Another week, another leadership scandal in the evangelical sphere. The world we live in today heightens our awareness of those offenses (and it’s likely more transgressions are exposed), but it’s also fair for the American Christian to shake their head and wonder if they can trust any leader. How could a leader who was given so much make choices that cost so much? Church scandals cut deeper than cultural scandals because they are a personal offense. Congregants wonder how someone they trusted could have been living a double life the entire time. 

Yet it is not the "double life" where the enemy sneaks in. It is in the ordinary. 

The reality is that I have the same monster of self-righteousness, the same ogre of pride, the same tendency toward defensiveness as many of those who have been exposed. And pastoral ministry is uniquely tailored to expose and then exacerbate those sins.

Let me share the story of a recent Sunday—a fairly typical day.

I pull into our beautiful church parking lot and notice a McDonald’s cup on the ground. Bending over to pick it up, I spill my coffee. Heading into the building, I see that a volunteer has already blown our sidewalks clean. He must have come before sunup. What a guy. I head to the bathroom to clean my now coffee-stained pants. It won’t quite come out. I’m irritated with the person who littered, frustrated with my clumsiness, and embarrassed that I’m going to be preaching with coffee-stained pants.

I settle into my loveseat and review my sermon notes, praying for my heart and the congregation. I greet my co-lead pastor, Greg, and we catch up on our Saturdays. A staff member pops her head in. She’s navigating a weighty family situation and shares how she's doing. She turns the conversation, “Have you seen the blistering comments on your blog post yesterday?” I hadn’t. She shares the comments with me, and my stomach churns. I realize that I will have to step into a conversation with this congregant.

Three congregants bless me by showing up for our early pre-service prayer time. Our shared conversation with the Lord encourages me, prompting me to pray for the day in ways I hadn’t considered and to wait for the Lord. I leave refreshed.

The difficult conversation comes faster than expected. The congregant who blasted my post shows up early to church, and I decide it is appropriate to engage with him. He remains unmoved; my exegesis in the blog post was non-biblical and highly problematic, and his public response was proportionate and appropriate. My blood pressure rises. In my flesh, I want to put him in his place. I encourage him to consider that there is a rich history of interpretation around this text and that both of our expositions are well within the bounds of orthodox interpretations. He is unyielding. I encourage him that if he has issues in the future, it would be best if he approached me personally. He believes that because my communication is public, a public response is necessary. I’m getting nowhere. I feel the pressure in my chest. Why did I have this conversation now? I’m frustrated at him and myself. I decide to let the disagreement lie. I’m late to my post at the gate where I welcome people.

I leave the conversation and watch the church now abuzz with volunteers and those who have shown up early for the morning. What a blessing it is to minister among these faithful saints. I pray for the man I confronted and collect myself.

My morning brightens further as I meet several new families heading into church. Worship is moving, and we navigate a challenging text in a way that I feel is God-honoring. The service concludes, and I step into a lengthy conversation with a man who is battling fear and shame. I feel God’s mercy for him as he shares intimate details with me, and I have an opportunity to speak love over him and pray for him.

I head back out to the gate and am overjoyed to see a dear sister in Christ who hasn’t been to church in years. She has a sweet spirit and shares that her return was “long overdue.” I turn to see another brother in Christ who had left our church years ago. I greet him with joy and begin to catch up on his life. He says he is doing great. I ask for updates on his family and his work. He tells me the news. I inquire about how things are going at his new church. “I don’t go there any longer. I don’t go to any church. I have all I need in my prayer closet.” My heart falls. I know he has an independent streak, and I’m sad that he’s not in community with believers. I encourage him that the church needs him and he needs the church, and that even if it isn’t our church, he should find a place to love and serve. He rejects the premise. “I have God. I don’t need the church.” He begins to unload his grievances against New Life. I feel trapped and frustrated. I need to get into the service to preach. It’s not the time to navigate a complex peacemaking conversation. “Okay, brother,” I conclude, and reiterate, “It doesn’t have to be New Life, but please find a church to call home.” I stroll into the second service, praying for the man I talked to and for my own heart. I can feel the callouses growing and sense the temptation to self-protect. In my flesh, I want to withdraw. But the Lord calls me forward, calls me to maintain a soft heart toward him and his people.

The purpose of this post isn’t to elicit sympathy. Pastoring has always been hard. Leading has always been challenging. I don’t think leading today is any more difficult than it has been in bygone eras, but it certainly has its own specific trials. Our culture fuels our consumeristic tendencies. We have a natural distrust of leaders and experts. We are individualistic and anti-institutional. All of those besetting cultural sins create corollary temptations for the leader. We can respond with authoritarianism, hopelessness, or pride.

At the end of Elijah’s ministry, he had run out of patience for those he had been serving. God takes him to Moses’s cave in Mount Sinai (Horeb) and asks him a question. Listen to the tone of Elijah’s response:

There he came to a cave and lodged in it. And behold, the word of the Lord came to him, and he said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He said, “I have been very jealous for the Lord, the God of hosts. For the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword, and I, even I only, am left, and they seek my life, to take it away” (1 Kings 19:9–10).

Do you hear it? The pride, the self-righteousness. God, in his mercy, shows himself to Elijah, reminding him that he isn’t just in the huge displays, but also in the whisper. But Elijah is so spiritually calloused that he is unfazed. God then asks him the same question, and Elijah responds with the same answer:

And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And behold, there came a voice to him and said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He said, “I have been very jealous for the Lord, the God of hosts. For the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword, and I, even I only, am left, and they seek my life, to take it away” (1 Kings 19:13–14).

And so, God hands the mantle of prophetic leader to Elisha. Beloved congregants, would you pray for your pastors? Pray for their hearts. Pray for my heart. Fellow pastors, beware of the danger of the ordinary Sunday. Protect your heart. As Solomon says, “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Prov. 4:23). Don’t allow the challenges of leadership to let you grow calloused toward God or God’s people. It is the ordinary Sundays that contain the snares that lead to the scandals. Be wary. Be wise.