I must raise the church’s sights to how mighty God is, while lowering their view of the problems.
—Michael Phillips
Only one week after I had candidated and been accepted as the new pastor of a different church, my future congregants began to call. Our conversations were not happy talk, not effusions of “Things are going to be great.” Rather, they dealt with the near, dark past and the frightening future.
“Pastor, we heard so-and-so is leaving.”
“Pastor, the church is going to fall apart.”
After the first frantic call, I said to my wife, “We made a big mistake.” In the days to come, two dozen more people called, intensifying my regret and foreboding.
In my ministry, I have begun more than one pastorate on a scarred battlefield. As new pastor in a civil-war-torn church, you face a frightening task. Though you gallop on the scene like a hero, with backslapping and cheers and words of encouragement, when you sit behind the desk the first week, the reality sets in—this church really has been at bayonet points. Casualties litter the field. Snipers are still firing. Many combatants remain mortal enemies. Morale is low. The church’s reputation is in rags. Soldiers are slinking off in the night.
Each time I find myself facing the same questions: How can I lead this people into a new day? Will they follow? Will I fail and not only stain the church’s name but soil the lives of good people?
In each setting, I’ve not only drawn increasingly on my experience, but I’ve sought the advice of battle-scarred but victorious pastors to help me bring healing to a war-torn situation. Here are a few things I’ve learned.
Reconnaissance patrols
In a war-torn church, I first must appraise the situation. My first question is What skirmishes are still begin fought?
In one church, I did reconnaissance by arriving in town before my family and staying with some of the families in the church. I had asked the board to recommend some of the families of younger Christians—they wouldn’t be so inclined to coat the past with pious veneer. They talked to me straight, telling me some of the whos, wheres, whens, whys, and hows of the battle.
The gathering of such information, though, requires diplomacy. In one situation a young mother spoke fondly of the former pastor’s wife—and then unleashed a broadside against her.
In such awkward moments, I try to sympathize with the pain they feel, while showing neither approval nor disapproval of the cause. I responded, “Sounds like you feel confused. You sound loving and yet angry.”
My approach seemed to help this woman. When we prayed, she voiced both her hurt and her love. In the months to follow, she played a central role in our church’s recovery. The peace that resulted from her healing served as an antidote for others.
I generally tried to bring issues into the open. I decided if this church was going to get back on its feet, we couldn’t play “Isn’t Everything Rosy.” People needed to know that I knew what went on. At one person’s home I casually said, “I understand you used to be Sunday school superintendent. Is there a reason you aren’t now?”
He wasn’t offended by my question. “Yes, I would like to tell you why I resigned,” he said. It turned out they were close to leaving the church because they were so devastated by a relatively minor problem.
I just listened, yet afterward he said, “I just needed to talk to somebody about this,” and within a year he was back serving in leadership.
At one meal with the leaders I said, “I want to hear the stuff you probably decided never to tell me.” They looked shocked for a few seconds, but then the board chairman mentioned two or three problems. Others filled in details that he didn’t know. We talked till one in the morning.
This had a profound effect. It pulled down the “Aren’t we the best congregation in the world” facade. Also it cleared the air—and made me a confidant. After that night they treated me as if I had been there for ten years, as if I had gone through this with them and could be a part of the solution.
I followed that evening up by going to individuals and saying, “I’m not here to condemn you or anything, but do you want to talk about what happened?” Generally they would. I didn’t give them any answers; I just let them know I was aware.
Often a pastor can go two or three years before he knows all these things. I wanted to know them all in the first couple of months. I wanted to be armed with the past so I could deal with present reality.
The second question I want to answer during this early reconnaissance is Who needs immediate rescue?
By the time I arrived at my present church, most people were no longer in crisis. Some combatants had fled to other congregations; others had decided to stick it out. Most crucial to me, then, were those who were undecided where they stood with any church or even with God.
“Pastor,” an elder confided one afternoon, “Mary and Bob are such fine people, but this has really confused them. Although they never used to miss services, I haven’t seen them for three weeks.”
This elder’s concern was justified. I invited Mary and Bob to my house for dessert and learned they were looking at other churches. But they still loved the people at our church. We talked further, and I shared my vision for the days to come. Eventually they decided to stay with us.
In this phase of the church’s recovery, I’ve also learned the necessity of dealing with those whom the church sinned against during the war. It was my conviction that if we were to receive God’s blessing, the biblical patterns of confession, repentance, and reconciliation had to be followed.
During the time I pastored our church, a man I’ll call Tom had never attended, but I knew his name well. His relatives and friends brought it up repeatedly.
Tom and members of his extended family had joined the church at the same time. Soon Tom’s brother and sister-in-law became close friends with the senior pastor, and Tom’s son with the youth pastor. But Tom, a widower, felt increasingly left out. The pastor would invite members of Tom’s family to his home, yet leave him out. On one occasion the pastor called the rest of the family to the platform and honored them, while Tom sat unmentioned in the pew.
One day he beefed to an elder. “Am I really on the outs? Does the senior pastor hate me? Am I a problem to him? Maybe I should just leave the church:” The elder informed the senior pastor. The pastor resented Tom’s comments and began to talk him down to other leaders. Attendance, due to friction between the pastor and the church, began to decline.
Several leaders suggested that Tom had an evil spirit that caused division among members. Word filtered back to Tom. When he tried to confirm the rumor with the pastor, he was told, “You ought to leave the church if you aren’t willing to change your attitude.”
He left. But the tension between the church and the pastor escalated, and eventually the pastor himself marched off the battlefield.
After the dust had settled, most people in the church realized that Tom had been mistreated. He was simply a lonely fellow who perhaps had said the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.
I decided that even though I was not the pastor involved, I was now the church’s representative and had a responsibility to approach him. After gaining approval from our ruling board, I went to Tom, confessed our sin, and asked forgiveness. We talked long into the afternoon, trying to piece together what had happened. We both wept. Later that week, several leaders went to Tom and confessed their part in the debacle. In the end, over thirty people did the same. Although he never did return to the church, I believe this set our church free for the future.
My third question is How healthy are we? And no matter the diagnosis, I have learned that the crucial tonics are teaching and preaching: I must raise the church’s sights to how mighty God is, while lowering their view of the problems.
Certain themes are vital. In each church I have pastored, the first year of my preaching is devoted to the Gospel of Mark. It is perfect for a war-torn church; it emphasizes healing and deliverance, showing the magnificence of Jesus’ miracle-working power. Several pastors who have successfully brought about major changes after a church disaster have told me they follow the same pattern: consistent preaching on healing themes, consistent teaching on God’s power.
Also, the more pastors I observe during this crucial first year of recovery, the more the word consistency comes up. Major shifts in procedures or policies create an imbroglio of emotions that fuel the inferno. My policy is to honor the old maxim: change only what must be changed for practicality’s sake. With one exception: let in wisps of creativity. Small innovations can open the window, if only a crack, and give that hint of fresh air that suggests a better future.
In one stagnant setting, I added a time in worship when individuals could talk and pray with another person.
In another church, we chose a triumphant theme hymn—”All Hail the Power of Jesus Name”—and sang it at the high point of every worship service.
Although none of these changes were monumental, they were all disproportionately effective. They eased people into thinking that more consequential changes were coming.
To raise the church’s hopes, I’ve also developed slogans or theme verses to summarize the church’s mission. In my present setting our watchword is “We Are a Hospital for the Soul.” It has helped us to shake an old perception in town (“If you want to get beat up, go to that church”).
In my experience, this early stage of reconnaissance and initial treatment has lasted a few months, sometimes up to a year. Then I move into a second phase of healing operations: getting the troops back into action.
Victory gardens
During World War II, one of the more inspiring innovations for the home front was the Victory Garden. In order to supply food needs both at home and the battlefield, people began to grow plots of corn, peas, potatoes, onions, with some turning their entire backyards into Victory Gardens.
The results were nothing short of miraculous. Older men and young children who felt left out of the crusade against evil could now support the cause in a tangible way. It boosted morale.
I have learned that Victory Gardens can also flourish in the wartorn church.
One hectic Friday afternoon, I received a call and soon wished I had left the receiver alone. “Pastor, I have a great idea,” the caller began. “Can I come over and share it with you?”
On my pastoral radar, the blips in our conversation showed a familiar pattern. All I could think was What do you want me to do, and how much time will it cost me? Reluctantly I agreed to meet.
Was I in for a pleasant surprise.
“Pastor Mike, every year just south of town,” the young woman began, “there is a rock festival, with drugs and alcohol everywhere. Sex and violence are common. God is telling me I should do something about it.”
This already sounded like a lot of work. I began thinking of ways to let her down gently. But when I mentioned my time constraints, she interrupted, “Wait a minute, Pastor. Did I ask you to do anything?”
“Well … no. But I thought you were going to.”
“No,” she said. “I simply want to know if you think it’s a good idea. I want to get a prayer team together. If you want to be a part of that, you are more than welcome.”
Prayer is something I can easily commit to, so I gladly signed on. By the third meeting, a quarter of the church was on their knees in travail over the horrors of this festival. And soon an idea was born: Why not plant a rescue mission right in the center of the din and throng?
At first the idea sounded ludicrous. How could we expect to do any good with such evil around? But the more we thought about the scene, the more convinced we were that this was our calling. So began our Victory Garden.
The entire church got involved. People cooked food for the workers and for anyone who wandered into our camp. One man built a forty-foot cross to hang over our tent. We trained many in evangelism techniques and deliverance ministry. Others gathered first-aid supplies. We arranged a schedule so that six people could be at the camp at all times.
When the party began, however, we felt like a balloon at a porcupine reunion. Motorcycle gangs cruised through our plot of ground. Drugs were everywhere. A man in a Winnebago parked right by our tent and turned up his Led Zeppelin and Def Leppard so loud that we couldn’t even hear ourselves talk. No one paid any attention as we attempted to hand out literature and strike up conversation. It seemed we were wasting our time.
So we prayed harder. Then about 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, some people carried a young man into our tent. He had fallen off his cycle and hit a tree. He was dead.
A crowd gathered. As friends and even strangers mourned, people from our church began to pray individually with them and talk about the Lord. In the hours to come, we led twenty people to Jesus. Our ministry to the rock festival had begun.
We have continued that outreach for the last six years, with significant results. More than two hundred have given their lives to Christ. At last count, seven of these have gone to Bible school, and most of the others are attending churches somewhere. It has also revolutionized our church, bringing spiritual excitement and a conviction that God’s power is working through us.
Recovery signs
Improved morale is the first sign of recovery, but morale alone is not sufficient foundation to conclude recovery is complete. I also look for signs of maturity.
I am not a gardener nor the son of a gardener, but I do grow tomatoes for our salads. With minimal weeding and fertilizer, I’ve had pretty good success. Until last spring. The leaves of my plants were yellowing and falling off. Four of the ten plants withered and died. So I fertilized and watered like crazy, only to have two more plants turn critical.
Meanwhile, at the supermarket I overheard two ladies discussing their tomatoes. One remarked how wet the spring had been and how her tomatoes were suffering. She added, “But if I don’t water them for a few weeks, they’ll be fine.”
I went home and turned off the sprinkler. Within a month, every plant greened. They doubled in height, and my mouth watered.
Similarly, after the congregation has begun to heal, I find that if I push people too hard for overly ambitious undertakings, they begin to yellow and fall away. Although a church has recovered its enthusiasm, it hasn’t necessarily regained full maturity. I look for three signs that suggest maturity is keeping pace with morale.
The ability to overcome adversity. One of our church member’s was arrested for sexually abusing his foster daughter. Reeling over this man’s wrongdoing, many in the church wondered, “How can we love him? What do we do now?”
The man’s sentence allowed him to occasionally attend our services, and I carefully watched to see how people reacted. Many hugged him tearfully; some maintained a cool distance. He had sought forgiveness from us for his crime, and many granted it personally. The elders each invited him over to their homes to talk and have prayer.
In short, there was love and grace and healthy caution—three grown-up reactions for a sprouting church. Their warmth and willingness to forgive showed me they had what it took to keep growing.
Spontaneous discipleship. In our ministry to those in the drug culture, I soon developed a wait-and-see attitude regarding the depth of a convert’s commitment. One young woman, whom we’ll call Laura, a new Christian of but a few months, concerned me. Laura phoned me one day to say that an old boyfriend, also an addict, had reentered her life. She requested prayer for him.
Then she missed three or four Sundays in a row. Unfortunately, because of a host of new attenders, I overlooked her absence. When I finally noticed, I arranged a visit.
When I arrived, a young woman opened the door. “Pastor, this is a great surprise!”
I, too, was surprised, for the person who had greeted me was one of our deaconesses. She and Laura were in the middle of prayer. I learned that they had been meeting three times a week to pray together, and just that week the old boyfriend had left for California. The crisis had passed, and she has been in church ever since. That kind of initiative at tracking fellow believers also signals maturity.
Concern beyond our four walls. After being sick, I can always tell when I’m getting better: the needs of others get as much attention as my own pain. This is also a sign that a church has recovered from the welter of war.
Before I came to one previously embattled church, another nearby church had made efforts to bring peace to our congregation. Instead, opinions and feelings were expressed between the churches, creating a brittle relationship. When I arrived, the other church remained aloof from me and the congregation.
I ignored the problem until several years later. Through no fault of their own, their church came under mammoth financial strain. Member churches in our denomination rallied to help—and we joined them. When I totaled our contribution, it exceeded one month of our budget.
This willingness to sacrifice continued in other ways. That year our missionary giving almost doubled. One whole service was devoted to intercession for the son of a pastor who lived hundreds of miles away. The church even volunteered to help in the program of a local church of another denomination.
First-love recovery
Recently I received a note from a member: “Pastor, I don’t know what’s happening in everyone else’s life,” it said, “but I sure feel safe and loved here.” With her permission I read the letter to the congregation, and many others rose and reaffirmed her words.
That night signaled something else to me. Our grim civil war was history.
Some time ago, I read about a woman who discovered something remarkable while digging in her flower garden. With her trowel she jabbed what she thought was a piece of plastic. Then she realized it was a ring. She brought it into the house and polished it. It was her wedding ring, lost twenty years earlier.
The timing of her find was remarkable, coming the day before her fortieth wedding anniversary. That evening when her husband came home, she presented it to him. He picked it up, shed a few tears, and placed it on her finger, reciting again his marriage vows.
In many ways, as I’ve pastored war-torn churches, I feel as if I have had the privilege of helping them find long-lost rings.
Copyright © 1997
