Dysfunction
What were you hoping to achieve with your new book, Dysfunction in the Name of Jesus?
The aim was, like how the heart of missional preaching is described, to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted. I am grateful to see evidence of God doing just that. Pastoral life can be oddly lonely. Those who are employed as engineers, electricians, mail carriers, coaches, writers, accountants, or graphic designers often find it difficult to relate to what we do. Ours is a strange and wonderful world. We shepherd people and people are messy. That means we regularly face off with their angst, anger, or addictions. We don’t seek pity, but empathy can be hard to come by. The brokenness of church structures and cultures, combined with our own limitations, makes pastors especially vulnerable to navigating their vocation in unhealthy ways. Some pastors need to hear that their relationship with the ministry needs intervention and healing. Others need reminders that their faithful efforts to set and maintain godly boundaries matter, even when met with resistance. Given the diverse group of contributors assembles, I believe this volumes takes an admirable step in that direction.
How did you come to write about pastoral workaholism? How were you influenced by your previous book, An Inward-Outward Witness?
For various reasons, setting boundaries probably comes a bit more naturally to me than it does to some. I simply don’t believe in elevating pastoral life beyond what’s appropriate. It is one of the loves in my life, but it doesn’t come first—or even second. That said, it all still requires attentiveness. After nearly two decades in ministry, I began reflecting on the colleagues I know (or know of) who end up serving the institution more than they serve Jesus. They don’t usually start out addicted to applause or control. They begin with sincere intentions: to honor God, to invest in relationships, to exemplify love that is far richer than the “second-hand emotion” Tina Turner sang about so powerfully in 1984. Yet, the struggle is real. Life happens. Past wounds are celebrated. Pain isn’t remediated.
I compiled these essays as a kind of triage that might help pastors return to the Great Physician with greater authenticity, awareness, and boldness for restoration. Like my previous books with Smyth & Helwys, An Inward-Outward Witness: Suffering’s Role in Forming Faithful Preachers and Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil: Stories about the Challenges of Young Pastors, this volume was sparked by personal experiences I felt compelled to address more broadly. A phrase from the John Wick film franchise comes to mind: “I have served. I will be of service.” Whether my books are read by two people or two million, they are offered as contributions to the Church from my small corner of God’s endless Kingdom, which, as we know, is already but not yet.
What does pastoral reform look like to you and why is now the time for it?
In our lifetime, voices like Harold Senkbeil, Pete Scazzero, Kirk Byron Jones, John Frederick Lehr, M. Craig Barnes, Paul David Tripp, Chuck DeGroat, Eugene H. Peterson, and others—including Wayne Croft, whose 1971 book Confessions of a Workaholic: The Facts About Work Addiction was ahead of its time—have all sounded the alarm. They’ve spoken to a world and a profession often marked by short attention spans. Rebellion tastes good, but its damage eventually comes to light. The time is always right to realign or recalibrate pastoral work around the heart of God. At the very least, pastors need to get a life. By that, I mean it is unhealthy to wear your ordination or title like a badge of identity. Do what the Lord has called you to do, yes, but resist the temptation for it to define you. It is not good for pastors, or anyone, to become fully enmeshed in their profession. You can love the work without being at its beck and call 24/7/365. Moreover, pastors also need to partake of counseling, spiritual direction, or both, along with whatever else fosters the opportunity to speak honestly about how they’re doing. Pastors also need good old-fashioned tough love. In a very real sense, we become more useful to those we serve, and more open to how God wants to use us, when we get over ourselves and stop trying to be some kind of faith-based superhero. It is Jesus’ ministry. It does not rise and fall on the pastors command.
What needs to structurally change to support reform and to move away from ministry becoming an idol?
Although I’m not advocating for micromanagement, pastors do need accountability alongside ongoing, flexible support and care. This means we can’t wax poetic about rejecting pastor-centric models of ministry, while still upholding them. We actually have to retire them. Dismantle them. Lock them up and throw away the key. By all means, as the chief under-shepherd and servant-leader of the local church, the pastor plays an important role—but so do laypeople. We are far better together than in apart, so let’s act like it. Whether a ministry flounders or flourishes should not hinge on the pastor’s persona, pulpit prowess, organizational skill, or programmatic pride. And when pastors are incompetent or arrogant, they must be firmly called to account—supported toward reform when possible or shown the door when necessary. Amidst a steady stream of scandals, burnout, and broken covenants and relationships, we need the Church to care more about disappointing God than disappointing people. The same goes for pastors. We are not politicians jockeying for re-election or another shot at power or prestige. The broader body of Christ must care for its pastors the way most pastors strive to tenderly care for those entrusted to them.
What advice do you have for those struggling to set personal boundaries in ministry? What underlying misconceptions may dissuade ministers from doing so?
Missteps around boundaries can ultimately be traced back to faulty, and therefore harmful, theology. A butcher with no community outside the butchering world, a baker who will sacrifice anything or anyone for the perfect bake, or a candlestick maker who sees their craft as their sole or primary contribution to the world is not thinking biblically. Accepting Christ’s redemptive work on the cross is the linchpin of the new life we’ve received, purchased through the shed blood of the Lamb. Whatever we do, regardless of the vocation, can never be more important than the One who called us to do it. As Eugene Peterson put it in The Jesus Way: A Conversation on the Ways that Jesus Is the Way: “Jesus is the Truth and the Life, but first he is the Way. We can’t do Jesus’ work in the Devil’s way.”
Specifically concerning ministers, I encourage them to take God’s Word more seriously than they take themselves. Live and pastor in accordance with Scripture, and let the proverbial chips fall where they may. That’s what obedience looks like. It’s faith in action. In both my formal role as Professor of Practical Theology at Winebrenner Theological Seminary or informally as a mentor, one of the core pieces of advice I give young ministers is this: accept that the hierarchies God has established are for your good. As Jesus reminds us, “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell” (Matt. 10:28).
How can we, as a people of faith, be more helpful and/or more aware of our ministers’ burdens, boundaries, and burnout?
Building relationships with your minister is crucial. Sometimes, laypeople need to say something like, “Pastor, we’ve got this (or we don’t). God will provide—but right now, you need to go home, go to your kids’ ballet recital, take a nap, or go on vacation. In the name of the Lord—just go.” Pastors are not omni-anything, so don’t relate to us as if we are or expect us to fake it. We do not have all the answers to life’s questions. We don’t need to be at every single church event. And we’re going to disappoint you. Of course, I pray your pastor never has a moral failure, curses someone out, or else carries themselves like a “toddler with long legs.” But it shouldn’t take a press release to acknowledge that we are human. Living into the best version of ourselves means we won’t always have awe-inspiring words to share in your time of need or celebration. This isn’t a Hallmark or Tyler Perry movie, full of tidy, predictable plots and horrible acting. A byproduct of being faithful is being, quite frankly, unimpressive some of the time. Respectfully, we are not a spiritual concierge service hired to troubleshoot your life.
Can you talk a little about the structure of your book? Why did you put it together the way you did and how did you decide the flow of essays?
The “one size fits all” mantra doesn’t hold up well on this issue. Each contributor offers their own perspective. I’m especially grateful to include essays from pastors like my friend Dave Dack, who serves in Lemoore, California. Dave and I have known each other since our days at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. I am also honored to have a piece from the late Bryan Dunagan (1979–2023) of Highland Park Presbyterian Church in Dallas, Texas. In their own ways, both reflect on how the unique demands of the pastorate, when coupled with neglecting one’s own formation, can slowly and subtly derail even the most faithful ministers. Jul Medenblik, president of Calvin Theological Seminary, shares how he has come to terms with being a high-energy leader while also recognizing the importance of rest and monitoring his bandwidth through different seasons of ministry.
Dysfunction in the Name of Jesus opens with an essay by my dear friend and colleague Karen Stiller, a Canadian based in Ottawa. Her husband Brent, an Anglican rector, died on January 13, 2023, after struggling with post-transplant lymphoma. Karen, the author of Holiness Here and The Minister’s Wife, reflects on decades of marriage and ministry. She offers an honest account of how she and Brent navigated layers of expectations—their own, and those of the various churches they moved to serve. The intention of this volume is that both pastors and laypeople will find voices and experiences they can relate to—and be challenged by.
What surprised or challenged you in the process of editing versus writing?
I went through the same process serving as editor for Dysfunction in the Name of Jesus as I did with Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil. So, while it wasn’t exactly old hat, I also was not flabbergasted. It is always helpful to have some experiential knowledge of what to expect. The key difference between writing and editing is that, as an editor, you’re not solely responsible for producing a high word count. However, the trade-off is that there is a significant amount of legwork on the front end; for example, finding enough compelling, well-written essays that align with the theme. I genuinely enjoy both sides. Some topics I feel called to explore in depth myself, while others are better served by drawing on the collective wisdom of others, especially when their experience and training allow for a richer, more well-rounded offering.
When did scripture first come alive to you?
I love God’s Word. As Scripture declares, it is “a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Ps. 119:105). My lawn may be annoyingly persnickety and unreliable, but according to Isaiah 40:8, long after everything else fades away, God’s Word will endure forever. I was 20 years old the first time I heard Scripture read and preached. As a child, I wasn’t exposed to Christianity, and today more and more people are growing up with a similarly irreligious background. But one Sunday at Maple Springs Baptist Church in Capitol Heights, Maryland, having been invited by college friends, I heard a sermon on Jesus’ pivotal question to Peter in Matthew 16:13–20: “Who do you say I am?”
When the pastor personalized it and asked the congregation, “In this moment—right here and right now—who do you believe Jesus to be?” what I had denied 24 hours earlier suddenly became undeniable. I believed. It reminds me of that anonymous saying: “Jesus died on the cross—that’s history. Jesus died for me—that’s salvation.” I became utterly convinced that if someone like me, who had ignored God my whole life, could receive the keys to a heavenly home, then I was all in. The Holy Spirit always does the heavy lifting, but since eventually being called into ministry, I’ve aspired to be a biblically grounded, emotionally healthy pastor—like the one who preached the day I surrendered to Jesus.