Pastors must be pastors. But we must be people also.
—Ben Patterson
I felt a little ashamed of myself for doing it, but not enough to stop myself. It was my day off; my wife and I had taken our usual long walk, had breakfast together, and stopped in a clothing store to do a little shopping. When I saw two church members in the shop, I quickly ducked behind a mannequin, and when they weren’t looking, I slipped out of the store. I was tired; it was my day off; I didn’t feel like extending any greetings.
It wasn’t pastoral of me, but it was honest. And it illustrates a struggle I face in the pastorate—trying to balance the tension between being the person I am and being that person called a “pastor.”
Other professions live with the same tension, but they can handle it more efficiently. In The Christian Century magazine, columnist Martin Marty once wrote about the schizo-like attitude of flight attendants. On airplanes we find attendants gracious, sometimes to the point of gushiness. They look us in the eye, give us a big smile, and extend plenty of hospitality.
But when our flight lands and we spot these same attendants in the concourse or baggage claim area, they simply walk by, avert eye contact, and ignore us. Marty calls that “civil inattention.” It’s time for them to step out of the flight attendant role and be themselves.
Pastors must be pastors. But we must be people also. Although we can’t divide our roles as cleanly as does a flight attendant, we still must figure out why and how to live with this tension. Here are some insights that have helped me.
There’s More to Life Than Being Genuine
As a child of the 1960s, I wanted no part of the institutional baggage of the church. Even when I attended seminary, I intended to go into youth work. Ministry to me meant parachurch, non-ordained ministry. Like Father MacKenzie, one of “all the lonely people” in the Beatles’ song “Eleanor Rigby,” the pastors I knew seemed to be lonely, hollow men trapped in ecclesiastical roles, creatures weighted down with the expectations of their congregations’ collective psyches. I believed that what they were forced to be kept them from what they ought to be—themselves, whatever that was.
I’ve gone through a few changes since then. I’ve learned that ministry is more than simply being myself, that in fact, ministry is often enhanced when I accept the pastoral role. In particular, there are five advantages of living in the pastoral role:
• It checks individualism. In an effort to be genuine, I sometimes think, I’m going to say what I think and do what I want, regardless of people’s expectations. But sometimes people’s expectations—for example, that pastors be good listeners or that pastors not selfishly pursue their own agendas—are exactly what a strong-headed person like me needs to adhere to most.
Archbishop William Temple once remarked, “I’m suspicious of people who are anxious to tell me what God said to them but don’t want to hear what God said to me.” Sometimes when I get excited about a concern, I tend to be less interested in others’ agendas. It’s shortsighted of me to think I’m the only one who’s hearing from God. In short, living out the pastoral role can keep me honest—it doesn’t let me run off on a selfish tangent.
• It keeps the issue in focus. Being genuine means telling people how I feel about things. But in many instances, sharing my feelings merely sidetracks ministry.
For instance, if the church board is in the midst of a debate and I tell people how I feel about the process or the topic being debated—for example, “I feel uncomfortable with the anger being exchanged” or “This topic troubles me”—I merely shift the subject from the topic under discussion to Pastor Ben’s feelings. That undercuts the importance of a matter under discussion and puts off a decision even longer.
• It keeps emotions in control. Years ago, when people would treat me badly, I’d get angry and blast them and then try to justify the emotional outburst, muttering things like “righteous indignation,” “justice,” and “honesty.” But the truth was I only hurt the person by satisfying my desire to get even.
The pastoral role, however, can keep such things from happening—protecting me, and others from me. The role helps me realize there is more at stake than my honesty.
Sometimes, of course, even when I’m in the pastoral role, I’ll tell another, “I’m mad at you,” or “You’ve hurt me.” But first I’ve asked myself, Is what I want to say edifying to this person? Does it build up? What is God’s desire for him or her at this time?
• It enables me to love when I don’t feel like it. Some afternoons I have a series of back-to-back counseling sessions. After one session in which I will have listened to someone in great distress, I’ll begin another, yet all the emotions of the previous session are still reeling inside me, making it hard to concentrate.
At such moments, raw authenticity would cause me to say, “Listen, I can’t listen to you right now. I’m hurt and concerned about someone who’s just been in here.” In extreme situations, I might do just that. But most of the time, ministry is furthered if I fulfill my role, putting a smile on my face, nodding at the person’s concerns, and giving myself to the one who has come to see me.
• It focuses the attention on Jesus Christ. Playing the pastoral role points me to something greater than me. John the Baptist said, “I must decrease; he must increase.” That statement should be my goal in every facet of ministry. My preaching should focus on Christ, not on authentic sharing of myself. I don’t want people to say, “Wow, what a neat guy” but “I see Christ glorified in him.”
When I lead the liturgy, I don’t want to be an emcee or entertainer, drawing attention to my wittiness or personality but one who draws people’s attention to what is being said in the liturgy: Jesus Christ is Lord.
In short, if I’m only interested in my authentic self or my feelings, the message is lost; people think more about Ben Patterson and less about the gospel.
Beyond Role Playing
One of the longest nights of my life took place at a wedding rehearsal dinner. I felt the guests, none of whom had I met before, were either mildly belligerent or even hostile to me. It was awful. But my pastoral role demanded I be pleasant.
Still, I felt as if I were skimming through a mental card catalog, pulling out random topics to talk about: “Well, how about them Giants?” and “Do you believe this rain!” Someone finally would respond, and another long silence would follow. I was glad when it came time to eat; at least it gave me something easy to do.
Fortunately, not all of ministry has to be so endured. Sometimes it’s better to step out of the role and be myself. In fact, I’ve found five advantages to being genuine in ministry.
• It helps people—and me—accept my limitations. Every pastor has limitations, and we shouldn’t have to hide them, pretending that we fit perfectly into every pastoral role.
For instance, my predecessor in this church was in many ways my opposite. A marvelous pastor, he got jazzed when he was around people; he served as honorary chaplain of the fire and police departments and borough council. He was at home in a crowd.
That role, though, has always intimidated me. I don’t like being the community chaplain—cutting the ribbons, speaking at parades, keynoting the anniversary celebrations. I realize these occasions can be important, that chitchat builds bridges, but all that still tires me.
It’s been a great relief to acknowledge publicly that I am an introvert, that I get physically weary from being around large groups of people for long, and that there’s nothing wrong with me when I do.
I recognize that in order to fulfill my pastoral responsibilities, I have to be in many such settings. But I don’t have to agonize about my discomfort or doubt my calling. It’s one part of ministry I’ll never be comfortable with.
Sharing that fact can also help my congregation understand when I don’t get as involved in community affairs as did my predecessor, and when I don’t come off as well when I do.
• It short-circuits loneliness. I hate going to presbytery, the bimonthly gathering of pastors and elders of local Presbyterian congregations. It’s such a lonely time. Everybody’s in their role, especially the pastors. We’re a competitive lot, and it’s hard to let our guards down.
I can’t perform ministry that way. If I keep my feelings inside all the time, then I isolate myself from the Christian community. It’s only when I express what’s in my heart that people draw closer to me.
For me, it’s especially important that I feel at home in my church. If I can’t mess up or say what I think about things there, then I become isolated in my role.
• It keeps ministry moving. The stress of a board member’s day can easily interfere with the business of the board meeting at night. The issue in question can become an occasion to work out the fight someone had with their wife or the lousy day another had at the office.
Before every board meeting, then, we spend an hour in worship, sharing, and prayer. When I participate in this time, it breaks down the pastoral persona so that others feel more free to let down their various personas. That allows us to deal with the hurts and frustrations we’ve experienced during the week. The result: when we deal with the business of the church, we deal with only that and so finish our business a lot faster.
• People encounter a real gospel. People are much more interesting than any function they serve. I can play a role and even play a crowd, but I will not connect with people if I do. It’s only when I reveal my humanity, confessing some of my faults and weaknesses publicly, that people relate to me.
And then they can relate better to the gospel. When people see my humanity and the gospel as a vital part of their pastor’s life, they’re more likely to think Christ can be a vital part of their lives, too.
“The Word became flesh.” The Word became a real human being; he didn’t just play the role of a human being (that in fact was an early heresy). And it was as a human being that he connected with people.
Pulpit Discretion—The Better Part of Honesty
The line, then, between the pastoral persona and who we genuinely are may never be as clear and distinct as we’d like. However, when I find myself consistently on one side of that line, something is wrong. It’s not one or the other—I must incorporate both.
How and when I do that is another matter. In fact, each area of ministry—counseling, administration, community chaplain—requires a separate discussion. Let me here suggest how I handle the performance factor from the pulpit.
As much as I believe in saying what’s on my heart and mind, only some things are appropriate for a pastor to share from the pulpit. Here is how I handle sensitive areas with care.
• Discouragement. I don’t publicly admit I am discouraged when I am discouraged. Although I might tell a close friend, I wouldn’t say to my people, “I’m really down. I don’t know if I’m going to make it.”
I believe that in becoming leaders, we give up our right to be publicly discouraged. Being a leader means being up, positive, and definite. When we announce that we aren’t, it can have a devastating effect on our people. They begin to wonder and worry. They begin to lose confidence in the future.
It’s important, though, for people to realize that we’re not constantly up; otherwise they may wonder if we’re all there, if life really affects us. So I share discouragement, but only after the fact: “During our building program five years ago, there were many moments when I didn’t feel we’d find the money to keep building.”
• Lust. In front of men’s groups, I’ve admitted feeling lustful. It’s something that men struggle with, so when a pastor mentions he is tempted by it but in Christ struggles against it, the reality of the gospel comes through strong.
I don’t, however, admit to such before a mixed crowd. It would send the wrong signals. It may, for instance, make some women wonder if I’ve been thinking about them sexually. That would only get in the way of our pastoral relationship.
But even with men, I’ve learned to check my confessions of lust. I used to be very transparent. But when I did that, I subtly and inadvertently communicated that lust wasn’t so much wrong as it was “natural,” in effect, acceptable.
Now I try to share such weaknesses only to the point that it will show others I too struggle, but I don’t share so much that giving in to temptation sounds okay.
• Anger. It’s not appropriate to get angry in the pulpit unless ifs clear that my anger is focused outside the congregation, and even then on something relatively abstract, like sin or injustice or the pornography industry. I’ve not seen many instances when anger directed at my congregation has done much good. Further, declaring my anger at prominent individuals or institutions respected by my people only puts my people on the defensive.
I can, however, talk about my own struggles with anger. In fact, I did that in a sermon some time ago. I told the congregation, “I am an angry man, and I haven’t licked it yet. Some of you may not have a handle on it either.” I got more response from that sermon than anything I had preached in a long time.
I didn’t find it an easy subject to talk about, but it’s a topic people want to hear about, because it’s something they are anxious to control.
• Ambition, pride, competitiveness. In our culture, these are socially acceptable faults. We may formally acknowledge them as wrong, but we secretly admire people who give in to such temptations, because these people are usually “successful.”
The danger for me, then, is acknowledging these faults yet using them as a means to brag subtly. When I do admit them, then, I don’t candy coat the harm they do to me or others.
• Failure. As a leader, I can’t go around admitting every little administrative blunder. But if the mistake is big, and if everyone knows it’s a mistake, I’ve got to admit it, at the time it happens or soon after.
When at Irvine, California, I was looking over the worship attendance numbers and, feeling ambitious, decided to recommend to the board that we increase our Sunday morning services to three. I presented my case, twisted a few arms, and finally convinced the board.
But I hadn’t done my homework. The numbers were wrong, and my growth projections were a couple years premature. Within a couple of months of trying the new schedule, the strain was becoming apparent—it was difficult to find people to do all the things necessary to pull off each worship service—ushers, greeters, lay readers, and so on. It was especially hard on our choir, who found themselves shuttling through more services than they cared for.
I went to a dear friend in the church and said, “Bob, I made a mistake.”
He laughed and said, more quickly than I would have liked, “You really did.” With that confirmation in hand, I went to the board and told them I was wrong, and I admitted that it was all my fault.
I could have let the board take the rap since they gave me the go ahead, but it ate at me. It was my information and vision, not theirs.
Some say we shouldn’t talk about our failures unless they are moral ones, and even then only discreetly. They argue that people who really need to know we failed probably already do. The best move is to make steps to correct the problem.
I don’t agree. If we’re going to announce our successes, we should be willing to admit when we’ve made a big mistake. Nothing can hurt a pastor’s credibility more than an inability to admit he or she is wrong. It’s nice to always be right, but it’s not reality.
Depending on one’s personality and the nature of the church we serve, the tension between living out the pastoral role and being genuine will be played out differently. But for me, the decision hinges on the answer to this question: Which will better enhance the ministry of Christ in the church? When I seek to answer that question, my reservations about playing the role and my enthusiasm for authenticity pale, and the glory of Christ better shines.
Copyright © 1991 by Christianity Today
