I’ll never forget the terror of sitting in Espresso Royale in Champaign, Illinois, listening to my friend tell me about the very real trauma of her youth. I was a sophomore in college and now considered a leader in my Christian fellowship. Years later, my friend laughed about how utterly disappointed she was that I, her spiritual leader, had profoundly nothing helpful to say at all.

Years later, I still struggle with what to do when people come to me with their problems. I’m eager to help, but like anyone, I don’t have any magic wand to wave over situations, and just because I have the title of pastor doesn’t mean I got a secret codebook with what to say when people are hurting.

But- over the years, I’ve learned a few things about trying to help people when they are hurting. Here they are.

First, as the Hippocratic oath wisely suggests, do no harm. I think this is the essential message of the book of Job. Constantly err toward not saying anything. Constantly err toward just listening. Constantly resist giving advice. Constantly resist, above all, pat answers. It does not help suffering people to tell them that things will be better in heaven, or that God has a plan, or that things will work out, or that other people have it harder, or that we grow through suffering. Just be really quiet.

Second, you are not a therapist. Unless you are. There is a learned skill of processing people’s lives week after week, delving into their past, analyzing how they can change. It can be done well or poorly. But I think it’s important to recognize that therapy is something different from ordinary, everyday comfort. If we pretend that we are trained and skilled in ways that we aren’t, we are setting people up for disappointment.

Third, there are no simplistic answers. And, in some ways, I would even say this applies to point one above. Listening and not saying stupid things is job one, but you can’t just stay mute. At some point, you have to say something. And it’s hard. You’ll feel like it might be the wrong thing. And it very well might be. And even if it is the right thing, they might not receive it right. One way to be pretty sure you are saying the wrong thing is that it ties everything up nice and neat with a bow. Sympathy helps. It is not cliche to shake your head and simply affirm “This is so hard.” Affirmation can help. “You are doing a good job. I think you are handling this well.”

There is, I think, one time when it can be helpful to disagree with someone in pain. Sometimes, they themselves try to tie the thing up nice with a bow. I’ve often been talking to someone who is grieving, and suddenly they seem to cut themselves off and say something like, “But it could be worse. God has a plan.” Now, sometimes, this is just fine. At some point we do have to pull ourselves out of our grief. But sometimes, people need a little permission to be honest. Sometimes, at that point, I will interject. “Maybe it could be worse, but this is really hard. And God does have a plan, but it feels awfully confusing right now, doesn’t it?” It can be loving to give someone space to hurt.

One other quirky tip I’ve picked up is to pay attention to details. Things like money, food, and transportation. Do you have a ride to work? Is someone picking up the kids?  Do you need a meal? Who is taking care of paying the bills? Is there a will? Will you need a lawyer? Even if you don’t have resources to help with these kinds of things, sometimes people in grief find they are confused enough that having someone help them think this stuff through is loving.

Have you learned anything along these lines? Made big mistakes? Has someone be especially helpful to you?

I was pondering this nugget from Jesus in Luke 15:

There is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who are righteous and haven’t strayed away!

Why would a repenting sinner garner more rejoicing than 99 righteous? Because the 99 are actually self-righteous and not truly righteous? Maybe, but let’s think a little more.

Most people try to be righteous and do a decent job most of the time. Even people who might largely be regarded as “bad” typically have a take on why they aren’t as bad as they might be perceived. (Say, the pot dealer who says at least he doesn’t sell crack outside schools. And he might have a point.)

Most people don’t think they are perfect. We know we make mistakes. So what do we do about it? Perhaps we self-justify. Or we sink into shame and guilt. Or we just ignore our failures and hope they go away. Or whatever else. And sometimes, that might be harmless. But often, it causes a lot of trouble. How much suffering comes into the world because of evil ideologies built around self-justification, or child abuse that grows out of the unprocessed pain of the parents.

Maybe what Jesus is thinking is, “I know what you can do with your failures at being a good person. Bring them to me.”

And maybe this turning to Jesus is actually better for the world than sincere attempts at righteousness. Because the person who just repented and turn to Jesus doesn’t self-justify, doesn’t blame others, forgives easily, lives shame-free, feels free from guilt, doesn’t have unprocessed rage, and can wake up tomorrow doing their best to be the good person they want to be without worrying about the high stakes of failure.

Because maybe the only purposes of morality is a pathway to global joy. We’re all trying to find the path- and Jesus is quite willing to help- say, in the Sermon on the Mount. But the question is, what do we do when we find ourselves off the pathway to joy. Pretend we are on the right pathway? Try to sneak back on without anyone noticing? Start making a new pathway? Maybe Jesus’ favorite answer would be for us just to say “Hey Jesus! I’m stuck over here again!” And then he’d just like to help us right back on.

Would you rather have a friend who was almost always perfect? Or a friend who made some mistakes but always apologized and worked at fixing it? I’m not sure the answer, but I’ve got a hunch we could make some case for the second friend. I suppose of the first person could pull it off without being insufferably boring and cloying. But I think pretty only Jesus did that. So I’ll take Jesus first, but after that, I’d rather have friends who are repentant than friends who are righteous.

Is this how religion goes off the rails? It thinks job one is to help people do the right thing, and job two is what to do when they screw up? Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe job one is to help people feel whole, forgiven, and healed in their brokenness, and then to point them on the way. Maybe every time I connect to God I should remember this. First, I need joy in him. Then he’ll help me figure out how to live. Otherwise, I become either an annoying pharisee, or a guilt-racked neurotic.

Am I on to something? Or am I just trying to make life too easy?

My brother started a blog about bikes. I sort of want to ponder the spiritual dimensions of what he’s doing, but I think that might diminish the coolness. Just take a look.

There are two kinds of science- observational and analytical. Science that just sees what is, and science that tries to explain why. We tend to think of science as analytical, but the observational side is critical.

That could be a metaphor for leadership. We’re always trying to figure out how to do things. We’re sometimes not looking at what is. What I like about the bike blog is how observational it is.

Some of the most helpful advice starts, “I”ve noticed that you…” Some of the least helpful advice starts “here’s what you should do.”

Anyway, maybe part of loving a city is getting on a bike and looking at it and asking people questions about it. Here’s to my little brother’s endeavors along those lines. Now, all I have to do is get a bike…

I was at a meeting a while ago, and one of the other people there was publicly known as being against a point of view about ministry and leadership that I had. It wasn’t a matter of animosity, and as the topic came up in conversation, we sat down at a lunch to try to talk about our differences.

The conversation, from my point of view, was nothing but fruitful. I understood what he was saying, clarified some things, asked some questions, offered some rebuttals. I came away from the conversation having decided I didn’t disagree with him at all. And that I hadn’t changed my mind at all. And that I hadn’t misunderstood him at all.

And- for a few sermons after that, I found some of what I preached was powerfully shaped by that conversation. And those sermons were reportedly some of the most powerful I’ve preached this year. I have to believe that conversation had something to do with it.

And this is turning into something of a worldview for me. If I actually find I can understand another person, I find I almost never disagree with them. I find that my heart towards them is only charitable, and only grateful. Sometimes I find myself leaving changed in my thinking, or in my acting, and sometimes I don’t.

I can anticipate an objection. What if I am talking to a person who is clearly misguided? Let’s just throw some out- what if I have a conversation with Fred Phelps about how his approach of hatred is really the best way to minister the gospel of Jesus? Wouldn’t I have to say that he was wrong? Or if I was having a conversation with Joseph Stalin, wouldn’t I have to conclude that slaughtering millions of people might fall into the category of “things you shouldn’t do”?

There was one of those comical quad preachers at the University I went to. We called him Mad Max. He spent many of his days on the quad yelling at anyone who would listen that God was judging them and they needed to repent today. Time after time some well meaning Christian would try to stand up and oppose his message, and he was experienced enough to shout them down fairly quickly. More entertainingly, many improv comedy troupes would use his sermons for rehearsal.

But one day, I saw Mad Max sitting under a tree. I went to talk to him. He was initially defensive, so I did my best to not come off as angry toward him. I just asked him why he did what he did, what it felt like to experience such rejection, and what he thought about all the Christians who found him to be so counter-productive. I walked away from the conversation with a different point of view. Would I do what he did? No. Do I think it’s helpful? I tend to think not. But I never thought about the man the same again. What does it take to troop out to that quad day after day and take that kind of hate? Insanity? Maybe. But I have to tell you, it’s a special kind of insanity.

Of course I can’t end without saying that clearly Phelps and Stalin have done a lot of bad things. But, for the record, so have I. And I have to be honest, I’d still like to try to have a conversation with them.

I’m not trying to express a morality or epistemology here. What I am wondering if that conversations have something powerful in them that morality and epistemology, for all their necessity, don’t have.

So- who would you like to have a conversation with? Right now, John Piper tops my list, for a lot of conflicted reasons.

We were offline for a bit there. Turns out web hosting companies want you to pay their bills. Geez. I think I will post something new soon!

I have a little saying that if you want to be an effective pastor, you should get used to the idea that about 20 percent of the people you know will not like you at any given time. This is only partially an overstatement. It’s probably true of leadership in general. If you lead toward change, change nearly always has upside for some but downside for others. And so in some real sense, the anger is probably legitimate. People are experiencing real frustration, and as the leader, it really is your fault.

The more leadership I take on, the more true this seems. You cannot please everyone. And if you are going to be a healthy leader, it means setting priorities. But every priority you set is not just towards one thing, it’s always away from something else. And that is going to upset someone. And again, it’s legitimate. They have a real priority for something. And they are going to blame you for not sharing it. And the truth is- you aren’t sharing their priority.

It’s easy to write off people’s anger as simply misunderstanding of you, or not fully grasping why you have made a decision. I want to say there’s often more than that going on. Often they really do understand the decisions you have made, and they are angry at you precisely because of those decisions. This hurts to realize.

So, how do we deal with this as leaders? I think it takes a lifetime, and I don’t think there are easy answers. But I have a few thoughts.

First, allow other people to be angry at you. Don’t try to talk them out of it. Don’t twist yourself around trying to avoid it. Just let it be. They don’t like a decision you made. They may be right or wrong, but it’s not your responsibility how they feel. Don’t be defensive. Don’t try to pretend it doesn’t hurt a little. It does hurt a little. You’re pretty much just going to have to face that pain. It’s not the end of the world. But it is hard.

Second, accept that they may very well be right. Being right, at the end of the day, isn’t a very big deal. Being faithful to God, trusting him, taking risks, these are the staples of spiritual leadership. And sometimes you’re going to get it wrong. And maybe that’s going to be hurtful to someone. Being humble and simply accepting this goes a long way.

Third, accept your response. This sounds strange. Maybe it’s unique to me. I don’t want to admit I’m hurt. I don’t want to admit I’m angry. I’d like to think I can always respond with grace and magnanimity. But I can’t. Sometimes I get mad back. Sometimes I want to preach a whole sermon secretly designed to make that person look bad (I never have, and God willing, never will). But I can’t just stuff the feelings. I have to process them somewhere, I need a safe person who will let me process and help me not accept the poison of judgment.

So, do you have any tips on this? I think it’s pretty difficult.

An old mentor of mine would often use the idea of prophets, priests, and kings from the Old Testament to describe different kinds of leaders in the church.

Kings are the institutional leaders, the ones with vision and daring. Obviously, in one sense, Jesus is the king of the church. But he does give leadership to people- think of Peter and the apostles in the New Testament. Priests are the religious leaders- the one s who teach the Bible and lead people to worship. And prophets are the outside voices, the ones who call the church back to God when it strays.

My take on the church in America at the moment is that it has too many (in practice if not in word) prophets, and not enough priests and kings. Too many people assessing the problems, raging at failures, criticizing leaders, and not enough starting new churches, shepherding old ones, developing new strategies.

You want a formula to write an evangelical book that will sell?

First, choose some biblical ideal. Something God clearly wants the church to have. Say, holiness, or outreach, or community, or care for the poor, or worship.

Second, think of lots of ways that churches are not doing this ideal perfectly. It will be very easy.

Third, use a thesaurus to come up with as many insulting adjectives that you can use to describe churches who are failing to live up to your ideal. Many of them can end with the suffix “-less”. Spineless, passionless, godless, uncaring, secularized, missionless, coldhearted, compromised, irrelevant, gospel-ignoring, compassionless, isolated, disconnected, fearful, and so one. This will compromise the majority of your first chapter.

Fourth, come up with a solution. Make it as ridiculous as you can. Make sure that if anyone actually implemented your solution, it would be sure to cause havoc in their congregation.

Fifth, don’t actually try implementing your solution. You’ll be too busy writing blog posts and giving seminars at conferences sponsored by the megachurches you spent your first chapter excoriating.

We have tons of these books. They’re not helping. Here’s a better idea: start a small group. Spend lots of time and energy and prayer making it as healthy as you can. Then, whatever your idea is, see if you can get the small group to do it. Then train a leader to lead another similar small group. And let him train another leader. It’s been working for 2000 years so far.

And whatever church you find yourself in, love it to pieces. Bless the pastor. Engage in the worship. And think about helping someone plant a new church. Love that church. Give yourself to it. The small percentage of people who actually do this- the priests and kings, generally have more impact than most prophets.

Of course we need the prophets. I suppose this post is actually along prophetic lines. But I can’t help but wonder how many are more self-proclaimed than God-driven.

Ready for some hyper-context?

On Facebook this morning, my friend Libby posted this

Hey Mercy Folks! It seems like pain and suffering is running amock in our community right now. I thought this blog was helpful this morning.

The blog was one which most of you will know, and to which I’m a frequent contributor, Dave Schmelzer’s “Not the Religious Type“. The post Dave put up was a response to this comment from Peter Bierma:

I’d be interested to hear from any church leaders out there (Dave? Jeff?) how you’ve handled any “crises of faith”. Or if there hasn’t been a crisis, would a more moderate term be “ebb and flow”? Times when it seems like God hasn’t been there?

So, I thought, since I’m a pastor and all, and apparently my church is going through a lot of suffering, perhaps I ought to say something as well.

First off, is it true that suffering is running amok through our community? This one  is actually a bit tricky. We certainly have a large and growing community. And in any large and growing community, if you ask the question “is there suffering going on right now?” the answer would tend to be yes. Confirmation bias is a real thing, and if you are looking for pain you’re going to tend to find it.

That said, the recession has been taking it’s toll on our church for the first time, really, since it started. It’s rough for people to find jobs, and while the church budget is mostly looking OK, I can’t say there isn’t a bit more stress along those lines than usual. And there has been a seeming streak of rough health and marriage issues among church leaders for the past year or so, at least more than in the previous years. (As an aside, if you read Dave’s post, he’s got 35 people on his intercession team. So, MVCers, who is going to start ours? )

So, all that said, how do I deal with times of doubt or discouragement? Are there times I wonder if God is even real? Are there times I’m discouraged enough with life to want to give up?

For the most part, no. There probably were in my early 20s a few times, but I would chalk that up mostly to immaturity and inexperience. Discouragement and doubt do make the occasional foray into my life, and while not pleasant in the least, they don’t feel particularly threatening to faith or ministry.

To some degree I would echo Dave’s thoughts about prayer, and praise, and hearing from God, and talking with others (Q the most, with Barnabas running a distant but valued second.)

I would add that doubt and discouragement can be tools for change. When there is some element of belief, or some deeply held practice that seems to not be working, or seems confusing, often that is a red flag to me that maybe there is something that needs to change. I don’t think belief needs to be static, I think it is often dynamic.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t certain bedrock truths that we stick to. I’m not into questioning the trinity, the Bible, Jesus, or the love of God anytime soon. But I’m all for questioning how I relate to those things, how I approach and think about them, and how my life can more clearly reflect the good things I believe God has for me.

Thinking historically helps me too. I’m not the first person trying to follow Jesus. I’m not the first person whose seven year old daughter’s friend has brain cancer. I’m not the first person to read the first couple chapters of Job and find myself pretty confused about what’s going on. And a lot of those people have made it. This is different than saying “it could be worse”, which is profoundly UNhelpful. Instead, I guess it’s more like saying “I’m not alone.”

Which strikes as significant when I think about Libby’s initial post. On one hand, there is certainly difficulty in life. But isn’t there also something wonderful about the fact that those things can happen IN community? And particularly, in a community that actually has the resources of a living God to help and encourage us? Because, I suppose the only thing that’s worse than community that’s having trouble is a bunch of isolated individuals, all dealing with their pain alone.

But that said, there is still a loneliness to any doubt or discouragement. And there is some loneliness that a pastor feels, just as anyone else does. There are things I have to face, that others don’t have to (just as there are things they have to face that I don’t.) I’m not sure I’d want to publicly air those, as it smacks a bit of self-pity. But I certainly bring them up with a trusted few (especially people I know will pray for me, and about that intercession team…)

How about I end with a strangely helpful exercise. If you have an email account you’ve been using for a while, go back three years. Look at some of the emails. Think about all the things you were worried, stressed, discouraged, and in crisis about then. How many of them still matter? A little perspective…

Here’s a reality of leading a church, or a small group, or any other organization. God gives the people in that organization ideas about what it should look like (see 1 Corinthians 12). And, if they are Americans, they will not be shy about informing you of those ideas.

And there are two realities to be balanced. First, it’s the job of the leader to bless and encourage those ideas to grow, to empower people to fill out their part of the dream. But the other reality is that often people think that their part of the vision is the MAIN part of the vision. That’s totally understandable- God has put that passion in their heart. But the job of the leader is to keep the church healthy and balanced.

Depending on who I’m talking too, our church service is too long or not long enough. The sermons are too intellectual or too practical. We do too much or not enough social justice, outreach, prophesying, praying, eating, connecting, and on and on.

The temptation is always to become detached. When a person comes with a new, passionate idea, the inner alarm bells can say “Here we go again, someone else with all the answers for church.” But this must be guarded against. Because it is the God of the universe that deposit these dreams in people’s hearts. Detachment and cynicism are poison.

How do stay balanced but not detached?

When I was leading with IVCF in college, I figured something out. I should say first that I loved leading with IVCF and look back on it with nothing but fondness. That said, my Sophomore year I sat and made a list of everything they wanted me, as a small group leader to be doing. Weekly small group, daily prayer meetings, daily quiet times, meeting with group members, meeting with co-leaders, etc., etc. I came up with something like 50 hours a week.

That’s when I realized I couldn’t do everything, and that no one really expected me to. But this never seemed to be mentioned or talked about- and I found the same to be true when I transitioned from college ministry to church ministry. It seemed like I was supposed to read my Bible, pray, have a mentor, be mentored, go to classes, listen to tapes, be in an accountability group, go to retreats, launch a new ministry, support missionaries, fast, meditate, be a small group leader, volunteer in the nursery, share my faith, pray for healing, pray for revival, feed the poor, oppose racism, and bring my faith into the workplace all at the same time.

And again, nobody really expected me to do all these things. But nobody seemed to talk about the fact that this was actually the case. Now, on one hand, trying to do all these things and stay super-busy wasn’t bad. I actually think that seasons of crazy busy-ness can be healthy. It’s how you learn things about yourself. But, those seasons have to end.

So, if we can’t do everything, how do we figure out what to do? I have a few thoughts, and would be curious as to how you navigate this.

First, do a lot of what you like. I suppose this seems obvious, but maybe it’s worth saying. Jesus said he came to give us life to the full.

Second, do a few things that challenge you. You can’t grow without being stretched a bit, so this is always an important part of it.

Third, stay focused outwardly. Care about people who don’t go to church. Care about the poor. Care about your neighbors. Don’t just focus on the people who are already “in”. Otherwise you get sick.

How do you go about not doing everything?