Recently, Care for Pastors approached me and asked if I would consider joining their Blog/Content Writer team. Care for Pastors aims to provide the best possible care and counseling for pastors and their families.
As I thought and prayed about this, it became clear that now is the time to address forced termination from the pastorate through my own story and experience walking this dark valley. This blog will be part of a series that I hope will embody the intent of 2 Corinthians 1:3–5, to help others with the comfort I have received.
I would encourage you to visit Care for Pastors. You can read this article—part 2—and find so much more, here. You can find part 1, here.
“Matthew, how is your soul?” asked a smiling face on the other end of my first counseling session via Zoom. How is my soul? I was shocked. I was not ready for this question! Nobody had ever asked me this. Adrenaline flooded my body. My heart rate went up. I began scrambling, almost panicking, for an answer while trying to hide my momentary loss for words. I had been in ministry for eleven years. How could I not seem to answer this question? Worse yet, I would be embarrassed if I were simply transparent about my struggle. Honestly, I had forgotten I had a soul. This was the start of my rehab. Rehab? Let’s back up a little bit.
Who Am I?
Five and a half years ago, I slipped into a coma mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Forced termination from the pastorate had come to my study and our parsonage after eleven years of ministry. I described this in my last article, Forced Termination and A Faithful Friend. For the next two years, I would exist. The only way I know how to describe my existence is soulless. Alive in a human body, going through the motions, yet dead. I would fake everything—even who I was. And herein was a big problem; I didn’t know who I was. Not anymore! Who was Matthew? Let me tell you who Matthew thought he was before forced termination.
I thought I was a pastor. Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time, nor would I have said it like this, but in all practical reality, my identity was wrapped up in this phrase: I am a pastor. This was a big problem, and forced termination revealed it without mercy. On January 5th, 2019, what I thought I was ended horribly and dramatically. As I walked home that Saturday evening, freshly ousted from the pastorate, I could no longer say I was a pastor. Not honestly! If I am not a pastor, then what am I?
Must I Perform To Be Accepted?
Let’s back up a little further. I grew up as a very conservative Baptist. From a young child, I observed that if you wanted to be in fellowship with the body of Christ, to be considered one of the faithful, you did not question anything. I later learned that even asking a question could be perceived as questioning the church. While I didn’t realize it at the time, I began tying the concept of acceptance to the idea of performance, or another way to say it, I developed a performance-based acceptance perspective.
As I grew up, this connection between performance and acceptance only strengthened. I began to think that if I didn’t wear a suit and tie to church, I was dishonoring God because I was not wearing my best. Of course, I thought this mainly because I saw this around me. If I missed a church service, I was unfaithful, for how could there be anything more important than worshipping God every time the doors were open? Again, I saw this around me. I noticed that the more I conformed to the church’s teaching, including its preferences and standards, the more I did in the church, the more I was accepted, considered faithful, blessed, and truly right with God.
The Marriage of Performance and Acceptance
Now, let’s add another layer to all of this. I was called into ministry to shepherd the Lord’s sheep in this atmosphere and context. In practicality, this means that performance and acceptance had a wedding and married each other. The level of scrutiny in my life was now off the charts, so I got exceptionally good at performing! I could preach with the best. My shoes were the shiniest on the platform. My suits were tailored and pressed. I was involved in everything. I never said no, because I was supposed to be all things to all people. In other words, I talked the talk; I walked the walk; I was in! But I was wrong.
Now, to some extent, if you have ever been in ministry, you understand the tendency to feel the pressure to exemplify the Gospel. Exemplifying the Gospel is not wrong. But when exemplifying turns the corner, and we exemplify for acceptance, we are now on a dangerous path. This path is very slippery for a pastor and his family. The pressure to exemplify builds for a pastor over time. Before you know it, your income, livelihood, friendships and fellowship, even the braces for your children’s teeth, etc., rely on how well you exemplify the Gospel. No corner of your life can escape it since you and your family are always in the spotlight. The better you perform, the more you are accepted. That was me. Somewhere in the middle of all that mess, I became the sum total of my performance.
What happens, then, when you are forcibly terminated and lose your ability to perform? What happens when your character is slandered by lies, destroying your reputation and jeopardizing future performance? What happens when the people you loved and ministered to call the churches in your area and spread their lies, ensuring that you are cast outside the camp? What happens when what you grew up in, faithfully adhered to, and loved spews you out of its mouth?
My Last Stand
Conventional wisdom at the time, coming from well-meaning people, was to get back up and into the ministry ASAP! Someone told me that the fastest way to heal was to get back to serving others. In other words, for me, this meant more performance. Fear also gripped me. God’s callings are without repentance. I heard that preached over and over as a youth. What would God do to me if I didn’t get back to performing? I had heard many emotional, heart-wrenching illustrations at camp meetings of people God dealt with who had stopped performing. Should I take another church? Should I pretend that I know who I am? Am I denying my Lord like the Apostle Peter if I don’t? So, I did what any good performer worth his salt would do: I made one last stand. I got involved in another church of similar faith and practice. I didn’t last six months.
I Was Done
It was Sunday morning. I was sitting on my bed getting ready to put on my uniform for church—my freshly pressed and tailored suit. I had a nervous breakdown. I couldn’t get dressed. I was out of strength. I was done performing. I didn’t care what would happen—I was done. The coma had set in. In many ways, this was what the Great Physician had ordered for me. Now, He could start His soul work. Ahead of me were many serious surgeries of the soul. Many dark days lie ahead. The valley of forced termination is deep and long. But I wouldn’t be going through it alone.
I had a Friend. This Friend was at every surgery of my soul. He was beside me in every step through that horrible, dark valley. He didn’t judge me when I cried out in pain, though others did. He was kind, tender, and very patient when others were not. He loved me, even when I struggled and lashed out at Him. My Friend’s name is Jesus. I saw in Him something better than performance-based acceptance. It’s called unconditional love. I needed that.
How Is Your Soul?
So, how is my soul? I am free! I no longer constantly fear men’s acceptance or rejection. The taskmaster of perfection no longer has complete dominion over me. Who I am in Christ has brought calm and security to my soul. While the devil meant forced termination for evil, God meant it for good. While forced termination is not something I would have chosen for myself, the gifts that have come from it are not something I am willing to give up. In time, I would like to tell you how God did this work in my life.
Dear Reader, you are not alone in your trial of pain. God is with you. He unconditionally loves you. As His child, you are unconditionally accepted. Men’s decision-making power does not control your future. Who you are and your worth does not rise and fall based on your performance. For now, let your soul get some rest in these truths. Some surgeries are coming up—and yes, healing and rehab will follow.