Another meeting. A repeated complaint. Too little sleep. Not enough money. Add them together, and even a noble calling can begin to feel humdrum. How do you keep the wonder and excitement in ministering for God?
Leadership put that question to Jill Briscoe, a grandmother of nine and someone who shows amazing vitality in ministry. When World Relief needs someone to bring Christian encouragement and teaching to refugees in Croatia or the killing fields of Cambodia, it often sends Jill Briscoe. When ministers and their spouses want biblical teaching and a spiritual boost, they often invite Jill Briscoe.
“The best thing I can do for my world and for those I love,” she writes, “is to be wise, fearing God, laughing at the Devil, working my head off to see God’s kingdom come. I live for his work, his honor, his smile, because I love him.”
Jill was educated at Homerton College in Cambridge and taught in the British school system. She worked with rough street youth in Liverpool, through Capernwray Missionary Fellowship. She and her husband, Stuart, moved to the U.S. in 1970. Since then, he has served as pastor of Elmbrook Church in Brookfield, Wisconsin; she is lay adviser to the church’s women’s ministry and a director of “Telling the Truth” media ministry. She has written more than forty books and is editor of Just Between Us, a magazine for ministry wives and women in ministry.
You wrote once that you want to “avoid sounding like a broken evangelical record.” What prompted you to write that?
Briscoe: It’s easy to get on the speaking circuit, as I am, and begin to sound like a broken record. You can become known for a certain talk, and in the end you could give the talk in your sleep. Stuart said right at the beginning of my ministry, “I will support you to go teach the Bible, but I will not support you to go and give your one little talk everywhere.” So I’ve had to put things into my life to keep fresh. One is to teach the same people every week for a period. That way, I have to keep growing and developing my knowledge of Scripture. Another thing that keeps me fresh is to volunteer to meet a need. This often necessitates using a skill that I haven’t a clue whether I possess. I’m then on the edge and have to depend more on God
What have you tried that you didn’t know whether you had the skills for?
My work with World Relief. The emotional impact of going to Bosnia or the killing fields of Cambodia demolishes me. I am required to speak to some people who have seen their husbands murdered or their children raped, who have lost everything and are sitting in front of me in shock. And here I am. What on earth am I going to say?
What do you say to someone in that situation?
I’ve learned that whatever I say has to be rooted in Scripture; all I’m doing is being a messenger. I’m speaking for the One who has been on the cross and understands. In Croatia I was asked to speak to a church gathering for newly arrived refugees, probably about 200. Refugees are mostly women because the men are either dead or in camp or fighting. So this group of Muslims, Croats, and a few Serbs had fled to a seminary on the border of a battered Croatian town. The town was still in danger of sniper fire and bombing. But the church had escaped, because there were a lot of apartment buildings between it and the guns. Attackers had tried to fire shells over the apartment buildings to the seminary, but they hadn’t managed to do it. So that became the refugee receiving and feeding place. We worked all day visiting with the refugees. At night the service was held in this huge, old church, and I had to speak. I didn’t know what to say. Everything I had prepared seemed totally inadequate, so I put my notes away and prayed, “God, give me creative ideas they can identify with.” I told them about Jesus, who as a baby became a refugee. He was hunted by the soldiers, and his parents had to flee to Egypt at night, leaving everything behind. I could tell the people began to click with what I was saying. I kept praying like crazy. I continued telling them about Jesus’ life, and when I got to the cross, I said, “He hung there naked, not like pictures tell you.” They knew what that meant. Some of them had been stripped naked and tortured. At the end of the message, I said, “All these things have happened to you. You are homeless. You have had to flee. You have suffered unjustly. But you didn’t have a choice. He had a choice. He knew all this would happen to him, but he still came.” And then I told them why. Many of them just knelt down, put their hands up, and wept. I said, “He’s the only one who really understands. How can I possibly understand, but he can. This is what people did to him. He’s the suffering God. You can give your pain to him.” So you point people to Christ
Sometimes when we lose our passion, we need to return to our first love. When did you become a Christian, and when did you enter ministry?
I started ministering the day I was saved. I was in the hospital, desperately sick. I couldn’t move. A girl in my ward, age 17, had died of a kidney disease, and I had a similar problem. Jenny, a girl in the bed next to me, led me to Christ. She said, “Every nurse who comes to do something for you today—you tell them what’s happened to you.” That got me talking. Then I got better within three days. It was miraculous. When I was leaving the hospital and returning to college, Jenny said, “Next week on visitor’s day, bring me the first person you’ve led to Christ.” I said, “How do I do that?” She told me how, and I went and led a girl to Christ. I came back with her obediently on visitor’s day, and Jenny said coolly to me, “Only one?” “Well, you only said one.” “That was my mistake,” Jenny said. “Now, then . . .” So I did what she told me, and all these people came to Christ. And then Jenny showed me how to follow up with them. I put them in little groups and began to teach them, instead of doing it one on one. Then I went back to Liverpool to teach in the school system. I faced a dilemma: With gangs in the classroom, I couldn’t do anything. So I thought, I’ll find out what these gang kids are doing at night. I got on the bus and went down to Lime Street, a pretty dangerous area of the city, and found my kids training dogs to fight the police dogs. They had chains and bats and broken bottles in their pockets, and it was basically just open warfare with the police. Between skirmishes, they’d be in the coffee bars. So I went to the coffee bars and hung out
What did they say when they saw you?
“Where did you come from? Are you from social services? Police sent you? Why are you here, Miss?” I said, “I just wanted to find out what you did after school and where you were.” They got used to me. And then they began to come to the Lord. I ended up with this mob of forty or fifty kids. I tried to take them to church, which was a total disaster. The church said, “Don’t bring them here.” So I found a coffee bar where we could meet and began teaching and street preaching. I attached myself to a church in the inner city where the pastor, Richard, trained us in self-defense and took us out to do creative evangelism. He’d say, “We’re going to the dog track next week. Let’s write tracts for the people at the dog track.” He’d run them off on his little press, and we’d go out to the dog track and do evangelism. Or, if we got the chance to get the platform in a strip joint, we’d stand and talk for five minutes. You could never hold that coffee-bar crowd much more than five before you’d be heckled, shouted down, or have bottles thrown at you. It was fun. I learned to pick up the bottles and throw them back. I get my adrenaline up just thinking about it. Most of the kids were really responsive. Some were protective: “She’s all right. Leave her alone.
When have you most felt you couldn’t keep going in ministry?
In those same evangelism days. There was a period when I did so much street ministry, and then I had three kids, and Stuart was on the road as an evangelist for months on end. I was a single parent, basically, raising three kids and involved in this work. I found myself drained. I felt couldn’t keep going inthat ministry. But I don’t think I have ever come to the point of saying, “I’m quitting,” because what is ministry? It’s being a disciple, isn’t it? It’s serving the Lord. I’ve never been so depressed that I could quit doing that.
What did you do with the pain you were feeling about your particular ministry?
I came to a point of decision. I could either drown in a sea of self-pity, or I could ask, “In what redemptive way do you want to use this mess, Lord? What do I need to learn? What can I do because Stuart isn’t home, that I couldn’t do if he were?” You either look at all those lonely hours, or you look at the potential they offer. I found, for one, that his travel gave me extra time. I didn’t have to get an evening meal ready. A friend whose husband traveled all her life helped me; she said, “Get so busy that you fall into bed at night too tired to think. Fill your life with other people’s problems. Just get out there and do it.” I did, and I found it took me out of myself. I don’t think I could do what I do now if I hadn’t been through that. I’m in a family situation right now that has been the deepest thing I’ve ever been through, the most damaging and painful. But I try not to waste the pain. I try to let it be an energizer rather than to obsess me and to take me out of thinking about other people. I hate the pain, but that’s what happens—you come through into real fruitfulness and usefulness.
You speak often to people in ministry. What do you notice as you meet with them?
What I see worldwide—especially on the mission field and in the leaders on the front lines who are working against incredible odds—is they’re just tired. You can be tired “in” the work of the Lord, or you can be tired “of” the work of the Lord; and I think they’re tired “of” the work of the Lord. At that point, you’re in trouble. That’s spiritual depression. Elijah once lay flat on his face under a tree, wanting to die. Not because everything was wrong—fire had just fallen on his ministry—but he just collapsed. A lot of people in ministry need the loving touch of the Lord that Elijah experienced when the Lord said, “The journey’s too great for you.” God didn’t rebuke and chastise him. He just touched him in his tiredness and allowed him to retire to a cave for a bit. But God didn’t leave Elijah there. That’s because failure is never final for anyone
How do you deal with being tired “of” the work of the Lord?
Renewing your commitment to God and your interaction with the Holy Spirit. We’re doing the programs, and programs can be effective, but do we care about the people in those programs? Do we maintain the heart? Two weeks ago I was on a plane coming from Chicago to Milwaukee. I asked for a seat with an empty seat beside it, because I had a writing assignment, and I needed to spread out my Bible and notes, and study. So on this small plane, I ended up the only person with an empty seat next to her. I got out my Bible, and just as we were about to take off, into the plane came this huge man, 6’4″ or 6’5″—very masculine. But he was dressed like a woman—mini-skirt and stockings, high-heeled white shoes and purse, and wig. As this cross-dresser came down the aisle, I realized, The only open seat is next to me. He’s going to be sitting next to me all during this flight. And I suddenly wanted to put my Bible away. I’m amazed I had these reactions. Prejudices I didn’t know I had came out. I said to the Lord, I don’t really care about him. I really don’t care if he goes to heaven or hell. And that’s the truth. Here I’m writing and preaching about these things, and suddenly here is a real live human being, and I don’t care a bit about him. I repented and said, I’m sorry, Lord. Forgive me, and give me your heart for this man. You died for him. I didn’t lead him to Christ, but I didn’t put my Bible away, either. I smiled at him and changed my attitude. I began to ask, What has happened in his life to bring him to this point? And at the end of the journey, I had a compassion for him I didn’t have at the beginning
In ministry, what do you need to face if you’re going to stay fresh?
Finding someone you can talk to, who can hold you accountable not to run dry. One time I was speaking in Michigan, and during that time I was going through some struggles over my teenage daughter. She was going to a school dance while I was away. I had just come from Britain, where conservative Christians don’t even go to school dances, so I was struggling with that cultural issue. I wasn’t too keen on the guy she was going with, either. And I wasn’t going to be there. I thought, What sort of mother am I? Here I am, talking about mothering to thousands of women, when I should be home. Before the meeting, I found my way to the prayer room and met a prayer counselor named Margaret. I told her all my fears for my daughter. “This dating thing is foreign to me,” I said, “and it scares me out of my wits. It’s like putting my daughter in a basket and letting her go among the crocodiles, like Moses’ mother did.” The prayer counselor said, “We’ll pray about this, and I’ll pray for your daughter. By the way, who brought you to the convention prayer room?” I said, “I’m the speaker.” We laughed so hard. Two weeks later Margaret sent me a little, rubber crocodile with its mouth tied up. She said, “That’s what prayer does-it ties up the crocodile’s mouth.” And for years she prayed for my daughter. But as a leader, you have few people you can do that with in the church. If you get too close to people in your congregation who can’t keep their mouths shut, it can cause problems. If people can keep a secret, it causes jealousy, because somebody’s going to learn that the pastor’s wife shared with someone other than with them. You try to have friends outside of your congregation, but you’re so busy you don’t have friendship-building time. For me as a woman, the ministry is a privilege, not a punishment. But for an awful lot of women, it’s a punishment. They hear the word privilege and ask, “What is the ministry doing to my marriage, to my family?” But if you try to cocoon, you end up fighting all the people who want your husband, instead of participating with your husband in the ministry to these people
What temptations can drain your passion for ministry?
The temptation to feel valueless, to feel, Who am I? I don’t think of myself as a leader, even though I know I am. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been to Bible school. On my own, I’ve covered pretty well everything academically that I would have covered in Bible school, but I’ve never had that opportunity. Also, I’ve never been on the staff of a mission or a church. I’ve always chosen to model a lay person’s position. But then, I believe in the priesthood of believers, and I’m as much a priest as anyone else, in that sense. Still, I don’t know why I don’t think of myself as a leader. I’m a mother and grandmother of nine, and that brings you down to size. You have enough things to keep you humble—things you don’t do well, the mistakes you make, and things you say that you shouldn’t. And to the dog, you’re just the nice lady who gets his food. Who are you, anyway
What are the dangers of this kind of thinking?
You’re tempted to base your value on performance. I know women who count the number of women who come to their Bible studies. That somehow is wrapped up with their self-worth: “If I were more effective, if I were a better Christian or pastor’s wife, then I’d have more women coming.” I was at a conference where the speaker said, “Growth means you’re spiritually alive. And if you’re small, then you’re dying.” I did not like the emphasis. Jesus had a very small church—just twelve people—and he wasn’t a failure. It could be that a church that is small is as much God’s design as a large church. Churches are like trees, and it just depends what kind of tree God wants to grow. You might have a bush; you might have a fir tree; you might have an oak. But it’s the nature of what God has planted in that specific place, in order that the birds of the air might come and nest in it. God has designed how many birds’ nests and how many branches and how many trees. We have to be content with that. I think of a pastor in Argentina when revival came. He was feeling a bit proud and said, “Lord, look at all these people coming to the church! There are hundreds standing outside who can’t get in!” One day when he was passing a graveyard, the Lord said, “That’s growing too.” What matters is, Are we alive? Are people like Christ? I serve a megachurch, and that’s one of the temptations I deal with: the temple temptation. “Throw yourself down. Make the splash. Do the big thing.” Jesus was tempted with a temple temptation like that. It isn’t that Jesus couldn’t. He had the power, but he didn’t have the permission right then. We often have the power to do something, but do we have the permission
How much do you try to guard your energy?
In England, our mission taught us, “Soldiers of Jesus Christ are on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days of the week.” So I came from an overextended expectation. My favorite song was “Let me burn out for Thee, Lord Jesus.
Did you do it?
No, but I would have been happy to. When I came to the U.S., I found the seminaries teaching on how to avoid burnout. It was different from anything I’d known; I didn’t understand it. Actually, the idea of being on duty twenty-four hours of the day has stood me in wonderful stead. If somebody calls or comes or needs me, the clock is not relevant to ministry. I try to live a plan-less life in that sense, and so I’m not always being disappointed or interrupted.
Have you ever misheard God on what your priorities should be?
I don’t do postmortems, because otherwise I’d be a basket case. I look at our children and realize I didn’t do it all right, but I didn’t do it all wrong, either. I don’t beat myself over the head with “We could have done this” or “We should have done that.” But I would have liked to enjoy the time I did have with my children, not have been so uptight. I wasn’t much fun sometimes, which my husband pointed out. That was good for me, because I’m so spiritually intense. I have to put it on my calendar: “Have fun Thursday.”
Are there stages or passages in ministry? If so, which are you in?
I think there are seasons. I’m trying to figure out whether I’m in autumn or winter. Look at my hair—I’m winter! Stuart and I were in Utrecht, Holland, for a convention of seven thousand kids from all over Europe. We were certainly the oldest speakers. Many kids came to us and said, “Thank you that you’ve stayed together. Thank you that you’re still teaching and still ministering.” I thought, What’s so hard about this? I don’t get it. But for them, growing up in broken families, they wonder whether longevity can happen. I try to celebrate aging in a ministry context because age gives you a hearing you might not get if you were younger. Paul said to Timothy, “Don’t let them despise your youth.” There is something about a young person giving out a lot of instruction, unless it’s in the Spirit, that older people resist. So, I’ve enjoyed that privilege of having a little bit of leeway in saying certain things now. Of course, I have to earn it and live up to it.
What’s an example of something you can say now that you might not have been able to say thirty years ago?
It’s all right to be a woman in ministry. Stuart just taught a six-part series on the Christian view of politics, of technology, of sex, and other complex issues. He asked me to speak on a Christian view of women. I resisted. I did not want to make statements or beat a drum. But he persisted, and I’m so glad I did it. I worked hard, and putting down all that scriptural study and preaching was freeing for me. Coming from my background, a conservative heritage, I’ve had a long journey to go in all of that. It has taken me all this time to be able to say, “It’s all right. I can say what I’ve come to learn and what I really think and believe.
What excites you about ministry these days?
We have a new generation that responds to image and color and movement and video. I’m excited about using all that to reach people who would never darken the door of the church. We just finished a four-night performance of a play, “Acts of the Apostles,” that drew over eight hundred people. I wrote it, using Eugene Peterson’s The Message for the text. You don’t need to add drama, because it’s there. For example, we included Paul’s speech in front of Agrippa—three whole pages of Scripture—and I wouldn’t let anyone chop it. It wasn’t too long, and it was dynamite. The play also included Peter’s speech at Pentecost and his speech to Cornelius, so people heard the gospel three times. We need to be presenting the Jesus story in drama or in film, like theJesus film does. What’s more dramatic than the Incarnation?
1996 by Christianity Today/LEADERSHIP journal
Last Updated: September 18, 1996
