Editor’s note: In rare cases, BNG will publish opinion pieces and withhold the identity of the author. This is one such case, for reasons that will become obvious to anyone reading what follows. The author is a real person, a pastor, who is known by the editor.
I rarely find hope in churches these days.
I feel I can say this since I work in one. Notice I said work, not serve.
The institutional church has turned my calling into a job, my vocation into a career.
It wasn’t a single event that led me to this conclusion. It was more like a steady stream of them. An avalanche starts with just a few rocks, and the last few years, I’ve been hit with my fair share.
I’m not the only one who thinks this way. I’ve sat with fellow pastors — those who aren’t running multi-campus megachurches but are trying to hold congregations of fewer than 100 people together. They’re getting their asses handed to them.
“I’m told to lead but promptly questioned on every decision.”
Their stories sound like mine. I’m told to lead but promptly questioned on every decision.
I’m told to back current programs and copy what the “successful” church down the street is doing. I’m told to honor traditions while thinking outside the box. I’m told what to preach — usually right after they say, “I’m not trying to tell you what to preach.”
I’m told to be quiet. To speak up. To slow down. I’m told to let staff go, then hire new staff.
I’m told to play hymns — no, contemporary songs. More organ, less piano. Hire a band! No guitars! Give us a brass quartet or give us nothing at all.
I’m told the youth ministry needs an overhaul — something bigger, better, flashier.
I’m told the previous minister did it better.
I’m told the bottom line is to put butts in pews — move the church from red to black. Turn a profit in a nonprofit.
I’m told to keep the status quo, to smile more, to “just have faith.”
I’m told to make what is broken work. Walking on shards of glass in your bare feet is easier, and you’ll probably come away with fewer scars.
Because of this, I’m on edge all the time.
When these experiences are repeated back to me by different pastors, I ask, “Do you think this is what you had in mind when you accepted God’s call on your life?”
“Do you think this is what you had in mind when you accepted God’s call on your life?”
I’ve asked that question a lot lately as I stare in a mirror.
On the hard days, it wears me down. My spirit is deflated with few answers.
On better days, I work with words and deeds to let people know I am a minister of the gospel — a harbinger of what Christians call the “good news.”
What that means to me is I’m here to share a message in line with the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth as best and as authentically as I can. To echo his words and his way of life. To let them know that the Spirit of the Lord has sent me to tell the oppressed the good news, to heal the brokenhearted, to announce freedom for prisoners and captives.
But I confess, that’s getting harder and harder to do. I’ve preached that sermon only to have it crash and burn. Instead of “amens,” I’ve received, “What about me?”
The inward, self-centered focus has worn me down.
Christ’s church — the one I learned the gates of hell never would conquer, the one built on love and sacrifice for neighbor, the one where a divine Creator came down because God so loved the world — never was meant to be egocentric.
Yet lately, the only sort of service it seems to care about is serving itself.
I type that sentence, and it breaks my heart.
The easy thing to do would be to quit. To leave all this messiness behind. Lord knows I see the way of Jesus lived out elsewhere. People and organizations are doing the work and helping their neighbors. If not for such examples, I would have lost my faith altogether.
I want to leave, but it isn’t that easy.
“I want to leave, but it isn’t that easy.”
I, and many other ministers, can’t afford to. We have too much skin in the game.
We have families. We have rent or house payments. Bills to pay, cars that need new brake pads. Expensive groceries to buy. Some have children to clothe. Some have paid astronomical sums for their education, often with loans attached. We are no different than anyone else. Walking away isn’t an option.
We are truly on our own.
For a while now, I thought it was me, that I had failed the church. There’s probably some truth to that.
But like any relationship, it takes two to tango. The institutional church has failed me, too. It has failed a lot of people.
And so, I’m done with the institutional church. Jesus appears to be in other places anyway. I’ll go looking for him. I know I won’t have to look hard. He’ll be where he always has been — with the hungry, the tired, the brokenhearted.
In the meantime, I’ll keep serving as long as I can until I find my way out. I’ve witnessed good and faithful ministers follow their convictions and make this jump, and I know I can do the same.
But rest assured, when I leave, I’ll wipe the dust from my sandals and not look back. And I won’t go away empty-hearted.
I’ll leave believing that the gospel is true — but knowing it doesn’t always get preached from pulpits, and that the good news is still good, even if the church forgot who it was for.