Maintaining a Pastor's Heart - Christianity Today

To have a pastor’s heart means to enter into the joy as well as the pain of our congregations, even when the joy and the pain are just moments apart.
—Kent Hughes

Kirsten is blond and blue-eyed, a stunning beauty. She has attended our church for several years and has been a deeply committed Christian for as long as I’ve known her. When she became engaged to a young man named Stephen, the two of them asked me to do their wedding.

Together, they were a picture-perfect couple. Kirsten’s tall athletic beauty was matched by Stephen’s lean, muscular good looks. Though only in his mid-twenties, Stephen was already employed in an extremely lucrative profession. In addition, Stephen had recently committed his life to the Lord and had immediately immersed himself in his newfound faith.

The day of the wedding came—a rainy day in spring. Yet nothing, not even rain, could dampen the joy and excitement of that day—or so I thought.

The wedding was scheduled for 4:30 in the afternoon. I was already at church at 3:30, preparing for the wedding ceremony, when the phone rang. It was Janet, a young woman in our congregation. Her husband Ray, who was only in his late thirties, had died suddenly only an hour before. He had no history of heart problems, yet he had dropped dead of a massive heart attack while doing light yard work.

Compressed into the space of a couple hours on this rainy spring was the full range of emotions that sometimes ebb, sometimes surge in the heart of a pastor. Here were the great joys, the rude shocks, the deep sorrows, all jumbled together. Ray was one of the most vital members of my congregation. In a heartbeat, he was gone. How do you go into the sanctuary and perform a wedding ceremony on top of news like that?

And yet doing just that is what is required of a pastor. We enter into the joy as well as the pain of our congregation, even when the joy and the pain are just moments apart. To be a pastor is to immerse ourselves authentically in the emotion of the moment, whatever that moment means in the life of our congregation.

So I performed the wedding ceremony. It was a joyous wedding, and I fully entered into that joy, sharing in the triumph of my friends Stephen and Kirsten.

Then, as soon as the wedding was over, I got in my car, drove home through the rain, picked up my wife Barbara, and went to comfort the grieving young widow. For her, it was a time of intense grief, and my wife and I entered into that aching grief along with her and her family and friends.

It is rare, of course, for the highs and lows to come as crowded together as they did that day. But I look back on the whipsawing emotions of that afternoon as an “emotional electrocardiogram”—a tracing of a few heartbeats that symbolize the entire sweep of a pastor’s life and ministry.

Good Pastors Have Heart Problems

To have a pastor’s heart, it is necessary to have a heart problem—an enlarged heart. To be effective pastors, we must enlarge our love and make ourselves vulnerable. And when we do that, it is inevitable that we will experience a godly angina, a deep and piercing pain of the heart. As C. S. Lewis observes in The Four Loves, a heart that loves is a heart that knows pain:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly he wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to be sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

One man who had an enlarged pastor’s heart was an English missionary named James Gilmour. Beginning in the 1870s, he was the pioneering missionary to Mongolia, scattering the gospel over completely unplowed ground. Upon his arrival in Mongolia, he wrote in his journal, “Several huts in sight! When shall I be able to speak to the people? 0 Lord, suggest by the Spirit how I should come among them, and guide me in gaining the language, and in preparing myself to teach the life and love of Christ Jesus!”

Twenty years later, his missionary effort in Mongolia came to a dose, and he made a final entry in his journal, which read, “In the shape of converts I have seen no result. I have not, as far as I am aware, seen anyone who even wanted to be a Christian.” Almost a quarter century of labor and not a single convert!

How could a man give that much of his life to a missionary effort without ever seeing any results from his labor? What could have compelled him to stay, year after year, in the face of such complete rejection? Only one thing: an enlarged heart, a vulnerable heart, and ultimately a broken heart, full of pastoral love and concern for people.

A variety of people and circumstances common to the pastorate make maintaining a pastor’s heart a challenge. But a few observations and strategies have been of great help to me.

Developing a Heart for the Unlovely

There are times when we are called to counsel people who are so ego centered and inward—imploded—that it takes everything we have to listen to them. I have actually found myself unconsciously digging my nails into my palms to maintain concentration when listening to such people, for there are few things more tedious than the soliloquy of a self-centered soul.

So how do we in ministry maintain a pastor’s heart for such people? By acting as if we love them, by “putting on love.” We listen to the monologue, offer counsel, confront, and pray as a volitional act of love. And in doing so we actually do love and develop love.

This was a family friend’s poignant experience when she and her husband spent a missionary furlough here in the States. As would be expected, she was looking forward to a time of rest and quiet—especially since she was going to have a place of her own, for they had been able to buy a small townhouse with their meager resources. She is creative and, with little, made her townhouse quite attractive, especially her patio.

All went well until new neighbors, who could be best described as “coarse,” moved in. They played loud music day and night, overlaid with constant shouts and obscenities. Soon their windows were broken and unrepaired. They urinated on the front yard in broad daylight. Not only were they degenerate, they also seemed mentally deficient—beyond help. My friend could see no good in them whatsoever.

During all this she had been praying that the Lord would make her more loving, but all she could muster was disgust and rejection. Then came the day when she returned home to find that her neighbor’s children had scaled her patio wall, discovered a can of orange paint, and sprayed her patio—walls, floors, everything. She tried to pray but found herself crying and saying, “I hate them! I don’t have it in myself to love. I hate them!”

She knew her heart was in trouble and began to converse with the Lord in her inner being, and God’s Word came to her from Colossians, “And beyond all these things put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity.” (3:14). How do I put on love? she wondered. It seems so impossible and hypocritical.

Finally, she concluded that putting on love must, in some way, be like putting on a coat. And so, phony or not, this is what she determined to do. She willfully cloaked herself in the love of God. She began by making a list of what she would do if she really loved them: bake cookies, offer to baby-sit free, invite the mother over for coffee. Soon she found herself, pie in hand, knocking on the door.

In the following weeks, she carried out her love list. And gradually she began to understand something of the pressures in their lives. And she began to truly care.

The day came that the family had to move. And do you know what happened? Our friend wept! She had seen no change in them, but she had changed. By putting on love she had come to love.

So it will be for the pastor who, in obedience to God’s Word, puts on love for the unlovely. Hypocrisy? No. Obedience to God’s Word is the path to authenticity—and a loving pastor’s heart.

Mercy for the Manipulative

Mrs. Crawford was an attractive woman in her forties who had recently been through a divorce. At the time she came to me for counseling, she was a lonely and troubled woman—and also manipulative. As I listened to her during her second appointment, I was taken back by her unexpectedly saying, “I am so lonely. And you’re so cold and distant.”

Clearly she was trying to make me feel responsible for her loneliness, while at the same time attacking my pastoral persona—the idea being that if I were a good pastor, I would come around the table and be less “distant.”

Without a moment’s pause I looked Mrs. Crawford in the eyes and said with a consciously arctic tone, “There’s a table here between you and me. That table is here for a reason. And you know what it is. You have probably noticed that I have left the door ajar. This is because I care for you and my ministry. Now, if I was as cold and aloof as you say I am, I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to help you.”

That was the end of the manipulation! And we proceeded to deal with her concerns. I counseled her one more time—giving her substantial help, I think, and then referred her to a competent Christian woman in our church, under whose guidance she did well.

A pastor’s heart, though tender and compassionate, must never be naive or easily intimidated. A heart that can be manipulated will help no one. As I like to say, “I may be born again, but I wasn’t born yesterday!”

Care-full Administration

Many pastors loathe administration because they don’t enjoy it and because they regard administrative duties as keeping them from “ministry”—prayer, the study of God’s Word, and shepherding the flock. Some are convinced that administration is detrimental to a pastor’s heart.

And, indeed, administration can squeeze out the essentials. Not a few have been suffocated by the endless letters, memos, newsletters, and phone calls, as well as staff, board, committee, and private meetings.

I manage to carve out a healthy twenty-five to thirty hours a week for prayer, study, and sermon preparation. Sometimes I’d still like to set fire to the memos and notes to call people back that sit on my desk. Yet I refuse to abandon administration because I’ve come to see how it can enhance my essential ministry—caring for the church.

The Greek word for administration literally refers to a helmsman or a captain who steers a boat. In the New Testament, then, it carries the meaning “one who guides or governs.” To put it another way, administration is a way to disciple people, to guide people into a greater experience of God’s love and a fuller obedience to his commands.

Administrating a multiple staff is time-consuming to say the least. In addition to a weekly four-hour breakfast, prayer, and staff meeting, I usually consult individually with each staff member through the week. During these meetings my philosophy and vision are most effectively communicated—that’s when they are “caught.” And through the staff, I’m giving pastoral direction to the entire church.

This is also true of the prosaic “busy things” that try to crowd our lives—the letters, memos, and phone calls. However, I’ve noticed that the tone of letters and conversations, over time, have a vast influence over the ethos and direction of a church.

Similarly, I’ve found that the time I’ve invested in meetings with our Council of Elders (the ruling board of our church) has paid rich pastoral dividends. We’ve not only developed close relationships, they’ve also become strong advocates of the church’s ministry. My pastoral heart has been multiplied by administration.

When I view administration not as “grunt work” but as work that advances the larger goals of glorifying our Lord and equipping and sanctifying his people, then these tasks cease to be onerous. No longer do I resist the “intrusion” of these chores on my ministry, because they are indispensable to effective ministry. Ultimately, the distinction between what is “administration” and what is “ministerial” is simply a matter of perspective. For me administration is a matter of the heart—a form of pastoral care.

Choreographing Compassion

I sometimes hear pastors moan that it’s almost impossible to maintain a pastor’s heart under the pressure of a jam-packed, morning-to-midnight schedule. And I think it’s true: the kind of pressure-cooker existence many pastors endure can indeed squeeze the heart right out of a person. There have certainly been times in my own ministry when I have felt that way.

Yet at such times, I have to ask myself. Who packed your schedule, Kent? And then I have to confess before God, “I packed it. I didn’t say no to this event. I agreed to write that article. I took on that extra speaking engagement.”

I am responsible for the disordered state of my schedule —not my parishioners, not my elders, not my secretary. If other people seem to be controlling my time, it’s because I have abdicated, handed control over to them. I have no one to blame but myself.

Amazingly, we seem to find the time to do those things we truly want to do. If we like to garden, we find time to get out in the yard and putter. If we like baseball or football, we manage to get in a game or two during the week, even if other things have to take a back seat.

I believe most of us have all the time we need to do what really needs to get done. The problem is that we shoot ourselves in the wristwatch by failing to adequately choreograph our schedules. The axiom: If we do not control our time, someone else will.

For me, this means I must lay out my schedule to my secretary. I say, “I have time for appointments between 3:00 and 5:00 p.m. on these days. I have lunch appointments open on these days. If there are some who can’t see me during those hours because of their jobs, I can take appointments from 8:30 to 10:00 on Wednesday nights, or Thursday morning for early breakfast.” And I don’t vary those boundaries, except, of course, in the case of a genuine emergency—and there are many!

Appointments are set up in blocks of a half hour, no more. Most people, if they know they have thirty minutes, get down to what they want to talk about. If more time is needed, we can schedule an additional appointment. That may sound rigid. But I find I’m more effective in caring for the deep human needs of my congregation by being in control of my time. I have been able to put my pastor’s heart to more effective use.

Threats to a Pastor’s Heart

If some areas of the pastorate challenge our ability to maintain a pastor’s heart, other things threaten to undermine it completely.

• Our emotional neediness. Our pastor’s heart can easily be undermined by our own emotional neediness. Many of us can put our finger right on the emotional or spiritual problems of our parishioners, while being completely ignorant of the hidden needs, urges, and drives that propel our own lives.

Some of us are literally need driven. We need to be needed. We derive our feelings of self-worth and success as a pastor from having people affirm us, depend on us, crowd our schedule, and tell us how wonderfully self-sacrificing we are. So we run around, answering the phones, going to all the meetings, working around the clock—all because of our feelings of personal inadequacy, our craving to be liked by others, our need to be needed.

To maintain a genuine pastor’s heart in the face of this temptation, I’ve found it helpful to remind myself of the obvious: I am not God. I am not responsible to answer to everyone’s needs. Furthermore, God doesn’t need me, nor does the church. I am, in fact, expendable. God can replace me at the drop of a hat.

Once this truth sinks in, I’ve found I can do my job more effectively and more intelligently. I learn to delegate more, to choreograph my schedule more sensibly, and to live realistically within my limits.

• Criticism. A pastor’s heart can also be undermined by criticism and opposition. Unfortunately, criticism just goes with the pastoral turf. We can’t escape it.

To begin with, all pastors are human and make mistakes, so a lot of criticism we receive is accurate, whether or not it is well-intentioned. Criticism always stings. However, it is indispensable to our learning and growth.

But apart from the constructive criticism that comes our way, there also come unjust attacks in the form of rumors, innuendoes about our character, and insults—sometimes blatant and sometimes subtle. The criticisms we take home are the ones that can erode a pastor’s heart.

Moreover, pastors rarely suffer unfair criticism alone. Spouses sometimes suffer these injustices even more intensely than pastors. A typical example is for a husband to come home and share some barb he has received that day, and then forget it—only to find days later that his wife is still smarting!

What to do when we’re attacked? Certainly criticism must be met with a gentle spirit and forgiveness. As Frederick Buechner has reminded us, we must resist the temptation to lick our wounds and chew on our grievances because we will find that the skeleton at the front is us!

Yet at the same time, many pastors by temperament and training wrongly absorb abuse—and thus allow harm to come to the people they love the most.

But being an ecclesiastical doormat is not biblical. Sometimes for the sake of the church, my family, and the critical offender, I must confront my critic. Pastors’ hearts can be undermined by criticism if they turn us into passive pastoral punching bags, hemorrhaging unseen anger and bitterness till our insides are empty.

My answer is not to start swinging. There are times, for which the Scripture supplies guidance (Matthew 18:15-17, Galatians 6:1), to confront destructive critics.

But in any case, I’ve found it most helpful to follow the model given by Jesus. When he was reviled, he reviled not. He never sought redress. He forgave his enemies. Moreover, he prayed for those who hurt him. In fact, I regularly pray for my critics, asking God to bless them.

Job tells us that “the Lord restored the fortunes of Job” when Job prayed for his detractors (Job 42:10). My experience reveals that in terms of my external relationships with my critics, sometimes that happens and sometimes not. But when I follow the example of Jesus, my pastoral heart is restored—and strengthened.

• Problems at home. There have been times when listening to a parishioner intone a prosaic concern that I have thought, I’ll trade you for some of mine!

Concern over one of my children or a spat with my wife can loom bigger than life, emptying me of my ability to concentrate and give the needed empathy, intelligent interaction, and spiritual council my people so need.

The irony is that giving my people the honest, heart-felt attention and engagement they need is precisely the thing that can bring toxic stresses to the manse.

A pastor friend was sitting at the breakfast table one morning with his family. His children were trying to talk to him, but his mind was already at church, contemplating the problems of his people. Finally, his exasperated teenage daughter confronted him.

“Dad,” she said, “we don’t mind you being gone all the time, but when you’re here, we want you to be here.”

His daughter was right. We cannot allow the church to dominate our mealtimes, family times, vacation times, and days off. When I am with those closest to me, I want to give them, if anything, closer attention than I give my congregation.

This brings me back to my belief that I should wade fully into the emotional current of whatever situation I find myself in, as difficult as that might be. In the long run, that’s a better plan than shutting off one part of my life to emotions, or worse, confusing people by bringing the emotions of one setting into another.

Sometimes, in the course of my work as a pastor, depressing or infuriating things happen. But my children don’t need to have a depressed or angry father at the dinner table. They need a father who is willing to give them as much attention and care as he gives all those people who stream through his office every day.

I have always tried to remember that my children’s whole world is as big as my world. So I try to ask them, “How did your day go? What did you learn? Did you have any problems today?” And then I need to genuinely listen and make eye contact with them when they talk.

So, I try not to take the family’s dirty laundry to church with me, nor the church’s dirty laundry to my home.

Phillips Brooks, the Episcopal bishop of Boston in the late 1800’s, as well as the author of the hymn “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” made a statement in one of his Yale lectures on preaching that has always challenged me:

To be a true minister to men is always to accept new happiness and new distress.… The man who gives himself to other men can never be a wholly sad man, but no more can he be a man of unclouded gladness. To him shall come with every deeper consecration a before untasted joy, but in the same cup shall be mixed a sorrow that was beyond his power to feel before.

In some ways, we have the toughest, most heartbreaking, most frustrating, yet most rewarding job in the world. We get up every morning knowing the job will never be finished in our lifetime yet willing to go through it again and again—preaching the Word, shoving the papers from one basket to the other, holding the hands of the sick and the dying, rejoicing with those who rejoice, weeping with those who weep.

We do it, of course, because deep within us there beats an enlarged heart, pierced with holy joy and holy pain, a heart that yearns to beat in sync with the heart of the Good Shepherd himself.