pastoral ministry
Illustration by Daniel Downey
CERTAINTY IS A rare thing in the age of the coronavirus. But there is one thing that we can know for sure: There will be fewer pastors after the pandemic than there were before it. For me, the realization started with reports from friends and colleagues, all gifted and committed pastors, sharing their decision not only to step down from their church but from ministry altogether. This is not an uncommon reality, but the number of reports caught my attention. I was used to hearing this kind of news a few times a year. Now, it was a few times a month.
My observations were reinforced by data. A survey conducted by the Barna Group discovered that toward the end of 2021, 38 percent of pastors had given real and serious consideration to stepping down from ministry permanently. That number was up 9 full percentage points from earlier that same year, meaning that if the trend has held steady, the percentage is likely even higher today.
Then, in the middle of 2021, I felt it in myself: a deep weariness that I had never experienced before, even when I pastored a church while my wife fought cancer. There was a sense of despair as I faced decision after decision that would invariably lead to controversy and criticism: Masks or no masks? Open our doors or close them? How do I navigate social issues in a way that is courageous yet pastoral? I felt trapped between the very real needs of my congregation and a very virulent pandemic that today has killed more than 1 million Americans. I had become part of that 38 percent.
The ‘Great Pastoral Resignation’
WHILE STILL AN unfolding dynamic, it is not too early to imagine how the dearth of pastors might shape the future of ministry and churches. After all, prophecy, or casting our eyes to the future, has always been a key practice of the church. (The prophetic tradition, of course, wasn’t just future-oriented: Prophets also confronted poverty, war, despotism, and oppression.) What broader ramifications could the “Great Resignation,” which has impacted industries across the U.S., have on churches? Probably more than we recognize. Much more.
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When I began a Masters of Divinity program at Wesley Theological Seminary, I was convinced that my generalized anxiety would be a wrinkle I’d iron out as I became more competent in preaching and pastoral care. What I failed to recognize was that my aptitude for ministry in itself was not the issue. I already felt called to hospital chaplaincy and had had experience working with the sick and dying as a nursing assistant. However, despite all the practical knowledge I’ve continued to gain at Wesley, anxiety has remained a debilitating problem.
When my anxiety was at its worst this past spring, I often asked myself, what business do I have pursuing ordained ministry? How can I serve others if I can’t take care of myself? Last week, regarding the suicide of Robin Williams, I heard frequently: “How can someone so funny do that?” The best answer I’ve found is that even when we are in great pain and anguish, feeling isolated from others, we don’t stop doing what we do best. Even in times of depression, and drug and alcohol abuse, Williams never ceased to do what he did best — make people laugh when they most needed to. Likewise, despite my anxiety, no matter how I attempt to close out the world, I still feel called to the ministry of chaplaincy, to bring healing to others through my presence.
Overworked illustration, Honza Hruby / Shutterstock.com
I eat, sleep, and breathe faith and politics; it is my passion and calling. From 9-5 each weekday, I direct communications and advocacy for Sojourners, moving around Washington, D.C. for various meetings, engaging with reporters and the media, and planning advocacy strategies around pressing justice issues. Then I turn off my computer and walk out the door. But instead of going home, I’m usually off to another meeting that has little to do with politics and everything to do with faith.
I’m a bi-vocational pastor, and I spend 15-20 additional hours working in a local congregation alongside several clergy colleagues, who themselves are a mix of full-time and part-time ministers. Serving in a church keeps me rooted. It provides perspective when the dysfunctions of Washington threaten to consume me. Helping people discover faith and integrate it into their lives renews and enlivens my soul.
Part of me pretends that I’d be spending this much time worshiping on Sunday morning and hanging out with my fellow young adults anyway, so I might as well be polishing my ministerial skills. But when I’m honest, I know it isn’t close to the same thing. I am way more invested in people’s lives – their joys and concerns – and the life of a particular community than I otherwise would be as “just a member of the congregation.” It is a demanding role that can be emotional, mentally and spiritually draining at times, but I love every minute of it. This is what I was made to do. Being a pastor is my identity. This calling is fundamental to who I am and how I understand myself in the world.
The number of bi-vocational ministers is increasing rapidly. Many pastors who work full-time jobs and serve in congregations part-time receive little or no pay for their church service. This trend has been described as “the future of the church” and extolled because the model is a return to “the original church” that will “enliven congregations.”