By Amy Butler
I recall once, in college, sitting in the congregation during a Sunday morning worship service and listening intently to the pastor’s sermon. About halfway through he began to talk about a session he’d recently had with his psychiatrist. I heard him going there; my stomach sank. As he went on and on talking about details far too personal to be sharing from the pulpit, I felt like I was watching a car accident in slow motion.
I remember that moment like it was yesterday, and I think about it sometimes when I think about relationships with the people I serve. Now that I’m on the other side of the pulpit, I worry some about the quality of my interactions. In the quest to be in genuine relationship, I find myself in the position of causing others to cringe.
For example, just recently during Holy Week, a congregant came up to me after Wednesday night worship and asked when my kids would be arriving for the Easter weekend. Because of schedules, I’d learned just that day that I wouldn’t see them until Easter Monday — the first Easter in all their lives we wouldn’t be together. As I explained the situation, I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, threatening to leak out of the corners. Noticing the threatening tears, the person who’d inquired said: “I’ve never seen a minister cry before. I have to go!,” and she turned around and left quickly.
The line between inappropriate disclosure and healthy vulnerability is a fine one, and it’s easy to step off either into a façade of our real selves or another moment of cringe-worthy over sharing. Many of my colleagues find walking that line too stressful, so we opt for safe and considerable distance. I understand that approach. But I was reminded this week why that safe course of action not only robs our people of developing a realistic view of their pastors; it also means we’re giving up some beautiful moments of real human engagement.
This week my daughter Hannah graduated from high school. At her graduation party, in addition to her group of friends, there was a sizable gathering of church folk who have known her since she was 6 years old. As we sat around the living room opening presents and sharing memories, a member of the search committee that called me to that church recalled meeting our family for the first time.
“Do you remember when I asked you how you would know if your church cared about you?” he asked me.
I couldn’t recall.
“You said, ‘I’ll know you care about me when I see you loving my kids.’”
As I sat there with these people who have watched our family live through many happy and some very sad moments, I realized that I know they love me. I know they love me because I can see their beaming faces just as proud as mine as they celebrate this kid’s next steps.
There are a lot of risks to being vulnerable with your congregation, not the least of which is subjecting perfectly nice people to the possibility of cringe-worthy over sharing moments. But I still think the risk is worth it. In summoning the courage to tell the truth about who we are, to let our people see us in our full humanity, we remind them that we are, all of us, beloved children of God.
We can demonstrate for our people the truth that nobody is perfect, but we are each created and loved in every expression of who we are. And we teach our people important lessons like that one when we’re vulnerable and real. When relationship deepens and years of shared life evolve, we then become the recipients of such love and care from them.
We begin as their pastor, for example, clutching the hand of a shy 6 year old, neither the pastor nor the 6 year old sure at all about these people and their intentions. And then we gather 12 years later to celebrate the launching of a confident young woman, someone we have loved collectively all these years because we dared to be in authentic relationship with one another.
What a risk. What a gift.