INTRODUCTION

One summer day shortly after sunrise, somewhere in the wilderness of southeast Texas, a boy between his seventh- and eighth-grade years picked up his Bible and ventured outside for his morning devotions. The year was 1989, and so was the temperature, probably. That boy was me, and I was at something called 3-D Camp, a weeklong student ministry event. What I mostly remember is drinking lemonade all week and getting in the pool, even though I would never take my shirt off, because it was blisteringly hot. And of course I remember the morning I believe God’s Spirit called me into ministry.

I had been getting up every morning, as recommended (but not required) by the camp staff, to read my Bible and pray. I had no devotional book and no plan, just the hypersensitive religious sensibilities of a neurotic and timid preteen boy raised in a Southern Baptist church (and probably the desire to impress a girl who might’ve been up at the same time for her devotions).

It had never occurred to me before that morning that I ought to be in vocational ministry. Since the first grade, I’d wanted to be a writer of some kind, a storyteller. My teacher Mrs. Palmer handed out school record books where we students could paste our school photos and then record in the requisite blanks our favorite school subjects, our favorite foods, our favorite songs, and of course, What We Wanted to Be When We Grew Up. My classmates scrawled the expected: fireman, policeman, teacher, doctor. I wrote “author.” In 1989, my authorial ambitions consisted mostly of wanting to be a staff writer for DC Comics.

My family had recently moved from my hometown of Brownsville, Texas, to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I wasn’t happy about it. I was a pimple-faced, bowl-chested, low-self-esteemed skinny kid. And I stuttered. I had managed fairly well in school up to this time because I was smart, I knew how to make people laugh, and I was a pretty good athlete, all valuable commodities in the grade-school marketplace of social ideas. But I was in a new state, at a new school, and at a new church, and I was awash with fear. With God’s grace, my parents thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to spend one last summer camp with my Texas friends. So there I was at 3-D Camp, trying to make sense of my adolescent delirium in the withering Texas heat, and one morning I found myself in the bewildering thicket of Exodus 3.

Moses literally heard God’s call. I did not hear an audible voice. I was not accustomed to “hearing from God,” but I had the distinct impression that God was calling me to be a minister. It really was as simple as that. No shining lights, no material visions, no angelic chorus. Just an alien idea suddenly in my brain. It didn’t make any sense. But I was listening. I was not gung ho. It did not feel like a good idea or something I wanted to do. (That was one reason why I believed it was coming from God.) I didn’t say anything about it to anybody that day.

At the end of the week, during the customary invitation time at the last evening worship service of 3-D Camp, as numerous students were going forward to rededicate their lives to Jesus, promising to stop drinkin’ and smokin’ and makin’ out, the camp preacher issued an invitation I had never heard before in my life. I had heard countless invitations before, earnest appeals plucking at the guiltstrings while the pianist made her way through “Just as I Am” for the second time. Sometimes many would go forward to make decisions of varying degrees; sometimes one impatient person would crack and go forward, deciding to “take one for the team” so we could beat the other churches to the Luby’s. I had seen and heard it all, but I had never heard this: “If anyone believes God has called him into ministry this week, why don’t you come forward for prayer?”

I was startled and saw in that invite a confirmation of sorts. Despite the hundreds in attendance, as far as I remember, just me and one other boy—the pastor’s son—went forward.

I didn’t know what it all meant, really. The biggest appeal to me was that I might get to be a youth minister, which meant getting all the cool CCM tapes, playing with water balloon launchers, and occasionally teaching Bible lessons. Sounded like a good gig. When I returned to Albuquerque, I found a letter waiting for me from my new youth pastor who was inviting me to be a part of a select group within the youth group called The Ministry Team. I took that as yet another confirmation I was on the right track.

Throughout high school, while my classmates were struggling to figure out what they wanted to do with their lives, what their futures might hold, the one thing this very unconfident boy knew with confidence was that I was going into “the ministry.”

As life unfolds, God tells wonderful, surprising, refining stories with our lives. My sense of calling never abated, even through the years of my life I wish I could take another swing at. Between my junior and senior years of high school, I served as interim worship leader and teacher for my youth group’s Wednesday night worship service. I took my first vocational ministry position the summer I graduated high school in 1994, when I became the youth pastor for Zion Chinese Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. In my first couple of years of professional ministry, I almost gave it up because of some difficult experiences with some ministerial superiors. Later I almost threw it all away because of my own sinfulness and the failure to protect my wife’s heart. But God was doing something. What I and others meant for evil, he meant for good. And I have learned in ministry and out over the last twenty years the secret of pastoral confidence, pastoral competence, and pastoral power: his name is Jesus Christ. I continue to relearn this secret every day.

The pastoral fraternity is an interesting one. We are a motley bunch of fools. Different personalities and tribes, different methodologies and styles, not to mention denominations and traditions and, of course, theologies. But there is something both lay elders and career elders have in common, something I’ve seen in the thirty-year senior pastor of a southern megachurch as well as the bivocational shepherd of a little, rural New England parish, the laid-back fauxhawked church planter and the fancy mousse-haired charismatic, and in nearly every pastor in between: a profound sense of insecurity for which the only antidote is the gospel.

Now, of course everyone is insecure in some way, and the security needed by all is union with Jesus Christ, but the insecurity of pastors seems a rare bird. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 11:28 of his “anxiety for all the churches.” I see it there in Moses’s hemming and hawing in Exodus 3. I certainly felt it that summer morning in 1989 when I pondered the notion of God’s call to vocational ministry the way my nine-year-old daughter might react to my asking her to move the refrigerator across the kitchen.

Is this insecurity a result of the kind of people who are drawn to ministry, or is it a result of the burden of pastoral ministry itself? I suspect a combination of both. In any event, the statistics seem crudely to bear out this line of thinking.

The Mayo Clinic warns that those in a so-called “helping professions” are high-risk candidates for burnout, because such people identify so strongly with their work that they tend to lack a reasonable balance between work life and personal life and try to be everything to everyone. This sounds like a lot of pastors I know.

From a variety of sources, ranging from the Fuller Institute to the Barna Research Group and Pastoral Care, Inc., we find these sobering numbers:

90 percent of pastors report working between 55 to 75 hours per week.

80 percent believe pastoral ministry has negatively affected their families.

90 percent feel they are inadequately trained to cope with the ministry demands.

80 percent of pastors feel unqualified and discouraged.

90 percent of pastors say the ministry is completely different than what they thought it would be like before they entered the ministry.

50 percent feel unable to meet the demands of the job.

70 percent of pastors constantly fight depression.

70 percent say they have a lower self-image now than when they first started.

70 percent do not have someone they consider a close friend.

40 percent report serious conflict with a parishioner at least once a month.

33 percent confess having engaged in inappropriate sexual behavior with someone in the church.

50 percent of pastors feel so discouraged that they would leave the ministry if they could, but have no other way of making a living.

70 percent of pastors feel grossly underpaid.

50 percent of the ministers starting out will not last 5 years.

Only 1 out of every 10 ministers will actually retire as a minister in some form.

Perhaps you identify strongly with some of these statistics. Perhaps you fear becoming a statistic yourself. Or perhaps you already have.

The right response to the survey of this wearying battlefield is not timidity or a pity party, but clinging more desperately to the gospel of Jesus Christ. The justification for the sin-prone pastor—by which I mean simply the pastor—is the same as it is for every sinner. There is no Justification 2.0 for ministers of the gospel. There is only the gospel itself—the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Fusing this...