When Shepherding Hurts

There are seasons in pastoral ministry when shepherding hurts.

I don't mean the ordinary frustrations of church work—the meeting that runs too long, the program that doesn't work, the criticism that comes with leadership, or the thousand small inconveniences that pastors learn to take in stride. I mean those seasons when something about the ministry itself wounds the shepherd.

You still love the people. You still believe the gospel. You still climb into the pulpit and discover, sometimes to your own surprise, that the Word of God is as alive as it ever was. You preach. You pray. You visit. You bury the dead. You listen to the frightened. You encourage the discouraged. And the Holy Spirit remains wonderfully faithful.

Then you go home.

And you discover that you are tired.

Maybe hurt.

Maybe angry.

Maybe disappointed by people you trusted.

Maybe simply sad.

There is a peculiar temptation in such seasons to believe that faithful shepherds aren't supposed to feel these things. We have spent so much of our lives being the steady presence in someone else's storm that we can become embarrassed when the storm is ours.

But shepherds are sheep, too.

That is something I am learning again.

I have been preaching through Job recently, and one of the gifts of Job is his refusal to pretend. Job does not protect God with pious dishonesty. He does not call agony "joy" because he thinks that is what a faithful man is supposed to say. He brings the whole bewildering mess into the presence of God.

And God does not abandon him there.

There is grace in that for pastors.

Sometimes faithfulness means getting up and doing the work when the heart is light. Sometimes it means doing the same work when the heart is heavy. And sometimes, after doing it, faithfulness means admitting that it cost you something.

That isn't failure. It is incarnation.

Jesus never asked us to become less human in order to shepherd his people.

There is another lesson I am learning, too, and perhaps it is the harder one: a shepherd cannot control every story being told about him.

Pastors can explain. We can clarify. We can apologize when we are wrong. We can correct what genuinely needs correcting. We can establish healthy boundaries and insist upon honest processes. All of that may be necessary.

But eventually we encounter the limit of our own ability to make another person see us correctly.

That is an uncomfortable place for anyone. It is especially uncomfortable for pastors because trust is part of the currency of our vocation. When our motives are misunderstood, the instinct to defend ourselves can become nearly irresistible.

There comes a point, however, when vindication itself can become an idol.

Jesus knew what it was to be misunderstood. Paul knew it. Moses knew it. Every shepherd who serves long enough will eventually know something of it.

The question then becomes not, "How do I make everyone understand me?"

The better question is, "How do I remain faithful while I am not understood?"

I am increasingly convinced that the answer is remarkably ordinary.

Tell the truth.

Own what is yours.

Refuse what is not.

Keep appropriate boundaries.

Do the next faithful thing.

Love people without requiring them to vindicate you.

And entrust your reputation to God.

None of that means becoming passive in the face of wrongdoing. Shepherds have a responsibility to protect the flock, exercise authority faithfully, and confront what needs confronting. But there is a great difference between exercising responsibility and demanding vindication.

I can do the first.

The second belongs to God.

Perhaps that is one of the freedoms hidden inside painful seasons of ministry. We remember whose church this actually is.

The sheep belong to Jesus.

The difficult sheep belong to Jesus.

The people who love the shepherd belong to Jesus.

The people who misunderstand the shepherd belong to Jesus.

And, thank God, the shepherd belongs to Jesus, too.

So, brother or sister shepherd, if this happens to be a season when shepherding hurts, you do not have to pretend otherwise.

You don't have to solve the whole future today.

You don't have to win every argument.

You don't even have to feel particularly courageous.

Stay near Jesus.

Tell the truth.

Do the work he has actually given you to do today.

And when the day's shepherding is finished, remember that you are allowed to come home tired.

The Chief Shepherd is still on duty.