I always believed, as a pastor, having a retired minister in my congregation was either a tremendous asset or a colossal pain. Some were great encouragers and affirmers who supported me with their prayers and used their influence to bring along congregants with whom they had a good relationship. Others were chronic complainers who thought they knew more about pastoral ministry than I did and felt as if it was their job to educate me on my various shortcomings and deficiencies. With some of them, I look back and thank God for the privilege I had of serving as their pastor for a period of time. With others, I look back and wonder how they made it in ministry. If the way they related to me was consistent with how they treated their parishoners, why would anyone in their right mind want to put themselves in a position to be dealt with that way?
In one of my churches I had a retired minister who, upon getting some false and incomplete information about a situation that was going on, took it upon himself to write a letter to the church board. In that letter, he said I’d “failed to exercise spiritual leadership” and referred to me as a man who had “an unclean spirit of self, pride, and arrogance”—that my actions were those of a hireling and not a true shepherd. While ranting, he also proceeded to berate my preaching by claiming I’d never proclaimed the true gospel or invited people to enter into a relationship with Jesus.
You can imagine the impact this had on me. I was mad … angry … hurt. I’m fine with people disagreeing or holding a different opinion than me, but I don’t deal well with having my integrity disputed or character questioned. And I certainly don’t like it when people make an end run around me and go to the church board with their fomentations. A number of feelings passed through my mind as I ruminated and reflected on what he had to say.
But in relation to the congregation at large, no one ever knew I’d received his letter. Obviously, the board knew. But in terms of how I carried myself in my dealings with the congregation, no one had any idea I’d ever received such a letter or that it angered and hurt me the way it did. I believe part of my responsibility as a pastor is to control my moods and not wear my feelings on my sleeve. It is not responsible leadership to go around in such a way that people are asking, “What’s up with him?” When I do that, I’m making an underhanded plea for attention. My job as a pastor is to focus on the people in my flock—their burdens … their concerns … their life issues. For me to behave in a way where people know something is wrong but don’t know why is a selfish move on my part. It’s an action that says to our church family, “My feelings and emotions are more important than my responsibility to love and engage you.” And it’s a maneuver that isn’t attractive or engaging.
I often told my staff, “It’s OK for you to have a bad day—we all have ‘em. But it’s not OK for everyone in the church to know when you’re having one.” Part of being human is that we have bad days and times when we’re in a foul mood. But when we’re interacting with the people in the congregation, that needs to go into hiding. For it isn’t about us—it’s about them. We need to be able to step over our feelings and focus on the call to love and care for them. It is not our job to highjack their attention and route it back towards us.
It was Oswald Chambers who said we can’t leave an impression of God and ourselves at the same time—it will only be one or the other. If we, with our moods, are drawing attention to ourselves, we’re compromising our ability to leave an impression of God. And when that’s the case, we’re neglecting one of the primary responsibilities that accompanies our calling.
Now that doesn’t mean we can’t, or aren’t to be, emotionally transparent. I’ve long contended pastors need to be vulnerable—that when we’re appropriately vulnerable we access the hearts of our congregants and connect with them more fully. It helps them feel like they know us and that we’re part of the family. I know when I shared about the pain Angie and I were experiencing when our son’s first marriage dissolved … or the challenges we deal with in caring for elderly parents … or the fear we felt when we received a worrisome health diagnosis, it created a more profound bond with the folks in our congregation.
But when we act depressed … or snippy … or detached … or disengaged for no apparent reason, it actually has the opposite effect. It doesn’t warm people’s hearts or expand their feelings of fondness toward us. It does the exact opposite—it creates a sense of disconnection. For anytime people don’t know what they’re going to encounter when they interact with us—whether you’re going to be affirmed or brushed off … loved or cold-shouldered—it causes us to be viewed as unapproachable and them to feel isolated. And it creates a barrier that makes it that much harder for them to reach out to us the next time.
As ministers, we need to be emotionally transparent and appropriately human. People need to see and feel our hearts—it’s how the sense of connection deepens. But we can’t be indiscriminately moody or randomly temperamental. To do the latter is to not only childish and selfish, but it also alienates us from the folks we’re called to engage. We need to save those kinds of raw and unfiltered expressions for a small group of select friends and not discharge our erratic moods, or air our dirty laundry, on the congregation at large.