Several years ago when I was in a “is it time for this call to expire” mode, I had a conversation with the occupant of the once-robust Office for Ministry of the Reformed Church in America. Since the day of that office suggesting good matches between ministers and consistories had already passed, we had a pleasant conversation about my views of what a parish pastor is called to do. I offered the phrase “shepherd of souls.” I was met by silence. Puzzled, I asked if we’d been cut off. “No,” I was told, “I just don’t think I’ve heard that phrase more than twice in the last few years. What does it mean to you?” I had thought my response was common.
Way back in the way back, when I graduated from New Brunswick Theological Seminary in the mid-1980’s, my father—himself a parish pastor for over 30 years—offered me this advice: “Just preach and visit. You’ll do other things, too, of course, but mostly, preach and visit, and your congregation will be happy.” The preaching part was obvious, and non-negotiable. The visiting part would always prove to be more of a challenge for a confirmed introvert. But I followed Dad’s advice, and, though I know countless colleagues who have far surpassed me in this area, I have tried to be there when the congregation needed me (provided they let me know about their need). I’ve tried, in other words, to be a good-enough undershepherd.
In 1993, Dr. Robert VanVoorst contributed to the Reformed Review an article on Role Conflict in the Ministerial Office. He claimed that the once-narrow role of the clergy as the president at the sacraments had grown, since the Reformation, to include preacher, teacher, leader, evangelist, builder, pastoral counselor, enabler, administrator, executive, entertainer, spiritual director, and cross-culturalist. Since 1993 one could add, at the very least: systems theorist, IT specialist, and web marketer. The “everything” in the Second Helvetic Confession’s dictum that the role of the minister is to tend to “everything that pertains to tranquility, peace, and welfare of the congregations” only changes by addition, like the Orthodox liturgy. It is not unreasonable to ask how any individual can wear such a mantle comfortably, or for long.
A year or two ago, when it seemed like the dark clouds of COVID were beginning to dissipate, I made contact with one of the senior members of the congregation. Visiting had been sharply curtailed during the pandemic. I offered that I’d like to come by, just to catch up, and see how the parishioner was faring. The response was polite, but direct: “Oh, that’s OK, you don’t need to come see me. I’ll let you know if I need to see you.” It didn’t feel exactly like a rebuff, but the tone of voice spoke more loudly than the words themselves.
Over this past summer I agonized for weeks over what to do with 39 years of sermons, 30 years of which were hard copy (though I had probably that many in digital form as well—there’s a 20-year overlap). I’d saved them in various binders (thanks, General Synods!) with thoughts that someday I’d . . . well, I don’t know what. Edit? Publish? I suspect they just helped me feel comfortable. They occupied space in a way that told me my years in ministry had come sort of concrete, quantifiable significance. Once my mind settled, my sermons went out with the recycling.
A few weeks ago, I was feted by my congregation at a retirement dinner. I am joining the spate of recent retirees, and will likely be among the last few who have their names read out at a soon-to-follow General Synod, which gives me no small pleasure, knowing that my brother, father, grandfather, and a few uncles and distant cousins were once similarly remembered. (Women in the ministry in my family—at least as able as the men, and who might have made significant contributions to the RCA—have made their way to other denominations.) Several speeches were offered, and a common theme among them was “you were there when I needed you.” As I scanned the room, I saw many in whose lives I had been given the privilege of being present at times of crisis or celebration. Though I’ve had my share of compliments on my preaching, there was nary a mention at my retirement dinner of any particular sermon. “Being there” counted. “Saying things” . . . not so much; at least, not as much.
The average age in the room was certainly over 55. As I worked the room, going table to table thanking people for the honor of serving them, I came to someone who said how meaningful it had been that I had visited her daughter and grandson in the hospital the day after he was born. The youngster is now six. I think his mother may well have been the last visit I’ve made to a mother and newborn. It’s not that no more babies have been born in the congregation in the last six years; I simply don’t find out about the birth until well after parent(s) and baby are home, and sometimes for a good long time. This experience is not confined to ministry with millennials, though; it is not at all uncommon to find out someone has been in hospital weeks after they have returned home, or to learn that a personal crisis has long since passed. This is more observation than complaint, though a bit of the latter creeps in, if I am honest, since “visit” has been one of the twin axes around which I understand genuine ministry to orbit.
Is the pattern identified by Van Voorst—inexorable growth of pastoral roles—changing? Is pastoral care—shepherding, spiritual companionship—a fading expectation? Phyllis Tickle wrote about the church’s habit of holding a “garage sale” every 500 years or so; will the long-term “side-by-side-ness” of Western mainstream Protestant ministry end up like the 25-cent Sinatra CD: feeding the nostalgia of an aging populace, but otherwise fit to be tossed into the dumpster?
It’s entirely possible, of course, that my observations are merely mine. Maybe I’ve not been that involved in companionship-based ministry because I’m just not all that good at it, and that I give off a “vibe” that says “please don’t bother me.” Perhaps I’m just doomed by my Myers – Briggs score. But I’ve heard similar stories from a fair number of friends who have noticed a similar trend in the last 50 years.
A number of questions arise.
Is the “organic” model of ministry, the general-practitioner way of being with a congregation, the broad Helvetic vision of “everything-size” parish ministry on its way out?
If seminarians are being trained for something different—and I am not lamenting if they are—how are they being equipped to communicate a different vision of ministry to consistories whose vision of ministry might still be literally old-school?
Who is helping consistories clarify and articulate their expectations with clarity and grace?
To what extent is the church bound, not only by its Lord (made known “in the breaking of the bread”), but also the apostolic fellowship (“breaking bread in their homes”), and even our deepest ancestors (“rest here while I fetch a morsel of bread”) to retain the companionship model of ministry and drop a host of 20th and 21st century accretions, the better to be truly fed by the incarnate Lord?
Can a minister perform the other functions of ministry (howsoever they might be prioritized in a congregation) if she is not, significantly, a companion to the people she serves?
My wife and I will soon be moving to a new home. We are in that “a time to keep, a time to throw away” stage of boxing up or tossing out. The sermons have long since been shredded. I trust what remains in the hearts of God’s beloved people is the presence of an undershepherd, leading them into green pastures, beside still waters, and sharing bread for the restoration of their souls.
