“You only work on Sundays, anyway.”
One of the go-to jokes of a group of guys I hang out with. I laugh because, well, I just like to please people. But every time the boys say it, I think to myself, “If you only knew what being a pastor feels like sometimes.”
An impromptu funeral at the clinic for veterinarians whose colleague committed suicide, scrolling to find an angry email about last week’s sermon or the changing of the carpet color in the narthex, begging financial generosity from people who pay your salary, lunch with a lonely man going through a brutal divorce, restocking the youth fridge with 7,000 Cheerwines, hearing that they’re gossiping about you again, failing yet again to prepare a sermon that marries TikTok and TED Talk, off to the shelter to serve dinner, did I even eat lunch? Did I mention that this was last Tuesday?
Ministry is often pure gift. The highs are as high as they get. Pastors bear witness to the most intimate, most raw, most human, most beautiful and terrifying moments of people’s lives. We play at the level of the soul. We get paid to read and write and pray. We have a front-row seat to miracles: the bound freed, the sinner forgiven, the debts paid, the dead resurrected. It’s not lost on me that having a job rife with meaning is a privilege and honor. This is what God has chosen to make of my life, and I am truly grateful.
And yet, there’s no way to get away from the fact that ministry is a burden too. Its shape is a cross. Its form is death and resurrection. People bring all their junk to church — and they should. Sunday mornings are not an assembly of the righteous, they are a sanctuary for sinners — hypocrites anonymous, I like to call it.
One of the chief problems that has arisen in my ministry is that I find it so hard to be ministered to. Ministers minister, preachers preach, consolers console, but if you’re not careful, a pastor will find herself without a pastor, a preacher will find himself without a preacher. Everyone needs both.
Not long ago I burnt out. Years after, I realize the burnout was not the product of overwork. The fire in my soul was extinguished because for years I had offered relief to others without finding ways to receive it myself. What becomes of a healer who forsakes his own wounds?
Pay attention when your soul stops singing. And I did. I prayed for God to bring relief, somehow, someway. And then, to quote Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption, “a beautiful little bird flew into my drab little cage.” That beautiful bird was Mockingbird Ministries. And now for six years I have done what Michael Gershon calls “staking one’s life on the rumors of grace.” As the 300th of the Mockingcast draws near, I thought it fitting to say what Mbird has been for me:
- My theological home: Pastors in the mainline will tell you that our denominations are fracturing. It’s tempting to give in to extremes and to weaponize politics toward ecclesial ends. This has made me feel like I don’t belong anywhere politically, theologically, or pastorally. I know many fellow pastor Mbirders agree because we’ve talked about it. Pastors in the mainline who long for a ministry rooted only in the gospel are like an island of misfit toys. Mbird has become for us a gracious home and a place to be reminded again and again of the gospel of grace.
- My Preacher: I listen to the Mockingcast on Monday mornings. You pastors out there know Monday’s malaise. Dizzied and frenzied from all of Sunday’s work and pressured by a million regrets about the sermon or the attendance, I find sweet relief in the words of RJ, Sarah, and Dave. “That’s right,” I think. “This is what ministry about.” God may not speak to us all through an audible voice in our heads, but God does speak through the words of a sermon. On Mondays, the Mockingcast is the sermon I need to hear. And just like my own parishioners, after I hear the good news, I find myself ready for another week.
- My Storyteller: We are narrative beings. Ask Jesus. He was a preacher of parables. The stories of Mbird break open the frozen seas within me. No tears in the preacher, no tears in the hearer. So, when I find myself moved, I know the Spirit is inviting me to share the story again.
- My friends: Just to be clear, I don’t think an online podcast and website are “my friend.” But what Mbird has done is introduce me to a host of other pastors and people who, like me, feel adrift in their denominations. I’ve found fellow Mbirders in my own PC USA, but through the Iowa’s Preacher’s Project, I now have friends who are Lutheran (all types), Baptist, Charismatic Anglican, Methodist, and Episcopalian. Ministry is a lonely gig. Knowing you’re not alone in fighting the long defeat can mean the difference between burnout and beloved.
- My pop culture blockbuster: As a music lover, cinephile, and just general peruser of grace in real life, I find Mbird’s tone so down-to-earth. They say it every other week — grace for actual people. There is no limit to where Jesus knows us and is known by us. Mbird has helped me realize that ministering to the world requires genuinely loving it as God does. The lingua franca of our people is reality tv, is sports, is music, is movies and popcorn. As such, Mbird has gifted me a freeing permission to expect that God meets everyday people in their everyday loves, hobbies, and desires.
The rumor of grace is spreading, thank God. It spreads like seeds, spreads in quiet and forsaken things, spreads in great laughter and deep sorrow. It spreads because despite everything dark in our world, the light shall overcome it. Grace is an earworm that once you hear it sing you just cannot help but let is soar in your soul. Mbird does best what pastors do best — it points to the unlimited yet hidden beauty of God’s grace for sinners. And for that witness I am ever grateful.
