Politicians are satisfied with 51 percent of the constituency behind them. Pastors, however, feel the pain when even one critic in a hundred raises his voice.
—Marshall Shelley
Conflict in the church is unavoidable. It’s been that way from the beginning. The church began with a remarkable blend of close community and simmering conflict.
The Book of Acts describes a peaceful atmosphere: “All the believers were together and had every thing in common.…. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved” (Acts 2:44-47).
Only a couple of pages later, however, the situation has changed. Not only is the church threatened by outside enemies, but the extraordinary unity within was apparently short-lived.
Complaints arose about the way the church was caring for widows. Later, the church was divided over lifestyle expectations for new converts. Still later, Paul and Barnabas sharply disagreed over a staffing decision, and they parted ways.
Procedures, prerequisites, personnel—all areas that continue to challenge church unity today.
Pastors may feel the effect of conflict in the church more than most. One reason is that relationships are the professional priority of pastors. They know their effectiveness in the church is often judged by how well people work together. A second reason is that pastors tend to be “people persons,” relationally oriented. Getting along with people is important to them. And when relationships are strained, pastors often feel like failures.
Politicians are satisfied with 51 percent of the constituency behind them. Pastors, however, feel the pain when even one critic in a hundred raises his voice.
As editor of a journal for pastors, I’ve often sat with ministers who were discouraged by a church in conflict. They didn’t know how to respond; they felt that they were somehow to blame for the very existence of conflict. Perhaps that’s why the following story is so apt for pastors facing the trauma of a tussle.
When I first sat with Bob Moeller and heard his story, it resonated deep within me. He pastored two churches, and saw two completely different responses to his leadership. His story, and his biblical parallels, help clear our focus on conflict in the church.
Bob Moeller is now director of communications and assistant to the president of Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in Deerfield, Illinois. But his pastoral experience bleeds through his account.
He gives a couple of biblical models for leading God’s people amid tension. His story shows that situations may be long-standing and bigger than any one individual. He also demonstrates that pastors may not be responsible for the difficulty, but they can act responsibly within the situation.
In short, his story helps put conflict in perspective.
My two pastorates couldn’t have been more different. Two Sunday afternoons, less than three years apart, typify the contrasts.
The most recent afternoon began with an awkward lunch. The atmosphere reminded me of the meal following a funeral—people smile, comment on the food, but inwardly their hearts are broken. I knew mine was.
Joining us at the table was our district superintendent and an elder from a sister church in town. They had come at the request of our elder board to spend the afternoon listening privately to the complaints and accusations of individuals in our congregation.
What had begun sixteen months earlier as minor skirmishes was now a full-blown schism. The surface tension was over issues as petty as my decision to rearrange the office furniture. We also heard veiled complaints about the practice of certain spiritual gifts. But as I saw it, the real conflict was the issue of control—a small group in the church had served notice that they were in charge, not the board or the pastor.
I hoped that with the help of these experienced men from outside, we could confront the issues directly and resolve the conflict. But despite the encouraging words from the district superintendent, a long-time friend, I knew the truth: more than likely, my days of ministry there were ending. Regardless of who emerged victorious from the confrontation, the long conflict had taken its toll. There had been too many hurts, too many rumors, too many innuendoes and feelings of betrayal.
As with most church battles, the combatants were relatively few in number. I was reminded of a tactical lesson from military history: guerrilla forces need be only one-tenth the size of a conventional army to keep it hopelessly enmeshed in a no-win situation.
My wife and I were exhausted from the guerrilla warfare. We had nothing left to give. As I sat at the lunch table, waiting for the day’s events to unfold, I recalled another, much different, more pleasant Sunday afternoon.
This other afternoon was farewell day at my previous pastorate . We were finishing five years of difficult but fulfilling ministry in the inner city. A group of people who had once been ready to disband and give their building to a parachurch organization were now alive and aggressive in their purpose and mission.
The church had grown. It was feeding street people and attracting Native Americans to worship services. It distributed hundreds of pounds of clothes to the destitute. At times, so much food for the poor was donated from supporting churches that we had to stack it in the front pews of the sanctuary. The shewbread was once again in the temple feeding the hungry.
My wife and I were overwhelmed with the love we received in that small urban church. One cold, winter day, a 94-year-old woman from the congregation walked to our home with her Norwegian stew because she’d heard I was ill.
The Sunday afternoon we left, I held back tears as the church chairman and his wife cried while saying good-bye. It had been a sweet experience, working together to build God’s house in that place.
Two Different Roles
As I look back over these two experiences, a metaphor from the Old Testament helps me make sense of the two polar opposite pastorates: the life and destiny of David compared with that of Solomon.
David dreamed of building a temple for the Lord in Jerusalem. But he was prevented from doing so. God explained that it was not for him to be the architect and builder. David had been a warrior; he had shed too much blood. It would be his son Solomon who would construct the sanctuary and witness the glory of the Lord descend upon it.
Solomon reigned during a time of nearly unbroken peace in the land. He watched as his land blossomed with prosperity undreamed of by his ancestors. He watched as the temple grew and took form, and he led in the exhilarating experience of dedicating the building, when God himself appeared, to enter the Holy of Holies. His string of successes were untarnished for years on end.
Reflecting on my experiences, and those of other pastors, I’ve noticed that each of us may find ourselves following the path of David or Solomon or both during our ministries. We may play the role of a warrior in one setting and that of a temple builder in another. Perhaps both are in the will of God. Certainly each has inherent in them certain advantages and risks.
What Happens to a David
Some pastors find themselves in the role of a David; they’re perceived as warriors who challenge well-established and powerful forces. Such an individual is willing to endure conflict in order to address moral and spiritual issues that are vital to the well-being of the body, thereby clearing the way for the church’s future growth and ministry.
Few if any Davids remain in such a setting long enough to witness the grandeur of the completed temple. The cost of battle often is so high they become a casualty themselves, even if their cause is victorious.
These individuals are not contentious personalities who thrive on conflict, obsessive in their need to control others, who see their lives as a martyr’s lot. These are not the traits of a David. A true David finds such conflict in the church sad, painful, and regrettable but at times necessary.
What happens to a David? Let me suggest some advantages, dubious as they might seem at first, that result from serving as a David.
• You lay the groundwork for future church growth and spiritual prosperity. One maxim of church history is that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church (Tertullian). In less dramatic terms, that means the sacrifice and pain borne in guiding a church to spiritual healthiness will someday be rewarded.
I once asked a friend why he was leaving a prominent Christian organization in my city. His reply: “Once you tell the truth, it’s often impossible to stay.” To a certain extent that can be true in a pastorate: truth-telling can make this awkward.
Early in my ministry I had to face a situation that existed in a women’s Bible study. Under the guise of prayer requests, some women were telling stories about the failings of their husbands (or husbands of their friends). Not only was there potential for embarrassing individuals, relationships and careers could have been severely damaged. Though several women felt uncomfortable and vowed never to return to such a study, the practice went on for several years.
When I asked some of the leaders to exercise more discretion, they felt I was intruding on their ministry. It proved for me an unpardonable sin. From that day on, I was in trouble.
Yet, the strife that ensued eventually led to new leadership, who fostered a much healthier atmosphere and even opened the way for new women, particularly non-Christians, to be welcome in the group.
• You learn that God is more concerned with what happens in you rather than to you. In short, you attend the graduate school of character. As Chuck Swindoll says of suffering, “The tuition is free. It only costs you your life.”
As I became more bewildered over why I was in such hard circumstances, I began to believe that God was in all this in some way I couldn’t fully understand.
Interestingly, the Psalms became more practical and essential to my life than ever. And I learned what David learned: God is in control regardless of what people may do. I came not to hate criticism but to see it as an opportunity for God to examine my life and test my character. Was I able to respond gently, firmly, in an honorable way?
Though painful, I sensed a firmer foundation being laid in my faith.
• You develop close and meaningful relationships with key church leaders. There is no racism in foxholes. Likewise, the barrier between pastor and laity diminishes as you weather intense storms together. I came to love as brothers those who stood with me on the elder board. At great personal cost, they took action to discipline certain members of the congregation. Having been through some difficult hours together, we were a group who had become a team, even friends.
One of our elders, who had a history of heart problems, suffered a form of cardiac arrest while on the phone one night. After a leave of absence, to have a pacemaker inserted, he returned to the church more committed than ever to deal with the problems.
Such commitment is not found among “sunshine soldiers,” as Thomas Payne called them. Neither is deep camaraderie.
But besides the advantages, there are also some definite risks to serving as a David.
• You are misunderstood by those who have an inadequate theology of conflict. Some people see all conflict as sin. Their conclusion: you must be in sin (or at least an incompetent pastor) or there would not be this trouble. In their minds, the only spiritual church is one that’s free of conflict. While a conflict-free environment is everyone’s goal, it is often only arrived at by working through significant and difficult issues.
During one congregational meeting, one person pointed at me and said, “The trouble started with you!”
While that may or may not be true, it doesn’t always mean that trouble is unnecessary or unredemptive. I often think about the conflict in the ministries of the patriarchs, the prophets, Jesus, and the apostles. As they challenged wrong behavior or attitudes, they were perceived as the problem. As a result, some were sawn in two. At times, I’ve had a good idea what that must feel like.
• Once cast as a warrior, it’s almost impossible to change people’s perception. It’s similar to the Leonard Nimoy syndrome. Nimoy was the actor who played Mr. Spock in the television series. Star Trek. His distinctive character became so well-known that no matter the roles Nimoy played in later years, no one could imagine him as anyone but Mr. Spock.
Once a pastor is identified as a warrior, that reputation is extremely hard to shake. I spent hours with individuals in counseling, visitation, and personal discipleship. I worked to keep a balanced pastoral ministry. Yet to those who wanted to believe it, I was simply obstinate, the one they said “can’t get along with So-and-so.”
Some of my critics were outspoken. One Sunday morning after church, I met a real estate company president who had visited our church. Thanking me for the morning message, he confessed he had come just to meet the man his secretary could not say anything nice about!
• After prolonged conflict, you tend to lose perspective. While you try to focus on issues and not personalities, the longer the battle, the more they change places.
After decades of bloody feuding, the Hatfields and the McCoys, it is said, couldn’t remember what their initial argument was about. But that didn’t matter any longer. The issue had become people, whether one was a Hatfield or a McCoy. So it goes in churches, and warriors can easily forget that they should battle issues not people.
In such moments the words of Jesus to love enemies and to be kind to the spiteful take on new significance. I knew I was making progress when I could honestly tell the husband of a woman who had caused me great suffering that I loved them both.
But many are the temptations to cover our buried anger with self-deceptions such as, “I don’t hate them; I have only righteous indignation.”
What Happens to a Solomon
Now let’s consider what’s involved in being a Solomon, first examining some advantages.
• You receive affirmation and support from the congregation. Unlike a David, who is often controversial and misunderstood, a Solomon is liked by nearly everyone. After all, the visible signs of growth and prosperity are evident, and it’s easy to attribute at least some of that success to the pastor.
You don’t leave such a church with many enemies, and even those who disagreed with you begrudgingly admit you helped the church. Given a little time, your accomplishments tend to grow in the retelling.
I’ve never enjoyed a larger-than-life reputation, but in that small urban church, people remembered fewer of my mistakes and more of my successes. During the height of the crisis in my second church, my wife and I took a summer vacation that included a Sunday morning stop at my previous parish. I was given the opportunity to speak, so I briefly updated them on my family and thanked them for their ministry to my family while we were with them. When I finished, the congregation broke into applause. Such affirmation seemed almost schizophrenic given the problems I was facing in my current pastorate, but it was deeply appreciated.
• You observe the glory of God descend upon your church. One of the great rewards of ministry is seeing the hand of God touch our efforts. Apart from our merit. God regularly chooses to do things beautiful if not miraculous in our ministries. Solomon’s virtue was not the reason the glory of God descended on the temple at the day of dedication, yet Solomon was privileged to observe it and participate in that supernatural event.
In a similar way, I watched God work in our little church. We opened our church to the community for the first time on Thanksgiving. I had been there about three months, and though we had only seventy-five regular attenders, we ran an ad in the city newspaper, inviting people to come for a free turkey dinner with all the trimmings. The board members were nervous. What if there were problems? What if no one came? What if everyone came?
At sunset, as we opened the doors, I watched a stream of humanity pass through our doors and down to the basement—white, black, Hispanic, and Native American. Several of our ushers stood grimly with their arms crossed, ready for trouble. But none ensued, and by evening’s end we had fed 250 men, women, and children from the community. Our joy and celebration were evident: after cleanup, our 63-year-old church chairman was seen skipping across the empty room.
I cannot say I saw the glory of God descend in the same way that Solomon did, but I knew I was in the presence of the Almighty that evening. It was the beginning of good things to come.
• Your church is attractive to visitors. Within five minutes of arriving, visitors can read the atmosphere of a church. Warmth, acceptance, and joy seem to exude even from the narthex of some buildings. On the other hand, as a visitor myself I’ve entered churches and immediately felt a stale, death-like pall that seems to linger in the air. Tension or routine seem the order of the day.
With all these heady benefits, it’s easy to become oblivious to the risks of being a Solomon. But as many of us have learned, success can be far more treacherous to our spiritual well-being than failure. Consider some of the following not-so-obvious pitfalls of leading a united and prosperous parish.
• You are tempted to believe that your leadership alone is responsible for the great things that have happened. Watching programs expand and the budget rise is fun. It’s also dangerous, particularly if, as I was, you are young and in your first pastorate. I was naive enough to believe I was largely responsible for this success, and the devil helped nurse that illusion at every opportunity.
It takes a more seasoned and less presumptuous pastor to realize that if you are experiencing a time of relative peace and prosperity, others have probably paid an anonymous but enormous price to help pull that off. Somewhere on your property there ought to be a monument to The Unknown Pastor: that brave and selfless soul who gave some of his or her best years to lay the groundwork for the good things that are now happening.
Presumption is perhaps pride in its purest form. Herod welcomed the praise of the people when they proclaimed he was a god. Few of us are that arrogant, but still we secretly delight in overhearing conversations in which another credits the church’s growth to our arrival. It’s as deceptive as the lie that says all the trouble began when we arrived. The truth lies somewhere between: we inherit more than we create as pastors, whether for good or ill.
Looking back at my inner city experience, I can think of a long line of pastors who invested their lives in that place, and the one who served immediately before me perhaps deserves more praise than the rest. He stayed only two years. But in that time he argued that business as usual was no longer possible. By the time I came, the people were ready to listen. Though few realize it, I owe that young pastor and his wife most of my subsequent success.
• You are tempted to embrace neo-prosperity theology. In short, you are led to believe that God’s will for every pastor is to experience unbroken success and prosperity. To paraphrase Garrison Keillor, all the programs are good looking, and all the attendance figures above average. How wrong, perhaps even diabolical.
The writer of Hebrews tells us that God used many individuals in the past to accomplish feats of wonder. They conquered kingdoms, administered justice, gave the dead back to the living. But that’s not where the chapter ends.
It concludes by talking about a second group, a group who were too good for this world. They were persecuted; they went about in animal skins; they even lived in holes in the ground. But from God’s perspective, they are greater heroes than the first group.
How many of us think of the true heroes of the church as men and women who remain faithful while struggling in some lonely and forgotten town, selfish and angry critics constantly sniping at them. How can such sorrow and hurt be part of God’s will? Doesn’t he want us to live on an ecclesiastical roll? We’d all answer no, but at times, especially when the church was doing well, I’d tend to forget that.
During my second pastorate, it hurt to go to denominational gatherings, where others would boast of building programs and staff additions while I watched people leave my church because of conflict. I realized how smug I must have appeared the years figures were in my favor.
• You are tempted to become hardened to others’ pain. According to the Arabic proverb, “All sunshine makes a desert.” That is also true in living the life of a Solomon. It’s easy to become, little by little, less sensitive to people in pain.
During my heyday, I enjoyed being around people I considered winners. I had little time for the individual who seemed headed nowhere. I believed I was on a life-track that would curve upward. If colleagues were in trouble, it was their fault.
Granted, my pastoral success was meager, but at the time it appeared significant to me, as well as to my colleagues who were struggling to survive in their churches. But as they reached out for help from me, I didn’t listen. I’m afraid that on the road to Jericho I walked past many a wounded pastor and kept going.
When the tables were turned, though, I saw how shallow I had become. I was sharing my hurts with a fellow pastor one day. He listened with feigned patience and then replied, “You know, I’ve never experienced anything like that. Everywhere I have gone I’ve had a wonderful experience. I can’t remember anyone leaving my churches in anger.”
At first I felt hurt, then rage, then finally sorrow. He was handicapped. His own relative ease had disabled him from helping me. From that time onward, I no longer cursed my problems but began to ask God what he wanted to do in my life through my pain. If possible, I would become a wounded healer.
Farewell to Arms
The day I, as David, drove out of my second church, only a few people stopped by to say good-bye. As my wife and I headed into the desert, I knew a chapter of my life had closed.
The people had been gracious: when I submitted my resignation, they voted to reject it. I will never cease to be amazed by the confidence these people had in me despite the fact that during my pastorate we had lost almost seventy-five people. They gave us time to reconsider our decision during a leave of absence, which coincided with the birth of our fourth child. Yet, as my wife and I considered the larger picture, it seemed time to go.
I had put down the sword. The war was over.
The day I, as Solomon, left my first church my wife and I clung to friends and cried. The temple doors were closing behind us.
Which experience do I value more, that of being a warrior or a temple builder?
Sigmund Freud once said something to the effect that some-day, given enough time, those experiences of life that have been the most difficult will become to us the most precious of all. He was simply borrowing truth from Ecclesiastes which says God makes everything beautiful in his time.
I would gladly serve a thousand churches like my little inner city pastorate. But I would not trade all of them for my years in the desert.
Should a pastor be a warrior or temple builder?
Yes.
—Robert Moeller
Copyright © 1992 by Christianity Today
