Pastoring the deeply wounded is actually a gift. It exposes my impatience.
—Matthew Woodley
For the third time in a week, Ed Hastings burst into my office with a health crisis—only this time, it was really serious. He threw his arms around me and began to weep. “Pastor Matt,” he choked, “you better start planning my funeral. I think I have AIDS.”
As it turned out, Ed had never engaged in high-risk behavior nor had he been tested for AIDS. It was simply Ed’s way to up the ante on his personal problems.
So as he clung to me sobbing and shaking, I began to mentally list his other ailments. Over the past seven years, Ed had called the Mercy Ambulance crew for half a dozen alleged heart attacks (one during a worship service), two cases of dehydration (he forgot to drink), an ulcer, and a possible hernia (it was just a pulled groin muscle). I also recalled my tri-weekly sessions to deal with Ed’s depression, addictions (including pot, sex, alcohol, prescription drugs—to date), suicidal thoughts, relational crises, employment struggles, family problems.
For six years I had pastored Ed through every crisis, praying with him in countless hospitals and emergency rooms. But his “AIDS crisis” was the last straw. I finally realized that Ed’s soul functioned like a sieve: the more I poured in, the more he leaked out. After dozens of crisis counseling sessions, Ed was still looking to me to fill him up, and my arm was weary from pouring.
Whether we like it or not, Ed represents a growing subgroup in our increasingly dysfunctional society. Carl George calls them EGRs—the Extra-Grace-Required parishioners. Gordon MacDonald prefers VDPs—Very Draining People. I like CWN—the Chronically Wounded and Needy parishioner.
Who Are CWNs?
Like Ed, every CWN is deeply wounded. Often traumatized by abuse, abandonment, or family dysfunction, CWNs limp through life. Their wounds are real, though they develop self-defeating methods to seek healing.
CWN parishioners exude neediness. And they are often clear about who can cure their neediness: the pastor, who is friend, guru, and handy therapist. So they hang around the church. They cling. If ignored, they may pout or create a new crisis—anything to get the focus back on their needs.
Third, this is usually a chronic condition. There is no quick fix—a fact I have often failed to appreciate. Instead, I have thrown myself into fixing a schizophrenic young mother, a transvestite father of three, a teenager with fetal alcohol syndrome, a young woman with borderline personality disorder, and, of course, Ed, the hypochondriac. But after exhausting my bag of pastoral tools, most of these people were still wounded and broken.
By demanding so much and giving so little, people like Ed Hastings leave their pastors—and sometimes the entire church—feeling confused, tired, and frustrated. How can we minister to the chronically wounded and needy without feeling chronically tired and used up?
I try to remember a few practical steps that help me while I’m helping people like Ed.
Practice Christlike Acceptance
CWNs burn up pastoral fuel and then press harder on the accelerator. It’s easy to resent their presence. Healthier church members often gossip or gripe about CWNs. “Remember, Pastor,” a pillar of the church sternly warned me, “that element (referring to CWNs) doesn’t pay the bills around here.”
Personally, though, I can’t imagine Jesus gossiping about those chronically wounded lepers or griping about that incredibly needy Gerasene demoniac. Christ accepted them. He touched them. He healed them. True, Jesus spent only a minority of his time with the chronically needy, but there was space in his schedule for some powerful ministry encounters with CWNs. Jesus never anesthetized his heart to the hurt that surrounded him.
I try to remember that every CWN is bearing a painful soul wound. Consider Mike, who for years struggled with deep-seated transvestitism. Most people couldn’t or didn’t want to understand Mike’s struggles. They never listened long enough to hear the incredible brokenness in Mike’s past: two abusive older brothers who ridiculed his masculinity, a needy mother who dressed him in girl’s clothing, and a violent father who affirmed only little girls. This doesn’t justify Mike’s sinful choices (something he freely acknowledges), but it shows that Mike the very draining person is also Mike the very damaged person.
Prayer helps me cultivate an attitude of acceptance for CWNs. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “I can no longer condemn or hate a brother for whom I pray, no matter how much trouble he causes me” [or how much he drains me]. “His face, that hitherto may have been strange and intolerable to me, is transformed into the countenance of a brother for whom Christ died, the face of a forgiven sinner.”
CWNs are not just a category; they are precious souls for whom Christ died. They may drain me of resources, but Jesus continues to weep and wait for their healing. So I must begin and continue my ministry with the wounded and needy by quietly, humbly, obediently accepting them as Jesus accepts them.
Communicate Clear Boundaries
This may seem a contradiction to acceptance, but only if we confuse that with availability. They are not the same.
Chronically wounded people usually overdose on an unlimited supply of pastoral availability. Like Ed Hastings, they often expect, even demand, my availability—anytime, with any crisis. It was a perfect match: I was chronically available; Ed remained chronically needy. I reinforced his clergy-dependence; Ed reinforced my need to be needed.
The solution was simple but painful: communicate clear boundaries. Lovingly but firmly, I lowered Ed’s expectations of my availability. When Ed entered a twenty-one-day treatment program for marijuana addiction (his fourth treatment program), I expressed my concern and promised my prayer support, but I told Ed I would not visit him during this inpatient program: “Ed, you are too dependent on others, and I want to give you the space you need to grow strong in God’s love.”
This may seem blunt, but Ed never grasped all my previous hints and implied boundaries. Working with people like Ed has led me to three principles regarding boundary-setting:
1. I must take the initiative. If I don’t, people like Ed will innocently assume total pastoral availability.
2. Boundaries must be specific, clearly defining when and where I will be available. Vague boundaries won’t work.
3. With love and gentleness, I must verbalize boundaries and then lovingly stand my ground.
John, a severely dysfunctional twenty-year-old, had a knack for calling me at home during critical family times—supper, bedtime stories, sibling rivalries, Home Improvement. His timing was uncanny. (I think he bugged the house.) Finally, I set the following boundary: “I’d love to talk to you, John, but I can’t accept calls at home anymore. If you call me at church, I’ll give you my full attention.” It may take a few more supper-hour calls, but it’s important to stand by my boundary—for my family’s sake, and for John’s sake.
Boundary setting has felt cold and unpastoral, yet I believe it’s necessary for pastoral effectiveness. For the CWN, it can foster spiritual growth. Henri Nouwen calls this a “ministry of absence.” Without establishing clear boundaries, Nouwen contends, “We ministers have become so available that there is too much presence and too little leaving … too much of us and too little of God and his Spirit.”
I have sometimes been so available that needy people used me as a substitute high priest. Unwittingly, I usurped Christ’s role in the sanctification process. By prayerfully limiting my availability, I’m encouraging CWNs to stand up straight and receive the healing that only Christ can give.
Pursue Servanthood, Not Only “Success”
For the first six years of my ministry, I assumed I could solve every CWN’s problem. Success was my focus.
It never occurred to me that some deeply wounded people might go backward instead of forward. After renewing his commitment to Christ, Mike vanished, most likely rejoining the transvestite subculture of Las Vegas. Darlene, a schizophrenic mother with a young son, started a new “wonder” drug, regained custody of her son, and even joined our church choir. But within four months, everything had unraveled. Darlene left the church, lost her son, and returned to the local psychiatric ward.
Ministering to CWNs involves an openness to failure. I won’t help every CWN. I may take all the right steps—sowing the seed, tilling the ground, watering the vulnerable plant—and still see no fruit. Or if a small harvest is reaped, it may take years of toil and sweat.
This reality challenges my notion of pastoring. I prefer—sometimes demand—success. At the least, I want to avoid failure. So I gravitate toward people who will make me look and feel successful about my ministry. The chronically wounded usually don’t qualify as success-enhancers.
They do, however, qualify as servanthood-enhancers. People like Ed, Mike, and Darlene have taught me a profound lesson: servanthood, not success, is my calling. Success is about me, my need for approval and control; servanthood is about God, my heart’s longing to glorify him. Success craves applause, growth, efficiency. Servanthood is content with the intangible “Well done” of the Master.
So pastoring the deeply wounded is actually a gift. It exposes my impatience and self-centered agendas about ministry. Slowly, painfully, I relinquish my unholy hankering for success. Then, as Jesus calls me into the freedom of servanthood, I can wait quietly for the Holy Spirit to heal in his way and in his timing.
Encourage Spiritual Growth
Unlike the paralytic who picked up his bed and walked home, a CWN parishioner might roll off his mat and crawl a few feet. The spiritual learning curve is abnormally long and flat. That’s the bad news. On the bright side, there’s always lots of room for growth. And since God can make it happen, I can join with him by faithfully encouraging spiritual growth.
I like to support small steps of spiritual growth by asking two simple questions:
1. What goals would you like to set?
2. What gifts would you like to share?
The first question deals with spiritual goal setting. Consider Christ’s direct approach to blind Bartimaeus: “What do you want me to do for you?” (Mark 10:51). Recently, as Ed complained about a new crisis in his life, I interrupted and asked a similar question: “Ed, by God’s grace working in you, what can you do—just one thing—to make your life better?”
Ed was stunned. For over three decades Ed cruised in spiritual reverse, or in his better moments, spun his tires in the ditch. It never occurred to him that he could move forward in his spiritual life.
Much to my surprise, Ed returned a week later with not one but two goals: he wanted to finish his GED, and he wanted to pray every morning. Obviously, two goals won’t place Ed on the expressway of discipleship. But at least Ed now views spiritual growth as an option.
The second question is “What gifts can you share?” Because they’re hurting, many CWNs are mired in a taker mode. Ed spent hours every week dwelling on his problems, taking from me, taking from his family, taking from the church. But then again, we let him. We never invited Ed to offer something in return.
I now assume that eventually even the deeply wounded can share gifts with the congregation. I prefer the direct approach: “What gifts can you share to enrich the body of Christ?” Or, more bluntly, “What can you do around here for God?”
One CWN parishioner was thrilled to bake the bread for our Communion service. Recently I asked an emotionally disturbed adolescent boy to serve as my “worship prep specialist.” Every Saturday night he prepares the sanctuary for the Sunday service.
All this pastoral encouragement may lead only to little spiritual goals and little gift sharing. But for the CWN, any progress is big.
Connect With Other Resources
I can’t do everything for my CWNs. I cannot provide the long-term therapeutic relationship that is sometimes required. I cannot give medical advice. I cannot pay the rent. I cannot fill the role of omnipresent mentor-friend-guide.
This simple fact forces me to collaborate with other resources. Obviously, I need to network with the medical community, good counselors, and social service agencies. But we often neglect one handy and free resource—the body of Christ. Some saints will balk at the idea of helping the emotionally needy. But I’ve found saints just waiting to be asked, who will volunteer as mentors, friends, or lay counselors.
An experienced grandma in our church walked Darlene through the darkest days of her schizophrenia. I asked Dick, a retired engineer and widower, to mentor some foster boys; last summer he hauled them to weekly softball practices. Everyone benefits from these connections—me, the mentors, and the wounded.
Working with CWNs also requires that I connect with resources for myself. I love my needy parishioners, but they can reduce my spiritual flame to a dim flicker. Then my soul longs for my mentor, a godly pastor friend who comes beside me to reignite my passion.
Keep Bringing Them to Jesus
Early in my ministry, I told my seminary adviser about my first encounter with an entire family of CWN parishioners. His advice was simple, direct, and (so it seemed at the time) incredibly shallow: “Just keep bringing them to Jesus.” I was disappointed. Actually, the next day I was a bit disgusted. This guy gets paid to train pastors, I thought to myself, he writes articles on ministry, he leads workshops on pastoral care—be even has a doctorate! And that’s the best he can do: “Keep bringing them to Jesus”?
I think I finally know what he was saying: “As a pastor you are just a little channel for Christ’s love and grace. You—your wisdom and counseling techniques, even your love—are not the source of healing. Christ is the Source. So never forget your primary calling—to bring needy people into the presence of Jesus.”
His unadorned advice constantly points to my greatest resource in ministering to the wounded—prayer. Not just praying for people, but praying with them, entering the presence of Jesus together. “The ministry of prayer for healing,” writes Leanne Payne, a veteran in praying for the deeply wounded, “consists simply of learning to invoke the Presence of the Lord, of coming into that Presence with the needy one, and there listening for the healing word that God is always sending to the wounded and alienated.”
Too often I’ve neglected the incredible resource of healing prayer. For five years I ministered to David, a young CWN struggling with depression, low self-esteem, loneliness, and a constant barrage of dark and fearful dreams. All of these combined to create a deep sense of spiritual oppression and hopelessness.
For five years I helped David. I offered advice. I encouraged him. I listened. I set goals with him. I prayed for him.
God used my efforts, but I always sensed that David needed something more. He needed to encounter Jesus, not just me. So after a worship service, I quietly anointed David with oil and prayed with him, bringing him into Christ’s healing presence. I simply asked Jesus to reveal his love deep into David’s heart, even into the hopelessness and fear. I’ll never know the long-term results of those prayers, but I do know that something shifted in David’s soul. The dark dreams disappeared. The hopelessness lifted. More important, the focus of David’s life was reoriented from his neediness to Christ’s love and power. David is still wounded and needy, but he’s also trusting Christ to heal and transform him.
Healing prayer (or “bringing people to Jesus”) is not a quick fix. It doesn’t bypass the process of slow, steady growth. It doesn’t remove the need for pastoral acceptance, encouragement, boundaries, even professional counseling or lay mentoring. Sometimes it simply reorients the wounded and needy, directing them to the proper source of healing—Christ. Then, like David, the chronically wounded and needy can become the continually transformed and hopeful.
Copyright © 1997
