landis had made all the arrangements before he left! And to construe from what George Mason had said that Brian believed in a Mr. and Mrs. God was absurd. What am I supposed to do, anyway, Brian thought, rip the microphone out of the hands of any guest speaker who has a fresh idea?

“Cheap shot,” Brian muttered under his breath.

Brian had been preaching through the Book of James, and had planned to cover James 4:1-12 on Sunday. But now, no way. He’d had enough of being the sitting duck, the passive minister who lets people fire away and keeps on smiling. He might not know who sent the letter or who wrote that leaflet, but they were going to hear about it Sunday, whoever they were. It was time to take a stand.

By three o’clock Brian had an outline and rough draft. The thoughts had flowed. Brian was surprised how productive he could be when he was fired up. Titled “Honor and Honesty,” the sermon was going to call to account members of the congregation who had been disregarding both.

Brian was about to head home when the phone rang. It was Vern, an old friend who pastors a large church near Denver. Vern had been through it all during his years of ministry, and even though they didn’t see each other often, they made it a habit to check on each other periodically. Brian had even thought about giving him a call a few days ago.

Brian told Vern about the leaflet and the unsigned letter. “But this Sunday I’m going to set things straight,” Brian said. “I can’t let this kind of thing keep happening.”

“I can appreciate how you feel,” Vern said. “But I’d think twice before I blasted anybody from the pulpit. When I was an associate at Third Street, Sawyer started being attacked by people, and he took the battle into the pulpit. All that did was make people defensive and angry. The people who hadn’t done anything wrong felt, Hey, I like him. What’s he after me for?”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Brian asked. “Just let these people continue their guerrilla warfare?”

“Truth will triumph. Where you’re wrong, admit it. Where they’re wrong, don’t defend yourself. But just focus on what God has for you to say. As hard as it is, if you don’t take your fighting into the pulpit, truth will win out.”

Brian lay awake in bed that night. The leaflet and letter hurt so much he didn’t want to think about them, but he couldn’t stop. They were so unfair, so one-sided, so insane. But Vern was usually right. If he dropped the bomb on Sunday, he’d wound not only the guilty but countless innocents. Part of the passage in James he’d studied earlier in the week began to come back to him: “Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.” Then Brian drifted asleep.

When Brian walked into the pulpit Sunday, he slipped out of his pocket a card on which he’d hand-lettered TRUTH WILL TRIUMPH. He laid it in front of him and took a deep breath. He’d never been angry and afraid yet calm all at once. But somehow he was. He launched into James 4:1-ironically, “What causes fights and quarrels among you?”-and when he finished preaching eleven verses later, he walked back to his seat with his head up. He’d had the chance to lash out, but he hadn’t used it.

After the service, Henry Meyers pulled him aside. “Pastor, I think we’ve found our man.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I got a call late last night from Ed Anderson. He said that under your teaching, Community Church was falling into error and that we as elders were responsible to do something about it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes, that was our responsibility and asked him what sort of problems he was having with your teaching. He said that you did not believe in the inerrancy of the Bible and as a result had fallen into deception, including that there is a Mr. and Mrs. God.” Henry stopped and looked at Brian, and Brian nodded for him to keep going.

” ‘Well, Ed, to be honest,’ I said, ‘the other elders and I feel Brian does believe in inerrancy, and I doubt very seriously whether he believes there’s some sort of husband-and-wife God.’ “

“What did he say then?”

“He got really mad. He said he wasn’t the only one who felt this way, that a lot of other people were also concerned, and that if we didn’t care about the Bible, they’d find a pastor and elders who did.”

“What did you say?”

“At that point, I knew we had to give him a chance to air his grievances. I asked him if he’d be willing to talk to the elders about his concerns, but that you would be present to defend yourself.”

“Did he take you up on it?”

“We set a meeting for this Saturday, provided you and all the elders can make it.”

On Saturday morning, Brian was in the church lounge at 8:30. They weren’t scheduled to meet until 9:00, but he wanted to pick a chair he’d be comfortable in and also to pray for a few moments. He had bags under his eyes from waking up at nights. But every time he woke up, he’d think through what he could say to defend himself, and he was feeling confident about his projected responses.

Brian didn’t know much about Ed except what Henry had told him: in his fifties, a fairly wealthy attorney, and a natural leader used to running his own show. He had wanted to be on the board, but Landis had twice nixed the idea, and he was probably still smarting from that.

When Ed arrived, shortly after nine, he chose a chair directly across the room from Brian. He grunted a general “Good morning,” to the others in the room and sat in silence until one more elder showed up a few minutes later.

Henry wasted no time beginning the meeting. “Ed, we’re here to listen to whatever you have to say to us. We’ve asked Brian to be here to answer questions that come up and to clarify what he believes and teaches. So why don’t you start.”

Ed glanced down at a legal pad in his lap and then looked across at Brian. “Pastor,” he said, “how many epistles are there in the New Testament?”

Brian panicked. He didn’t know what Ed was driving at, and he wasn’t prepared for that question. “I don’t know the exact number offhand,” Brian said, “but let’s see . . . there’s Romans, two to the Corinthians . . .” At that point, Brian’s mind went blank. He couldn’t even think of the next book in the New Testament. “Uh, I don’t know, but I’d say about twenty or so.”

“Twenty-one,” Ed informed him. “What I want to know,” he said, looking around at the elders, “is why you wrote in the last church newsletter that there were twenty-eight.”

“I, uh . . .” Brian stalled, and then it came to him. “I said in that article I was also counting the letters to the seven churches in the Book of Revelation. And besides, the point of the article was not the exact number but that each of us is an epistle, known and read by all. People read our actions to see if our faith means anything.”

“That’s a nice, allegorical way to avoid the fact that you don’t know the Bible very well.”

“Regardless of who’s right, Ed,” Henry broke in, “that’s a minor issue. Let’s get to the heart of the matter.”

“All right,” Ed said. “You don’t believe the Bible is inerrant, do you?” He leaned forward and looked at Brian.

“That’s not true. I believe the Scriptures are without error.”

“But you never preach on it.”

“Well, not all the time, but since I’ve been here I’ve preached one sermon on the reliability of Scripture, and all my sermons show the Bible as our sole authority.”

“But would you be willing to sign a public statement saying that you believe in inerrancy?”

“I already have. When I accepted the call to Community Church, I signed a statement saying I was in complete agreement with the church’s constitution and statement of faith, and that includes inerrancy.”

Gordon, one of the elders, joined the attack. “You went to Stanton Seminary. Would you say they teach inerrancy?”

Brian was stunned that Gordon was supporting Ed’s cause. “I can’t vouch for all the professors there, but I know I believe in inerrancy.”

“Gentlemen,” Ed said, looking away from Brian, “what you have here is a man who says he believes in inerrancy, who will even sign a statement saying he believes it, but who in his heart of hearts really doesn’t believe it. How can a man like that be our pastor?”

Brian didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Was he supposed to sign in blood? But he doubted that would convince them either.

The rest of the meeting was a stalemate. Ed refused to accept Brian’s professions of belief. Henry finally tried to close the meeting. “Ed, thank you for being willing to share your concerns with us. I don’t know what to say. Pastor Brian says that he believes in inerrancy and has even signed a statement to that effect. To us, that’s enough proof. If it’s not to you, we’re sorry.”

“You mean you’re not going to take a vote?” Ed demanded.

“A vote on what?”

“A vote on whether we ought to remove this man as our pastor.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary, but yes, if you want us to go on record, we can take a vote. All those in favor of removing Brian Wells as pastor of Community Church, say aye.”

“Aye,” said Gordon loudly-with Ed, who couldn’t even vote.

“All those opposed?”

“Nay,” said the rest of the room.

“I want to warn you,” said Ed as he stood up. “Gordon and I aren’t the only ones who are concerned about the pastor. His own staff doesn’t support him. I love this church. It kills me to leave it. But if you men are too weak to remove a pastor who’s subverting it, we’ll find a church that does preach the Word.” Then he left, with Gordon close behind.

As Brian drove home, he felt sick. What had Ed meant by “his own staff doesn’t support him”? Was that another one of his outrageous claims, or was there some truth to it? And how did Ed know? Had he and the staff been meeting behind Brian’s back? It hurt, too, that Gordon, who ought to know better, had turned against him. He’d been so supportive on the elder retreat, and now, in the middle of a meeting, he decides he can’t trust his own pastor.

Brian was proud of the rest of the elders, though. They’d been pure gold, tested and refined. They and Brian had “won,” though strangely, Brian almost didn’t care. Maybe that’s what bothered him most about this whole thing. No matter how wrong Ed and Gordon might be, the whole affair had inflicted such a severe emotional beating that Brian hadn’t felt good for anything. What kind of ministry can you have when you’re constantly under siege? he wondered.

Three weeks later Brian found out that Ed and Gordon and about seventy-five other people had started meeting on the other side of town. He called Henry Meyers to let him know.

“So they carried through on their threat,” Henry said.

“Yeah. They’re renting the Seventh-Day Adventist church building on Sunday mornings, and they’re talking about calling a pastor soon.”

“There’s not much we can do about Ed, but it sure hurts to see so many people go with him.”

“It hurts me, too,” Brian said, “but in a way I’m almost relieved. Maybe this is natural fallout when a new pastor comes. Maybe now things will calm down and we can get back to ministry.”

“Brian, I hate to tell you this since you just said that, but remember in our meeting with Ed how he said even the staff doesn’t support you? I’ve been puzzling over that statement ever since.”

“Me, too,” Brian said. “I couldn’t tell whether he was bluffing or whether he knew something we didn’t. And I couldn’t exactly confront Doug and Tim: ‘Are you loyal to me? Have you been meeting with Ed?’ “

“Well, my wife was talking with Tim’s wife, and she said that the month before that leaflet came out, Ed invited Tim and Doug over to his house. He wanted to know what they thought about how things were going in the church. Apparently Tim supported you, but Doug was pretty negative. It upset Tim and his wife, but they didn’t feel right saying anything about it earlier.”

Brian hung up, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling. So it’s not all over. Now the problem was within his own staff. But what could he do, fire a person because he criticized him? During his own days as an associate, he hadn’t always agreed with his senior pastor. Still, this was different, and Brian didn’t know what to do.

Several Sundays later, just before his sermon, Brian looked out and saw Larry sitting near the back. Suddenly all the anger and frustration he had felt over the past months came bubbling up. Here’s this new believer, he thought, looking for a warm and safe place to grow in Christ, and we can’t give it to him. My faith is hardly strong enough to stand all this backbiting and gossip, and we’re subjecting him to it. He’s never going to make it.

Complicating the whole matter was that Larry and Doug lived near each other, and their kids had become good friends. Brian wasn’t sure how close they were themselves, but if Doug were making comments critical of him or the church, Larry would probably hear them. And if Brian and Doug had to part ways, Larry would witness the whole mess. Brian didn’t know if Larry’s tender faith could withstand any more church dissension.

In the spring, Brian asked Christian scholar and writer R. T. Bradfield to come speak at Community Church. Following the church’s usual policy, he had his secretary send Bradfield a copy of the church’s doctrinal statement to sign. Bradfield called him the next week and said he deeply wanted to come to Community, but couldn’t in good conscience endorse some of the fine points of eschatology that were part of the statement. Brian said he didn’t think that would pose any problem, but he wanted to get the board’s approval. He was still tender from the blow-up over George Mason’s comments.

At the elder board meeting the following Thursday, Brian explained what Bradfield had said.

“I’ve read two of Bradfield’s books,” said Henry. “Heavy stuff, but good! And didn’t he write the book on biblical inerrancy? To refuse to allow him to speak because of a minor point of eschatology is ridiculous.”

The other elders agreed wholeheartedly. “Of course we’re going to have him,” said one. “Besides, nothing in the constitution says a speaker has to sign the statement or he can’t preach.”

Brian thought Doug looked disgruntled. But he wasn’t sure.

At the next weekly staff meeting, Brian was going over the preaching and worship calendar for the coming quarter. “How’s it look to you?” Brian asked.

“I’ve been meaning to say something about this, and now seems like the time,” said Doug. “A lot of people have said to me, ‘We need more meat, more depth in our messages.’ So I was thinking it might be good if you preached on Sunday morning and let me feed the people on Sunday nights.”

Brian consciously tried to keep his expression steady. He could handle criticism, but if “more meat” meant a preaching style like Doug’s, he had grave reservations. One time Doug was preaching and asked all the men in the congregation to stand. Then he said, “Women, look at these men. If one-third of these men became as spiritual as they ought to be, this church would be a different place.” He was a master of intimidation.

“Let me think about that for a while, Doug,” Brian said. He wanted to make sure he handled this right, and he was afraid if they got into it now, the quiet exchange might escalate into verbal war.

The following week Brian decided on his strategy. He was going to be on a badly needed vacation the following month, so he asked Doug to take the Sunday evening service while he was gone, and at least one Sunday night each month from then on. As much as Brian disagreed with some of Doug’s preaching tactics, he wanted to support him; Doug was a capable discipleship leader and had given six years to Community Church.

When he presented the idea, Doug seemed happy for the opportunities, and that helped blunt the news that Brian didn’t think it was time for him to take every Sunday evening just yet.

On the first Sunday evening of their trip, Brian and Carol stayed in a Holiday Inn outside Indianapolis. Brian was sitting up reading USA Today when the phone rang. Who would be calling me? he wondered as he walked over to the phone. No one even knows I’m here.

“Pastor, I’m really sorry to bother you,” the voice began, “especially it being so late.” It was Henry Meyers.

“Henry! What’s going on?”

“It’s Doug. You know he preached tonight.”

“Yes?”

“Brian, he really blasted the elders. He said we were weak, not being completely truthful with the congregation. And since we didn’t measure up to the biblical standards, we shouldn’t be followed until we return to complete truthfulness.”

“Oh my.”

“I feel bad calling you like this, but the congregation is in an uproar. I’ve had five phone calls about it in the last hour. I hate to suggest this, but I think if you could be here, you could calm things down.”

The next morning, Brian headed their Reliant wagon north on I-65 back toward Madison. Carol sat in silence, and the kids, knowing something was wrong, were mostly quiet. Brian didn’t know what to say to Carol. She understood-she really did-but he felt like Scrooge tearing her away from this vacation. She’d been waiting for it for months, and all the promises that they’d get away again soon sounded cheap.

As they drove past the fields of knee-high corn, Brian formulated what he would say to Doug. And every now and then his thoughts would wander to Larry. I was afraid this was going to happen, he thought. How’s he supposed to understand that Christ is great and it’s just us Christians that are the problem? Larry, friend, if you give it all up, you have no one to blame but us.

That evening, Brian and the elders met with Doug in an emergency meeting.

“Doug, you have publicly charged the elders of this church with not being truthful,” Brian began. “That’s a serious charge. Explain what you mean.”

“I’ve been in this church for six years,” he said, “and I’ve always been able to support and work with its leaders. But it deeply disturbs me when I see elders who don’t have integrity on fiscal matters, and who hide the fact they let any speaker, no matter how off-base, into the pulpit.”

“Which speakers, for example?”

“R. T. Bradfield. Anyone who can’t sign this church’s statement of faith ought not to be allowed to speak in its pulpit.”

“We discussed that at the elders’ meeting,” Henry snapped. “If you had a problem with it, why didn’t you say something then, rather than immaturely blasting us in a public worship service? There’s nothing wrong with Bradfield, anyway. He’s as orthodox as anyone here.”

The meeting lasted over an hour. Doug never did produce any evidence of financial wrongdoing, and Brian knew he couldn’t, because there wasn’t any. The issue at heart was Doug’s objection to the church’s “weak leadership.” Near the end, Doug said, “I’m stunned. Community Church has been my home, my family. But since it’s clear that you men are not willing to lead this church in a godly direction, I can no longer be part of it. I resign.”

Brian hurt inside, but he didn’t try to stop Doug. In truth, he didn’t know any other way to resolve the problem. How do you answer a charge that you aren’t godly?

“Doug,” Henry said, “we accept your resignation, though we want you to know we’re sorry you feel this way. And I personally want to ask your forgiveness for snapping at you earlier in this meeting. Please forgive me.”

The room was silent. Then Doug nodded at Henry, stood, and walked out.

On Sunday the church held a farewell reception of sorts for Doug following the service. Brian saw Larry say good-by to Doug. Larry’s kids were crying. Larry had to know all the dirt behind the resignation. Brian wanted to run over and say something to him, but what could he say?

For five weeks Brian didn’t hear anything about Doug. Then the leader of an adult Sunday school class told Brian half his class had stopped coming; they were meeting with Doug on Sunday mornings now. When Brian checked into it, he found that in just the two weeks Doug’s group had met, attendance had swelled to over one hundred.

The news sent Brian into an emotional tailspin. When Ed and all his people left, he’d almost felt relieved, but to have the same thing happen again so soon was too much. I must be setting some sort of ecclesiastical record, Brian thought. He could see the headlines in the Stanton alumni magazine: WELLS’S CHURCH HAS RECORD SECOND SPLIT IN HIS FIRST TWO YEARS.

What am I doing wrong? Brian thought, spinning a pencil in circles on his desk. Oh, God, I’m tired.

Brian looked down at his desk calendar, hoping his afternoon would magically be open, but two appointments stared at him. The first was with Larry. His secretary must have set it up. That’s the crowning blow, he thought. Larry’s going to come in here and say, “Pastor Wells, I’ve given this Christianity thing a fair shake, but it’s just not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Lord, Brian prayed, I thought that where you guided, you provided. But you have not given me the emotional make-up to be a pastor. I just don’t have it.

Larry came five minutes late, and when he walked in, Brian thought he looked troubled. He sat down in the brown chair across from Brian’s desk, then leaned forward. Brian braced himself.

“Pastor,” he said, “this last year has been hell for me.”

“That sounds rough. Tell me about it,” Brian said mechanically.

“My boss is the most abrasive person I’ve ever known,” he said. “He never has a kind word about anyone or anything. For three years I’ve sweated under that, and then I came to Community Church . . .”

. . . and you found we Christians aren’t any better, Brian mentally completed his sentence.

“And I watched you,” Larry went on. “I watched the slander, the accusations, all the guff. You had every right to retaliate. And you didn’t.”

Brian was silent.

“I figured if God could enable you not to retaliate, with all you went through, then he could enable me not to retaliate with what I went through. So I went back to my boss and I did something I’ve never done before in my life. It had to be God, because I couldn’t do it. I apologized to my boss, and I asked his forgiveness for the way I’ve bucked him and for the bad attitudes I’ve had.”

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t get anything out.

“So that’s why I came in here today. I wanted you to know that in the last year you not only helped me meet the Lord, but you proved to me that God is real in the middle of hard times.”

Brian’s eyes started to well with tears.

“If you didn’t come to Madison for anybody else, Pastor, you came for me.”

It’s worth it, Brian thought. It’s all worth it. We really are epistles read by all. Then he started to cry. He knew he must have looked like a fool in front of Larry, but he didn’t care. He let the tears come.

Kevin A. Miller is associate editor of LEADERSHIP.

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

PEOPLE IN PRINT

To See Ourselves

Counseling Christian Workers by Louis McBurney, Word, $12.95

Reviewed by Randy Alcorn, pastor of small group ministries, Good Shepherd Community Church, Gresham, Oregon

Four years ago when my doctor took my blood pressure, he said, “Wow!” followed by “This can’t be right.” Unfortunately it was. My life was an endless string of insomnia, rashes, chest pains, and stomachaches.

Louis McBurney helps people like me-professional Christian workers who draw from energy reservoirs until nothing is left but sludge. He helps us see ourselves as we are, and in the process discover how to refill that depleted reservoir.

Since 1974 more than seven hundred Christian workers have come to Marble Retreat Center near Aspen, Colorado. They stay for two weeks, usually with three other couples and Louis and Melissa McBurney, who serve as cotherapists. When all you do is counsel Christian workers, you pick up insight along the way. McBurney shares these insights in Counseling Christian Workers.

Reading it was like overhearing a conversation about me. As I eavesdropped, I also learned how to better understand and assist my colleagues in the ministry.

McBurney’s heartbeat is clear from his previous book: Every Pastor Needs a Pastor. He loves ministers and devotes his life to helping them. But beware, pastors-McBurney has our number.

He knows we can be (and often are) guilty of the bluff, bluster, and bravado that marks insecure human beings. Nothing about the ministry automatically builds inner security and peace. Much about it challenges both.

From the beginning McBurney warns, “We will look behind the masks, take off the clerical collars, and see the wounded, desperate, lonely, lovely people who have given their lives to minister to their world in the name of Jesus.” The book is filled with examples, and if you’re like me, you’ll see your colleagues-or yourself-on every page.

The book’s eight chapters fall into three parts. Part I, “Understanding the Hurting Christian Worker,” deals with the problems and pressures of the ministry, and the minister’s resistance to counseling. One chapter addresses “role-specific pressures,” in which McBurney paints enlightening pictures of pastors, missionaries, youth workers, music ministers, evangelists, and parachurch ministers.

Part II looks at marital maladjustment, depressive illness, and dysfunctional personality. McBurney told me about half of those coming to Marble Retreat are experiencing marital crises. Often a neglected spouse full of anger, frustration, and loneliness evidences it in nagging, retreat, and retribution. McBurney keeps track of his “graduates” and is thrilled that of the two hundred couples who have come to Marble with major marital crises, only seventeen have divorced.

He also deals with the Christian worker’s temptation to infidelity. “There are aspects of the ministry that increase vulnerability to infidelity,” he says. These range from “the similarity between spirituality and sexuality” to the “angry seductress.”

“Therapeutic Techniques,” Part III, covers the principles and spiritual aspects of counseling Christian workers.

McBurney points out that many Christian workers are skeptical of psychology, sometimes with good reason. When asked to elaborate, he said, “I want people to look at psychology as they would surgery. Some surgeons are poor surgeons, some surgical techniques may be bad, but you can’t throw out all surgery on that basis. Some psychology is unbiblical, but some of it has real value, and we need to appreciate and make use of it.”

McBurney’s insights into people have not come only from the text books, but from caring human relationships. He is a pastor’s friend.

I ended our phone interview with this question: “If you could send just one message to pastors and Christian workers, what would it be?”

Long pause, then this response: “Accept for yourself the grace you preach to others.”

No book, including McBurney’s, can strip the ministry of its hazards. But this one can surely help us accept the grace we preach.

The Human Element

Pastors Are People Too by David B. Biebel and Howard W. Lawrence, editors, Regal Books, $6.95

Reviewed by Steve Harris, pastor, Maple Lake Baptist Church, Maple Lake, Minnesota

“Seminary taught me hospital visitation, what side of the bed to sit on, what Scriptures to use, and gave an occasional warning to expect the unexpected-but not what to do when told to get lost.”

How does a pastor react when caught off-guard? How do we handle situations that just didn’t show up in Practical Theology 101? How do we feel about situations that show us as humans with weaknesses and limitations?

Those are the issues behind Pastors Are People Too, a collection of real-life incidents-sometimes humorous, often painful-that give both pastor and layperson an inside look at the ministry.

“Not only do we face intense life situations, but we often feel we need to be ‘perfect’ to serve God effectively,” explains co-editor David Biebel, a New Hampshire pastor and retreat-center director. “It’s nice to learn that God can use us because of our difficulties, not just in spite of them.”

Originally titled What You Always Needed to Know About the Ministry but Never Learned in Seminary, the book presents thirteen first-person accounts covering a wide range of challenges within the parish, the parsonage, and the pastor. The authors, all Gordon-Conwell alumni, are not identified, allowing a transparency that at times is shocking, even difficult to read. Some examples:

The pastor sitting next to the hospital bed of a terminally-ill parishioner who suddenly reaches out, disconnects his respirator tube, and motions to the pastor to “please let me die.”

The pastor who hears his wife tell him after the monthly ministerial potluck, “I’ve fallen in love with someone else, and I’m going to divorce you.”

The pastor called to stand and preach before the six caskets of a family killed in a fire-shortly after his own young son had died.

The pastor who spent Saturday morning preparing a sermon on “addictions,” Saturday afternoon downing whiskey with beer chasers, and Saturday night at the local tavern before finally asking himself, “What’s a good minister like me doing as an alcoholic?”

Seminarians will find the chapter on candidating particularly helpful. While describing the acceptance of a call as “a giant leap of faith,” the author (a self-confessed “professional candidate”) does offer practical advice. He outlines pulpit committee strategies such as “the marathon weekend” and “the inquisition.” He also recommends using sanctified common sense: leaning hard on a spouse’s impressions and avoiding the paralyzing fear that you might make a “fatal mistake” in your choice of a church.

Valuable insight is offered in areas such as:

-conflict management: “The church often becomes a battleground for unresolved personal conflicts in many of the parishioners.”

-power struggles: “Deacon Tuttle was doing his best to pastor the church through me.”

-congregational criticism: “It’s like mothers with their babies; you may just have to let them burp on you to alleviate their discomfort.”

The “war stories” will be appreciated by veteran pastors in an often-lonely position. My wife was moved by its depictions of parsonage life. Seminarians may have their eyes opened to inherent dangers. But according to coeditor Howard Lawrence, another target audience is the people in the pew.

“I’m using it with my diaconate,” says Lawrence, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Haverhill, Massachusetts. “Lay people need to better understand their pastor, to see that he or she, too, is a person in process who doesn’t have all the answers. That encourages their ministry, because if the pastor stays on a pedestal, the priesthood of believers never has a chance to happen.”

A brief “How Do You Identify?” section follows each chapter to promote clergy-laity interaction.

Biebel explains, “We’re not presenting untarnished heroes. The Scriptures don’t do that. We see God using people like Peter, Elijah, and Moses through their weaknesses. We don’t need to present ‘victorious Christian pastoring,’ whatever that is. We need to offer ourselves.”

The realistic nature of these pastoral snapshots might be heavy sledding except for two redeeming factors. One is a good dose of humor sprinkled throughout, a welcome gift for professionals so often called to combine the divine with the ridiculous.

There’s the pastor trying to immerse a convert who simply refuses to submerge. And the rookie minister officiating at a funeral who suddenly realizes he’s never even been to a funeral and doesn’t know what to do next. And the rural New England pastor whose four yoked parishes share twenty-six bank accounts and a parsonage with cracks in the floor so wide he can tell if the cellar lights are on from the second-story bedroom.

An even greater help is the book’s call to trust in a God whose grace can handle every situation. “God is sufficient,” says Lawrence, “even for those problems that don’t show up in any textbook, even when we feel overwhelmed, ill-prepared, and terribly human. If we learn to trust in him, we know he can use us to his glory.”

When I told my deacon chairman that I was reading Pastors Are People Too, he responded with a smile, “Oh, fiction?” A few more books like this, and before long people in the church will realize, as Biebel and Lawrence put it, “We’re all in this together.”

Tapping the Secular Market

Your Church Has a Fantastic Future by Robert Schuller, Regal, $14.95

Reviewed by Robert Barber, pastor, Huntsburg (Ohio) Congregational Church

Pastors desire to accomplish God’s will for their churches, but they also struggle with questions like “Can I really be the instrument I need to be?”

Robert Schuller, founding pastor of Garden Grove Community Church in California, enthusiastically writes that we can achieve God’s will. God’s power can be unleashed in us and our churches.

Schuller’s name evokes response of all kinds. How does Schuller want us to respond to his latest book?

He wants us to stimulate our churches to go beyond the normal bounds of our foresight, to open our minds “for God to unfold the ways in which his will can be accomplished.” This “possibility thinking” is to be taken into our board meetings, our dealing with “negativist and “impossibility thinkers,” our sermons, our prayer life.

Schuller also pounds home his desire for us to become leaders. This advice can be frightening because the leadership Schuller champions can cause some rather noisy friction in long-running and self-lubricating machinery.

As Schuller retells the Garden Grove story, we realize he knows the inner struggles and disappointments common to pastors. He notes, “For two years I went to my study under the enormous weight of awareness that nearly half of my people were violently opposed to the direction in which I was leading the church. … Nevertheless, we had to move ahead.” His message, however, is that the battles can be won.

Schuller also urges us to turn our attention to the unchurched. “Just who are you trying to impress?” Schuller asks. Are our sermon titles filled with theological terms? Is our architecture steeped in liturgical meaning? Then we’re aiming at people already interested in Christ. “For the church to address the unchurched with a theocentric attitude is to invite failure in its mission,” he warns.

How do we reach out to the unchurched? “Find the hurt and heal it” is Schuller’s response. Find the non-Christian community’s sore points and build a program to meet those needs.

A second challenge is the most powerful in the book: “The sacred must become secular and the secular must become sacred.” Schuller has spent thirty years adapting his message to the human needs of highly secular Southern California.

When we become secular to reach people on their ground, he says, the secular can become sacred through rebirth and resurrection. Indeed, the challenge is to establish a balance of the sacred and the secular, and Schuller leaves much of that to us in our own settings.

Still I wondered, Can I? After all, I’m not Schuller, and Huntsburg, Ohio, is hardly Orange County.

Nestled in the middle of the book are twelve testimonies written by pastors who have used Schuller’s principles. At first glance they look like a commercial for Schuller’s institute, but, coming from pastors of many kinds of churches, they tell us the principles do adapt.

Richard Rhem, pastor of Christ Community Church in Spring Lake, Michigan, a town of three thousand, wrote one of them. He told me, “The positive mental posture works for congregations of one thousand or one hundred. It’s not a question of being large or small; it’s an openness to being an implement of healing for the community.”

Schuller’s principles are not intended for a one-man show, Rhem advised. “Taking nine lay leaders with me to the institute made all the difference. I knew a pastor who went alone, came back, and among all the negativism, resigned.” Lay leaders need the same motivation as pastors.

Stephen McWhorter, rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Walnut Creek, California, wrote of his growth and the growing ability of the parish to reach out. When I spoke to him, he mentioned the need to “retail” the church program: “We have the best and most unique product in the world. Our churches must make that product available.” McWhorter has worked to make the liturgy more attractive and the advertising warmer.

Schuller’s advice may need some adaptation outside the Southern California glitz, but he motivates us to do what we all desire: reach people outside the church.

NEW AND NOTEWORTHY

Personal Ministry Handbook by Larry Richards, Baker, $9.95

How do you help a woman considering abortion? Or a father struggling with an alcoholic wife? A child in danger from abusive parents?

Knowing pastors cannot be experts on every issue that arises in pastoral work, Larry Richards catalogued relevant Scripture passages and psychological insights on seventy topics. Included are issues as wide ranging as divorce, homosexuality, depression, and suicide.

Designed as a ready reference for ministering in the press of human need, the book also includes a training guide for individual or group use.

Create in Me a Youth Ministry by Ridge Burns with Pam Campbell, Victor, $11.95

This is a book for battle-weary youth workers. Burns and Campbell go beyond pizza parties and program gimmicks to explore how youth ministry “grows out of our lives-the experiences, expectations, and emotions.”

They do this by giving a candid glimpse of their blunders and successes. This book helps with some of the vital intangibles, like developing self-confidence, or rebounding after facing wary youth and demanding parents. Whether discussing the importance of God’s call or stressing the importance of tempering vision with flexibility, this book helps a youth pastor tackle the conflicts, challenges, and everyday joys of ministry to youth.

The Presence of God in Pastoral Counseling by Wayne E. Oates, Word, $12.95

Forty years of practicing and teaching counseling have convinced Wayne Oates there is more to pastoral counseling than science and psychoanalysis. “To many who come to us,” he explains, “our counseling room is the nearest thing to home or church they have. It is God’s dwelling place.”

Oates advocates moving beyond dialogue to “trialogue,” in which pastor and client listen to and experience the “Third Presence.” More than we realize, Oates cautions, people come to us with unspoken desires to cultivate such awareness.

Oates also advises counselors how to stay open to God’s presence in a troublesome client, use prayerful silence in the counseling session, and move through weariness and “dark nights of the soul.” Other more technical issues such as transference, confronting the client, and dealing with anger receive helpful treatment. As readers of Oates’s other books would expect, biblical underpinnings make this work both technically relevant and theologically sound.

Evangelizing the Hard-to-Reach by Robert D. Dale and Delos Miles, Broadman, $4.95

Many growing churches, these authors believe, are “living off the easy ones.” Settling for membership transfers and easy converts, they sometimes ignore the hard-to-reach.

Dale and Miles believe that situation can change. They outline four categories of hard-to-reach people: A group to start with is the Left-Outs-the poor, the migrants, the handicapped. Another is the Drop-Outs, who hold membership in the church in name only. More challenging for the average church, perhaps, are the Locked-Outs. These are the addicts, sexual deviants, and ex-convicts. Opt-Outs likewise need ministry, but are more likely to worship their RVs or TVs. Other Opt-Outs are perennial atheists and garden-variety hedonists.

This book can help churches and pastors learn strategies of preaching, witnessing, and congregational caring for these hard-to-reach individuals, and more important, spark an urgency to actually reach them.

The Church Office Handbook by Carol R. Shearn, Morehouse-Barlow, $12.95

Up-to-date membership rolls and organized files are the stuff of a humming church office. But sometimes, writes veteran secretary Carol Shearn, the very people in charge lack experience or need direction. This may include a church secretary who faces tasks never covered in school or the business world. Or pastors like the one who confessed, “I don’t know enough about what secretaries need to be doing.” Then there are the countless ministers of small, staffless churches, who must perform all the office duties.

Shearn’s years working as a secretary helped her discover ways to manage the mountains of information in churches. Tips on handling church money, using computers, processing mail, and storing records make this a comprehensive guide.

Outgrowing the Ingrown Church by C. John Miller, Zondervan, $7.95

Renewing the ingrown congregation begins with renewing the ingrown church leader. Miller explains how prayer and openness to God can transform the pastor into a pacesetter who “moves ahead of the pack and sets the example that gets the others moving.”

Drawing on his own pilgrimage of disillusionment and renewal, Miller shows pastors how to lead congregations from “niceness” to radical obedience to the Great Commission. When that miracle of transformation takes place, he argues, a small ingrown congregation becomes more than just a large ingrown one.

A Silence to be Broken by Earl D. Wilson, Multnomah, $6.95

Incest is a shockingly common skeleton in the closets of American families. Studies noted in this book estimate 40 percent of all girls and 20 percent of all boys will be incest victims by the time they reach adulthood. And despite stringent biblical injunctions, incest finds its way into Christian homes.

Psychologist and seminary teacher Earl Wilson leads the reader in understanding the roots of sexual abuse in our society. He sympathetically explores the needs of, and healing steps for, the victim, offender, and spouse. A final chapter lists agencies, volunteer support associations, and other sources of help.

“It is God’s power that enables us to forgive and go beyond even a thing as devastating as incest,” Wilson writes.

Handling Church Tensions Creatively by Fred W. Prinzing, Harvest, $4.95

Diversity may be the spice of life, but it creates tension in a church. Rather than bemoan this fact, pastor and seminary professor Fred Prinzing suggests we learn ways to use it.

“The existence of tension is a sign of life,” he argues. Through the ministries of conflict managers (“tension adjusters” he calls them), the church can begin to listen better to one another and deepen its life together.

Prinzing explores the friction common in churches, tensions between power and authority, structure and spontaneity, uniformity and diversity, home and world missions. The methods Prinzing offers for sensitizing members and working together can help turn conflict into a potential force for renewal and change.

-Reviewed by Timothy K. Jones

Christ Our Peace Church of the Brethren

The Woodlands, Texas

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastors

RED FLAGS OF EMOTIONAL EXHAUSTION

Archibald D. Hart

How can you tell when your energy level is slipping to dangerous levels? What signals emotional and physical exhaustion? Here are a few significant pointers.

Answer the questions below as you consider the last two or three weeks of your life. Give yourself a score for each:

2 if your answer is “often”

1 if it is “sometimes”

0 if “rarely.”

Then total your score and see below for an interpretation.

__ Are you spending an unusual amount of time by yourself, withdrawing from friends, family, and work acquaintances?

__ Are you becoming more negative, pessimistic, critical, or cynical about yourself and others?

__ Are you forgetting appointments, deadlines, or activities and not feeling concerned about it?

__ Are you more irritable, hostile, aggressive, angry, or frustrated than usual?

__ Are you sleeping either much more than usual or significantly less?

__ Do you suffer from gastrointestinal problems (indigestion, stomach discomfort, diarrhea, or colitis)?

__ Are you waking up feeling tired or fatigued?

__ Are you spending a lot of time thinking or worrying about your work, people, the future, or the past?

__ Do you have an overwhelming feeling of being overloaded, that too many demands are being imposed on you?

__ Do you find yourself focusing on relatively petty things or persevering with nonproductive or ineffective actions?

__ Do you feel that nothing you do is effective in coping with your life, or that you are helpless to control the outcome of anything?

__ Are you experiencing headaches, muscle tension, or stiffness in your shoulders and neck, or increased pain anywhere in the body?

__ Does your heart thump or race, or do you get irregular heartbeats when you lie down to rest?

__ Do you get dizzy or lightheaded (especially when you are under pressure)?

__ Have you become aware of increased anxiety, worry, fidgetiness, and restlessness?

____ Total

Scoring the results

The fifteen items of this test cover the most significant, subtle signs of overwork, such as repeatedly waking up tired in the morning. Other symptoms include withdrawal, negative thinking, forgetfulness, and irritability, as well as an assortment of hysterical problems, such as stomach discomfort, headaches, and lightheadedness.

Although this simple self-test will not yield conclusive results, you can tentatively interpret your score as follows:

0-5: You are living a relatively stress-free life and appear to be coping well with your pressures.

6-10: You are showing mild signs of distress from overwork. Ease up a little.

11-16: You are showing moderate signs of distress from overwork. Ease up a lot.

17-24: You are showing severe signs of distress from overwork and need to change your style drastically. Seek help from a professional if necessary.

25-30: You are living dangerously. You are experiencing distress in every major system and should consult a physician right away. Then get some good stress-management counseling.

– Archibald D. Hart

Fuller Theological Seminary

Pasadena, California

Leadership Spring 1987 p. 82

Copyright © 1987 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

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