1. Ministry is war.
There are two theaters of war in ministry: one within and another without. There is an ever-present enemy within, the flesh, which tempts us to run from the battle. I cannot take a minute off from this war, or I will surely perish.
There are also enemies on the outside seeking to defeat me by singing an alluring siren song. They tempt me with a peacetime mentality, a life of ease and earthly prosperity, far from the bad deacons meeting, the church member whose marriage is collapsing, and the family that thinks I am killing the church by teaching sound doctrine.
John Newton knew this struggle all too well, but saw this war as the best place for fallen ministers:
The people of God are sure to meet with enemies—but especially the ministers. Satan bears them a double grudge. The world watches for their halting, and the Lord will allow them to be afflicted, that they may be kept humble, that they may acquire a sympathy with the sufferings of others, that they may be experimentally qualified to advise and help them, and to comfort them with the comforts with which they themselves have been comforted of God. But the Captain of our salvation is with us. His eye is upon us; his everlasting arm beneath us. In his name therefore may we go on, lift up our banners, and say, “If God be for us—who can be against us? Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors, through him who has loved us!” The time is short. In a little while—he will wipe all tears from our eyes, and put a crown of life upon our heads with his own gracious hand!
2. My fictional church was a fictional church.
In seminary, my fictional church adored me. Every person loved the teaching. They loved my personality. They spoke often and gratefully of “all the things I bring to the table.” On Monday, they pondered next Sunday’s sermon with the giddy anxiousness of a 4-year-old on Christmas Eve. They were ready to carry me out of the pulpit on their shoulders as a theological hero.
My pastoral ministry now plays out in the non-fiction section, and they don’t look at me that way. They see my flaws. They feel my inexperience. And rightly so. Most of them love me anyway, and over time, I will come to see how misguided was my desire for that fictional church and how good God is for humbling me through the ministry of his local church.
3. Theological knowledge does not equal pastoral maturity.
My command of Greek or Hebrew or all those Puritans I can quote from memory will not be enough to keep me from blowing my stack when an angry member brings false charges against me to my face. Those things won’t provide wise leadership decisions when a deacon meets with me and tells me that the church is rapidly running out of money. Sure, my theological knowledge will go a long way toward helping me make wise decisions, but they won’t give me the seasoning I need. I still need to learn many leadership lessons the hard way. I have been trained well on how the right weapon works, but using it accurately will come only with locking, loading, aiming, and firing accurately on the battlefield.
4. Love surpasses knowledge.
This is a necessary logical conclusion to the previous point. The inspired writer warned me about this: “If I have all knowledge and have not love . . . I am nothing.” If I do not love my people, they will not care how much theological talk comes from the pulpit. They will be drawn to follow me only when I prove that I love them and can be trusted as a mature teacher and under-shepherd.
5. If I will become an effective instrument in God’s hand, I must suffer.
Sure, I have read lots of books that have taught me how to think well in and through suffering. But I must suffer if I will truly understand Paul’s message in 2 Corinthians: it’s not about me. A pastor will suffer for two reasons: first, for his own sanctification, and second, so that he is positioned to provide comfort for his suffering congregation (2 Cor. 1).
6. Because my Western default definition of success is worldly, it will bother me when attendance is low or they don’t respond well to my teaching.
Because I am deeply prideful and filled with self-love, I am often offended when church members see weekends at the beach/lake/mountains as vastly more compelling than hearing me talk about the things of God. Or because I sometimes subtly exchange my confidence in God’s Word as the transforming agent for my own ability to change people, I will consider adjusting the message or the methods to make people happy. But if I love them, I must not give in to this desire. I will dance dangerously close to this razor’s edge far too often and must rely on Christ to rescue me every time.
7. I will often exhibit an acute fear of man.
All the bravado I spouted to seminary buddies about others “giving in to man-centeredness” has mysteriously dissipated in the face of real people who harbor real issues. Sure, I was correct in saying those things, but only God’s grace can create in me a habit of faithfulness even when the stink has hit the fan and has then splattered on me.
8. Many people in my church will not like me, no matter how much I love them or treat them with kindness.
The reasons they do not like me will have nothing to do with anything substantial, and this will frustrate me. They will not like my personality because I am too extroverted/introverted and therefore not like them. Or they will not like me because I talk too fast/slow. Or they will not like me because I cheer for the wrong sports team or attended the wrong university. But even their distaste for me, valid or not, is part of God’s good design to cultivate humility in the garden of my foolish, self-loving heart. This is also good for me because, by God’s grace, it will remedy, over time, the deadly disease of the fear of man. My Lord promised that if they hated him, they would hate his disciples. This is an opportunity for God to teach me the truth of 1 Peter 2:23 pertaining to our Lord who, when he was reviled, did not revile in return, but kept on entrusting himself to him who judges justly. I will be set free by grace to love them anyway.
9. I will often be mystified and frustrated that my ministerial labors do not yield “product.”
This will bother me because in my arrogance, I have forgotten that I am not the Holy Spirit and that only a sovereign, all-powerful God can renovate a broken-down human heart. Yes, I realize that my theology of sovereign grace has always taught me this truth, but my functional theology of self will tell me that all my knowledge, training, and gifts should at least lead to some change in the lives of this people. If I yearn for visible, finished “product,” then I must be content to cut my lawn, build a Lincoln Log home with my boys, and let God be God in his church.
10. My theological heroes didn’t have it easy either.
From the distance of time, geography, and cultural advances, it is easy to romanticize our heroes. It is easy to think John Calvin snapped his brilliant fingers and transformed Geneva, or that Bunyan leisurely wrote Pilgrim’s Progress for a leading evangelical publisher on his laptop while watching cable television in an air-conditioned jail cell, or that Jonathan Edwards spent much of his time talking theology over coffee with David Brainerd.
But they preached and taught and wrote with such profound depth of knowledge because they were soldiers who had been to war. Their writings bristled with the sinfulness of the human heart and the holiness of God because they wrote from the battlefield. My heroes had it hard in the ministry and so will I, because God demonstrates his power and glory through the powerlessness of pathetic clay pots like me—it says so in 2 Corinthians 4:7. And I will learn the truthfulness of God’s Word and his love for me, as did my heroes, in the intense war that is Christian ministry.