Six ways to remember your value.
“What a poor excuse for a pastor you are!”
His unexpected words found an unprotected gap in my armor. I swallowed hard to drain the tears before they reached my eyes. My face blushed. I felt humiliated in front of the other leaders of the church.
Merle, the secretary of the church board, had taken advantage of our monthly meeting to unpack his emotional baggage.
“You haven’t visited my daughter in the hospital. You haven’t shown sufficient gratitude to my wife for her work on the women’s commission. And I’m sick and tired of it!”
I hadn’t known Merle’s grown daughter (who didn’t attend our church) was in the hospital. I had not expressed thanks to his wife because I hadn’t appreciated her attempts to undermine an effective program.
My history with Merle made his attack even more painful. Shortly after we moved to town, he let us use the family condo at Lake Tahoe, where I spent a week of writing and reflection. He donated equipment for my office. He frequently took me out to lunch. In his words I was “one helluva preacher!”
In the board meeting, I chose not to answer the charges for fear my voice would crack or I would erupt in anger. Instead I stared at the agenda on the table in front of me and wondered how soon the meeting would end so I could go home and die. Fortunately, other members of the board rose to my defense and silenced his thorny tongue.
But I found my sweetest exoneration later, reading a little handwritten note tucked in my Bible. The shaky scrawl belonged to an elderly woman in my previous parish. It was my first year out of seminary. I’d been on staff at the church for only four months when the senior pastor resigned to pursue a doctorate in England. For thirteen months I served as interim pastor, and during that time, eight people in our congregation of two hundred died.
Knowing the strain under which I was attempting to hold the church together, Elsa Olson wrote me a letter. I had preached my first Good Friday message as a rookie pastor, comparing the thieves on either side of Christ to the prodigal son and his elder brother. This 80-year-old saint praised my creativity and thanked me for my work on behalf of the church. Gratified and humbled, I folded the letter and kept it inside my Bible.
In the fifteen years since, I’ve turned to it on many occasions.
The Power of Icons
Someone once said, “Losing hurts more than winning feels good.” I agree. Criticism drowns out the inner joy we feel when we’re doing the best we can. It arouses the demon of self-doubt. To combat the despair that follows these daggers, I have found a way to refocus my perspective. I keep on hand icons of affirmation.
Icons of affirmation are nothing new. One of the more obscure exhibits in the Smithsonian Institution displays the personal effects found on Abraham Lincoln the night he was shot. They include a small handkerchief embroidered A. Lincoln, a country boy’s pen knife, a spectacle case repaired with cotton string, a Confederate five dollar bill, and a wornout newspaper clipping extolling his accomplishments as president. It begins, “Abe Lincoln is one of the greatest statesmen of all time. . . .”
Why would our nation’s sixteenth president carry around a clipping like that? History remembers Lincoln as a folk hero and a president’s president. Was Lincoln an ego-maniac?
Hardly. When Lincoln was president, he wasn’t as popular as he became after his death. The nation was bitterly divided, and Lincoln’s leadership was constantly threatened. He was the object of a critical press. So Abraham Lincoln needed something in his pocket to remind himself that his critics were not his only observers. So he carried an icon of affirmation, something that reminded him someone believed in him.
Icons of affirmation come in all sizes and shapes, but what they have in common is their power to energize you when you’re on the ropes. I have six types of these indispensable icons.
Love Letters
In addition to Elsa’s yellowed letter in my Bible, I keep a file folder of “Love Letters” near my desk, notes and cards from individuals thanking me for my pastoral ministry. During times of self-doubt and congregational turmoil or when I question my ability to lead, I go to that folder and out drops a pink telephone message slip: “Thanks for your strong leadership and being willing to be vulnerable for this Body. I appreciate your strong convictions. We are so glad to have you as our pastor!”
In his classic inspirational volume A Touch of Wonder, Arthur Gordon describes cleaning out the attic in the house where his family had lived for six generations. Instead of finding valuable antiques, he found boxes and boxes of letters.
“Most of them were written,” he writes, “in faded ink and grimy with the dust of decades. . . . In a hundred different ways they spoke of love and admiration for one another. . . . ‘Have I told you lately what a wonderful person you are? Never forget how much your friends and family love and admire you!’ “
While contemplating the disappearance of hand-engraved encouragement in our generation, Gordon underscores its importance: “Expressing confidence in a person’s ability to accomplish something actually strengthens that ability. . . . To be manifestly loved, to be openly admired are human needs as basic as breathing.”
Such expressions of love breathe new life into a sagging soul.
Snapshots of Grace
Ever notice what surrounds the president as he addresses the nation on television? Photos of family members.
The Oval Office isn’t the only place where snapshots of loved ones surround a decision-maker. I can’t imagine a work area where I could not steal a quick glance at the people for whom I am privileged to provide.
Those Kodak smiles keep it all in perspective. My wedding photograph reminds me that my ability to love is hinged on being loved. That soft smile of my mate promises affection and an understanding ear when my attempts to love “the flock” fall flat. Then there are the 5x7s of my infant daughters on the day they were dedicated. Those babies in that heirloom gown remind me that since my kids are a part of the church, I can justify spending time with them as I do with any other family in the parish. Finally, my mom and dad with the help of “Uncle Olan” stand watch silently over my shoulder, reminding me of their years of guidance, wisdom, and support.
If “a picture is worth ten thousand words,” then the ten photos on my desk represent an encyclopedia of encouragement. The smiles aimed in my direction affirm my worth as son, husband, and daddy, not to mention pastor. Their estimation of me counts as much as any other. I am part of a family that will love me no matter how good or bad my sermon is this Sunday or what size our church is. They are indeed snapshots of grace.
Badges of Belonging
The desire to belong is universal. On the school playground, two of the more popular kids in your class were designated captains, and teams were chosen with less sensitivity toward human emotion than the NFL draft. Until your name was called by one of the captains, your heart raced and your face burned.
The need to belong is no less important once you become an adult. For a pastor, feeling accepted by your congregation is every bit as critical as three weeks vacation and an annual salary review. But sometimes it’s not as automatic.
On my bookshelf sits a bud vase that a couple in the church gave my wife and me the night before we flew to Hawaii to celebrate our fifth anniversary. They had recently studied the Gospel passage about the woman who broke the alabaster jar and poured out priceless perfume on Jesus’ feet. Inspired by the extravagance of the woman’s expression of love, Don and Ila chose to convey their love for Wendy and me in a similar fashion.
In the vase was a note and an unrecognizable amount of cash. They had intended that we break the vase to get it out. I was so moved by their symbolic gift I used tweezers to pull out the contents so I could keep the vase as a reminder of their creativity and love and generosity. They couldn’t afford it, but tucked within their handwritten note of gratitude was a hundred dollar bill! My eyes pool with tears thinking about it. The vase was a badge that shouted, “You belong!”
There are other badges displayed in my office that identify me as one who’s “on the team”:
– A cast-iron statue of a golfer given me by our church chairman “just because.”
– A cartoon one member photocopied with a new caption that just happened to be a line from one of my sermons that was especially meaningful to her.
– A coffee mug with “Crossroads” painted on it holds my pencils on my desk. A man who is a pillar in our church presented it to me with a twinkle in his eye, saying he had found it in an import gift shop and wanted me to have it.
Such gifts let you know you’re accepted by your people. Like the FBI agent in our church who shows his badge whenever his identity is questioned, I keep my badges within easy reach.
Symbols of My Call
I once heard someone say you can tell a lot about a person’s self-worth by the items mounted on his or her office wall. After hearing that, I took another look at the decor in my study.
The wall above my desk is graced with a print by an artist I met at a street fair. A little child stands at the front door of a stone cathedral. With all his might, he pulls at the iron latch in an effort to peek inside. The door is cracked open, and a soft glow streams from within.
The scene reminds me of the overwhelming task I attempt each day as one who would speak to God about people and speak to people about God. The boy also symbolizes my confidence in a caring Father who delights in my presence even when others resent it. Because of his parental affection, he will provide me with the means to accomplish what he has called me to do.
Two other items remind me of my call:
Hanging in my study is a handmade banner given me by a young man who served as youth pastor at my first church. For my ordination he crafted an ornate tapestry incorporating the theme of the ordination service and a brass plate with my name and the date.
The other wall-hanging is my ordination certificate.
Both silently remind me of God’s call on my life. When other voices shout otherwise, these symbols of my call remind me I have been set apart for a sacred privilege.
Inspiration under Glass
In addition to the personal effects found on Lincoln the night he died, the Smithsonian Institute has so many other exhibits of historical significance that if you paused only thirty seconds in front of each, it would take sixty-six years to see them all. Most of the displays are encased in glass.
I, too, display mementos underneath a sheet of glass atop my walnut desk.
There is a 40-year-old black-and-white photograph of Billy Graham I found in the archives of the college I attended. It calls to mind the undeniable witness that accompanies a life of integrity. That picture inspires me to ignore the critics and stick with it.
I have a Chuck Swindoll quotation from a calendar that boasts the benefits of investing time with people: “Friendships are funny things. The good ones are way beyond price, but so easily taken for granted. Maybe it’s because they seem so sturdy that we sometimes forget the importance of constantly cultivating them.”
There is a snapshot of an elderly Jewish woman I befriended after college. Ida was the sister of a Seattle rabbi. As much as I witnessed and reasoned with her, she never grasped the meaning of the gospel. Nonetheless my relationship with “Gramma Ida” (and others like her who never verbalize faith) was worth the investment of time and love. I am reminded that whenever we befriend another for Jesus’ sake, there is a sense of fulfillment knowing God has left his fingerprints through my available hands.
There is a line about the suffering Christ endured to fulfill his Father’s mission: “The Christ of the cross knows the creature’s cage. He is acquainted with our pain, our pressures, our panic, our plight apart from the Father, and because he’s been there, he knows how to quench our thirst.”
My favorite is a full-page quotation, attributed to the late president of Wheaton College, W. Raymond Edman, that I salvaged from the back cover of an old His magazine. In big bold letters, I’m encouraged to “Never doubt in the dark what God told you in the light.”
Granted, my exhibits, all of which you could view in just thirty seconds, will never be sought by the historians at the Smithsonian. But they are invaluable to me as I seek to maintain a guarded perspective about people, the pain they cause, and the wealth that comes with serving them.
Camouflaged Concern
In a book I recently read, the author claimed that if you are criticized, you have either done something worthwhile or refrained from doing something foolish. In other words, criticism is unavoidable. At the same time I began filing positive notes, I also began saving the “hate mail” that comes occasionally.
Criticism is amazing for its variety. One letter says, “I most strenuously object to the cultural baggage you carried into the sermon.” Another begins, “I sincerely hope this letter finds you well! However . . .” Another, “Rather than continuing to stew in silence, we feel that we should once more let you as senior pastor know our feelings about ‘praise songs’ in the service.” Still another, “I am writing this note as the sermon is being given . . .”
Why keep such letters?
Gordon MacDonald, pastor of Grace Chapel in Lexington, Massachusetts, suggests that every criticism, no matter how hurtful or ridiculous, has a grain of truth in it. The wise leader identifies the kernel and blows the chaff away.
The content of such missives is never fun to read. It raises my blood pressure and lowers my tolerance. And given time, the ministerial hide can begin to resemble that of a hippo.
I keep these letters of criticism, however, because most people who take the time to write are recognizing my leadership and ability. In their mind I am someone who has the necessary influence to effect change. I am one they are willing to trust with their discontent.
More than a few challenge my manner or my ideas because they like me! They sincerely believe their views are right, and they think they can help me. I’ve come to view their rebuffs as camouflaged concern. In a veiled sort of way they’re saying I matter!
God, who cares enough for me to seek my growth, uses these to remind me of his love.
Visible Reminders of the Invisible
My grandfather was raised in the Greek Orthodox Church. Part of his religious culture was the symbolism of icons. These hand-painted objects of art were not idols to be worshiped, as my misinformed Sunday school teachers had taught me, but a tangible means of focusing on the things of the Spirit and on God’s faithfulness to his servants in days gone by.
Icons are visual reminders of what really is true in a world that often lies.
My icons of affirmation do the same. The letters, photographs, banners, and gifts that surround me in my study fall short of the artistic beauty captured by the Orthodox Church, but they remind me of my call, my gifts, my heritage, and my humanity. They help me “kiss the joy.”
Greg Asimakoupoulos is pastor of Crossroads Covenant Church in Concord, California.
Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
