Page 4950 – Christianity Today (2024)

Charles Wesley wrote 8,989 hymns (at least three times the output of poet William Wordsworth). Dr. Frank Baker calculated that Charles Wesley wrote an average of 10 lines of verse every day for 50 years! He completed an extant poem every other day.

John and Charles Wesley published 56 collections of hymns in 53 years.

“Amazing Grace”—Americans’ favorite hymn according to the Gallup Poll—was written by the former captain of a slave ship. That “wretch,” John Newton, eventually became an Anglican minister and worked to abolish the slave trade.

“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” was originally written as “Hark! How All the Welkin Rings” (meaning “how all the heaven rings”). Thankfully, Charles Wesley’s popular Christmas carol was changed by his friend George Whitefield, the famous evangelist who sparked America’s Great Awakening.

Charles Wesley was an accomplished field preacher, who on occasion addressed crowds of 10,000 and 20,000 people. He experienced considerable opposition, sometimes from rock-throwing mobs. In fact, his well-known hymn “Ye Servants of God, Your Master Proclaim” was written “to be sung in a tumult.”

Eighteenth-century hymnbooks were usually only collections of texts—they did not include musical notes. The first American hymnal to join tunes with texts was not published until 1831.

The usual method of singing in church was by “lining out”—having a leader say one line, and the congregation repeat it. (This was done because hymnbooks were expensive, and many worshipers could not read.) People did not sing one line immediately after another, as they do now.

The singing of hymns was not officially approved in the Church of England until 1820.

Isaac Watts, who wrote such well-known hymns as “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “Joy to the World,” was an accomplished writer in many areas. He wrote a textbook on logic that was used at Oxford. His children’s hymnal may be the most popular children’s classic ever published. Alice in Wonderland parodied some of its hymns (for example, “Tis the Voice of the lobster, I heard him declare.”)

John Wesley’s first two published books of tunes included only a melody line, because he held serious doubts about the propriety of singing in parts.

Throughout Charles Wesley’s life, his Methodist companions sang none of his hymns in Sunday worship. (Throughout Wesley’s lifetime, Methodists stayed in the Anglican church, which did not employ the new hymns in worship. Wesley’s hymns were sung in informal Methodist gatherings during the week. )

William Cowper, who wrote a classic hymn on God’s providence—“God Moves in a Mysterious Way His Wonders to Perform”—tried a number of times to commit suicide. He suffered from mental illness.

Many early hymns contained more than a dozen stanzas. Charles Wesley’s “Soldiers of Christ, Arise,” for example, originally boasted 18 stanzas. Brother John Wesley included only 12 of these in his 1780 hymnbook—and he divided them into 3 separate hymns.

In eighteenth-century England, many hymns contained rhyming words that no longer rhyme today. For example, join could rhyme with divine or thine; and convert could rhyme with art.

The first hymnbook of the Wesleys was published not in England but in America (in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1737). And it contained no texts by Charles Wesley. For his effort, John Wesley was “arraigned before a grand jury for altering authorized psalms and for introducing unauthorized compositions into church services.”

Peter Böhler, who helped lead John and Charles Wesley to experience conversions, once said, “If I had a thousand tongues, I’d praise Christ with them all.” Charles Wesley expanded this stray comment into lines that became the well-known hymn “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing.”

Augustus Toplady, who wrote the famous hymn “Rock of Ages,” called John Wesley a “tadpole in divinity.” Wesley in turn called Toplady “the most rancorous hater of the gospel system.” Nevertheless, in Toplady’s 1776 hymnal, “Rock of Ages” stood next to Charles Wesley’s “Jesu, Lover of My Soul.”

There is evidence that Toplady plagiarized his most famous hymn (“Rock of Ages”) from his opponent, Charles Wesley!

Isaac Watts’s collection of psalms and hymns was still selling as many as 60,000 copies per year over 100 years after it was published. His Psalms of David went through 31 editions in its first 50 years, including a 1729 reprinting issued by Benjamin Franklin.

Augustus Toplady wrote 6 hymns; William Cowper wrote 68; John Newton wrote 280; Philip Doddridge wrote around 400; and Isaac Watts wrote 697. But Charles Wesley wrote 8,989.

Though not usually known for writing hymns, John Wesley did write several original hymns, and he translated many from German.

John Wesley often severely edited his brother Charles’s hymns, both for length and theology. When Charles wrote “Thou didst in love Thy servant leave,” John wrote in the margin, “Never!”

Dr. James Townsend is Bible editor at David C. Cook Publishing Co. and author of eight volumes in The Bible Mastery Series (Cook).

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Christian History magazine.Click here for reprint information on Christian History.

I have been trying to imagine a church without music.

The organ is boarded up. Hymnals are dropped in the paper-recycling bin. Strings are taken off the guitars and pianos; handbells are melted down. No preludes, offertories, or grand hymns. No exuberant choruses. No one is allowed to sing or play an instrument, or listen to one. The Book of Psalms is torn out of the Bible.

I can’t do it. Once I wake from that nightmare, I realize that music has always irrepressibly welled up in the souls of Christians. The first believers sang “psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, making melody in their hearts to the Lord” (Eph. 5:19). Roman governor Pliny, after investigating the suspicious practices of Christians (in A.D. 111), discovered they met before daybreak each morning and “recited a hymn antiphonally to Christ, as to a god.”

Bishop Ambrose, who helped lead Augustine to Christ, instituted (or reintroduced) hymn singing in Western church services in 386. Gregory the Great, one of the most influential church leaders of all time, wrote “Antiphonar,” a collection of chants, in 600. Charlemagne’s son installed an organ in the palace chapel at Aachen, in 826. Polyphonic music began to develop and, a few centuries later, replaced Gregorian chant. Many of the major advances in musical notation and forms were made by abbots and nuns, eager to praise their God.

But medieval hymns were not sung by the congregation. Martin Luther, who coproduced a hymnal in 1524, helped return hymns to the people, declaring that “I place music next to theology and give it the highest praise.” German chorales continued to be written and were used, for example, among the Pietists and Moravians.

Yet as late as 1700, English-speaking believers lacked a truly vibrant musical expression. Virtually the only musical texts were wooden renderings of the Psalms in verse. As minister Isaac Watts complained, “To see the dull indifference, the negligent and thoughtless air, that sits upon the faces of the whole assembly while the psalm is on their lips, might tempt even a charitable observer to suspect the fervour of inward religion.”

Fortunately, Watts set out to solve the problem. If he did not exactly create a new genre, he “opened the gate,” as Erik Routley put it, for the modern hymn. He gave the church freer, powerful expressions of Christian faith: “Joy to the World,” “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” “Jesus Shall Reign,” and many others. Charles Wesley, John Newton, and others soon followed his lead.

In succeeding years, some of the church’s ancient music was recaptured. Gospel hymns were added. And today an explosion of “praise music” is reshaping church worship. But every Sunday we continue to sing those original English hymns written 250 years ago. We wouldn’t want to imagine the church without them.

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Christian History magazine.Click here for reprint information on Christian History.

Charles and John Wesley in some ways presaged the later romantic movement, with its emphases on the lower classes, upheaval, and above all, imagination and strong feelings.

Lower classes: Contemporary with the Wesleys was Jean Jacques Rousseau and his romanticized “noble savage.” (John Wesley found himself disabused of this notion in America; he reported, “All except perhaps the Choctaws are gluttons, thieves, dissemblers, liars.”) Yet the clientele of the Wesleys were usually commoners. Charles Wesley penned: “Outcasts of men, to you I call, / Harlots and publicans and thieves.”

Upheaval: The spirit of the French revolutions of 1789 and 1830 is captured in Delacroix’s painting Liberty Guiding the People (a bare-breasted French woman with Phrygian cap and musket, leading the onslaught). England was spared such revolutionary political upheaval; many church historians have argued that it was because of the spiritual revolution, linked to the Wesleys, that swept the country. Drunkards, wife beaters, and rabble-rousers found their lives revolutionized by the Wesleys’ message.

Emotion: Eighteenth-century poetry had been “held in the Arctic grip of [Alexander Pope’s] heroic couplet,” according to Ernest Rattenbury. Yet the second stanza of Charles’s conversion hymn captures the distinctive Wesleyan trademark of feeling: “O how shall I the goodness tell, / Father, which Thou to me hast showed, / That I, a child of wrath and hell, / I should be called a child of God! /Should know, should feel my sins forgiven / Blest with this antepast of heaven!” Similarly, in one stanza omitted from “And Can It Be,” a couplet asserts: “I feel the life His wounds impart; I feel the Saviour in my heart.”

Dr. James Townsend is Bible editor at David C. Cook Publishing Co. and author of eight volumes in The Bible Mastery Series (Cook).

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Christian History magazine.Click here for reprint information on Christian History.

Several years ago, when I was in Bible college, I was summoned from my botany class to answer a phone call from my wife, Evon. “Doug,” she said excitedly, “I’m pregnant.” I was equally excited and didn’t get much done that day in class.

The next nine months couldn’t go fast enough. We were disappointed when the doctor told us the delivery would need to be induced. Still, we went to the hospital, full of anticipation, on the date scheduled. Evon’s labor was hard, but at 5:15 P.M. on February 19, 1985, Joshua Ryan Herman came into the world. And despite complications in labor-Evon had hemorrhaged and received a transfusion of two units of blood-she recovered quickly, and both mother and son did fine.

The next eighteen months of family life flew by happily. Joshua was old enough to walk and talk when we received an unexpected call from Evon’s OB/GYN doctor. They asked Evon to come to the office for tests. Her blood was drawn and examined.

Somehow when we met with the doctor and the infectious disease specialist, we knew what they would say: “Mr. and Mrs. Herman, in our back-testing of donated blood, we have discovered that one of the two units you received tested positive for HTL-III, the virus that has the potential to cause AIDS. We don’t have a lot of answers or research to give you. Future children are out of the question. Personal hygiene must be strictly sanitary. It is important that you tell no one. If you need us, call.”

The news sank in slowly. We smiled outwardly and calmly assured them, “We understand. Don’t worry, we’ll be all right.” Then we returned to the tranquility of our home. But we were not tranquil.

Evon seemed to repress what had happened. I didn’t: Evon could die! No, Evon would die! I could also test positive in the future!

In the weeks that followed, often I asked God, “Why?” We had given up everything to minister to others. Why us?

We focused on Scriptures about assurance and healing. “By his stripes we were healed,” I would quote aloud. And I would tell Evon, “You’ve already been healed. When that infectious blood entered your body, it was seared clean by the healing touch of Jesus! ‘They shall drink any deadly poison and it shall not harm them.’ That includes poisoned blood.” Evon would only force a reassuring smile and continue her daily chores.

She did have faith for healing, however, and in keeping with our Pentecostal tradition, we often participated in healing services.

As time passed, we had remarkable evidence that God could protect us from further harm: I tested negative time after time, as did Joshua. That alone was a miracle. But since the AIDS PCR test was not yet available, we couldn’t be sure whether Evon had been healed. She could be clean of the virus and still test positive for antibodies.

Some time later, I became youth pastor of a church in central Texas. We told almost no one of our situation; we were terrified of their possible reactions. At that time so little was known about the disease.

Moreover we would overhear Christians talk of AIDS as “God’s curse upon hom*osexuals and drug users, the due penalty for their sin.” Would they believe me if I told how Evon got it? Would they conclude it was God’s curse on us?

I concluded that since we were claiming, by faith, the healing of Evon, there was no need to raise the subject. The pastor and his wife knew; that was enough.

In fact the “God’s curse” idea reinforced my faith. We were innocent! Not only had we done nothing wrong, we had sacrificed everything to do right. God would therefore not allow this curse to fall on his innocent children.

I believed so strongly in Evon’s healing and our protection that we used no contraceptives, ignoring the doctor’s advice to have no more children. I naively thought, What better way to show God’s healing power to the world than to deliver a baby that was without the virus? Before long, Evon became pregnant.

The Trying Reality

For days Evon called OB/GYN doctors in Austin. We received the same response in a variety of forms:

“I’m sorry. Our clientele is full.”

“I’m sorry. We are not staffed to see AIDS patients.”

“I’m sorry. Have you tried Planned Parenthood?”

After three weeks we finally found a doctor who said, “I do see some AIDS patients, but please keep this confidential. If people were to find out, I would be so swamped it would become impossible.”

And he was straightforward with us: “Chances are this child will test positive for the virus, eventually contract AIDS, and die. Have you considered terminating this pregnancy?”

“No. If God wants this pregnancy terminated,” I replied, “then he can do it.”

Time passed slowly during this pregnancy. Evon experienced much pain and discomfort. Meanwhile, we moved to another church in a Denver suburb to work as youth pastors.

Again the fear of telling people haunted us. We informed our new pastor and found him to be extremely understanding. But we didn’t tell the church. If Evon was healed, why tell them?

In the fall of 1988 Evon gave birth to our daughter, Ashli Nicole. Ashli showed no ill effects. At six weeks of age, the doctors tested and found her blood positive for the virus. Newborns often receive a transferal of antibodies from the mother, however. There was still the possibility that she would test negative in the future after her body flushed out the mother’s antibodies.

Weeks passed. More tests. With each one a more positive reading for antibodies. No. Ashli was not healed. I had brought her into a world of sickness and death.

One evening I went to the church to pray. I needed God to tell me what to do. I asked him simple questions: “How can my wife be sick? How can Ashli be positive?” I blamed myself. I raged, wept, sweated, wondered. But no voice, no sign came from heaven.

I thought about others who suffered innocently. Job’s children died. With no healing or warning, they were gone. I thought of Hebrews 11, “They all died, not receiving in themselves the promise that had been given.” Death came again and again, not healing.

I prayed again what had become a daily refrain. “Dear God, I know you love me. I know you are alive and personal. Why you don’t intervene is beyond my understanding. Please, just this once, reveal yourself in peace and healing. I need to know you are with me.”

Silently I waited for a word. If only I could see him. If only I could feel his loving arms around me. If only I could look into his eyes. But I went home that night empty, disappointed.

With a select few, Evon and I cautiously shared our terrible secret. But even that had its limitations. For instance, Ed, a good friend, knew. One day we went to lunch to discuss program ideas, and the conversation eventually turned to my family’s need.

“In our business,” he said, “we practice putting ourselves in the customer’s shoes to understand his perspective. You don’t know how hard I’ve tried to put myself in your shoes, to understand what you must be going through. But I just can’t.”

“To be honest with you,” I said, “I’m not sure I understand what I’m going through either.” I appreciated Ed’s honesty and his companionship. We pulled away from Chili’s parking lot in silence.

Ed dropped me off outside the church office. “If you or Evon need anything,” he said, “anything at all, please call us. We’re here for you.” I looked into his eyes and thanked him sincerely.

Still, as he pulled away, I thought to myself, You’re right, Ed. You don’t understand. You care, but you will never understand what we are going through.

God’s Presence

In my office, I leaned back in my chair, sighed, and whispered a prayer. “Oh God, I know Ed and others want to help, but I want you to reveal yourself to me.” My eyes glanced at the bookshelf, where a book on suffering caught my eye. I pulled it out and read.

Soon, one thought from the book arrested me: God had already been revealing himself to me, by giving me his body, the church, to love and support me through this crisis. But I had rejected his chosen way of helping me. As a minister whom God had called to leadership, I wanted to touch God without the help of others. Instead, I discovered that in the church, we can touch one another and reveal God’s love to one another. I saw that in one sense, the church is supernatural.

With that insight in my heart, I began to wonder whether I could trust the body of Christ. Laying my head in my hands, I began to weep. Memories of how we had been mistreated came to mind.

A few years ago when I was a youth pastor, I talked about Evon’s sickness at a meeting of fellow youth pastors. I was encouraged by their empathetic responses until one well-meaning minister said, “I know the Scripture is true. God doesn’t want Christians to die before they are 70 or 80 years old. You have to have faith, Doug. You’ve got to have faith!”

His words hit like body blows. Unfortunately, he was not the first to say such things. Of the few people who knew of my crisis, several had done more to hurt than to help.

I was afraid to allow myself and my family to be vulnerable. Yet I realized that is what God did in Christ. If we were going to know the full extent of God’s comfort and help, we had to reach out, risking pain to gain love.

Finally we told the church. In both morning services our pastor stood on our behalf and explained the situation. Afterward the vast majority of the people came forward, wept with us, and embraced us. A few sat in shock for several minutes and then walked out without seeing us.

That decision brought us much pain and frustration with much more undoubtedly to follow. A few people couldn’t deal with my family’s sickness. They avoided us. A doctor in the church advised a certain level of quarantine for Ashli in the nursery. There was tension and awkwardness in some relationships.

However, the pain cannot compare with the tangible presence of Jesus Christ that was released through the simple acts of love and acceptance of his body.

Members of the congregation responded in ways that have meant everything to me and my family. Here’s how the church became the body of Christ for us, and how we’ve learned to minister to others in this same situation.

Send encouraging cards. In our living room we have an encouragement basket. It overflows with cards from friends who have shown they care by taking the time to write.

Invite them into your home. One couple in our church invited us over for barbecued hamburgers-and a soak in their hot tub! They knew there was no risk, and they broke down the paranoia.

Visit them in the hospital and hold or touch them. One couple began to visit our daughter in the hospital without even telling us they were there. They would hold Ashli and rock her to sleep when we couldn’t. Today we are best of friends with them.

Assist with daily needs. Evon often gets tired, so a weekly visit by one girl to do general cleaning has relieved a lot of stress. In addition, when Evon and Ashli were both hospitalized, some of the women of our church sent Joshua and me home-cooked food. Friends have taken my son, Joshua, for a day to give us time off.

Also, since AIDS increases fatigue, Evon often needs to sleep in, take naps, or go to bed early. This means that when we coordinate activities and schedules with others, we’ve appreciated when they understand our constraints and allow time for adequate rest.

Don’t always ask how they feel. Someone wearing a cast quickly tires of the question, “What happened to your arm?” Naturally people are concerned about us, but when they ask how we are doing each time we meet, it becomes oppressive. We like to be asked about our health, like anyone else, but we also like to have normal, carefree conversations without the shadow of AIDS.

Be careful when you’re sick. Although we do appreciate a hug, when someone totes a cold or flu virus, that’s a different story. They could be carrying a life-ending virus. Sometimes we have had to hurt others’ feelings by refusing affection. When sick, a smile and a wave will do just fine.

Continue to enjoy yourself around them. One individual speaks to Evon in a somber tone that could paralyze a coroner. Conversely, Evon looks forward to her time with Roxanne, who has learned to laugh at life and its complexities. Everyone enjoys a good laugh. Everyone.

In short, we like it best when people remember we are people not dying with AIDS but living with AIDS.

Although I once felt far from God’s felt touch, I now know God’s presence by his Holy Spirit in the church. I cannot understand why all this has happened to my family, but I know that we have personally experienced his love in the midst of it.

Editor’s note: Ashli Herman died in January of 1991, at age 2. As of press time, Evon is extremely fatigued and has a chronic cough. Last fall she underwent surgery to put tubes in her ears to alleviate ear infection, and she has been losing weight. Doug’s senior pastor resigned in late 1990, and in accordance with church policy, Doug also tendered his resignation. In February 1991, Doug began Family Matters, a ministry to youth and their families.

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Pastor Jones was perplexed. For the fourth time this month Cynthia, a 24-year-old single woman, had come to see him, each visit more puzzling than the last.

Cynthia had grown up in his church, where her parents were long-standing members. Cynthia had professed faith at a youth meeting when she was 14 and had been a leader in the youth group before going away to college. Now she was home again, looking for a job.

At her first session with Pastor Jones, Cynthia explained that two years earlier she had started dating a young man. They became serious but fought often and frequently broke up.

"A year ago, I discovered I was pregnant," she finally said. "And against my better judgment, I had an abortion."

Troubled by both the relationship and the abortion, she felt "locked in," unable to extricate herself from either the relationship or her past behavior.

"What can I do?" she wailed. "Where can I go to get away from all of this? What's wrong with me that I can't break off this sick relationship?"

Pastor Jones listened with deep sympathy to Cynthia. He reasoned with her and then prayed for her. She felt better.

But a few days later she was back again. He listened to her repeat her anxieties and guilt. She seems worse, maybe even depressed, Pastor Jones thought. Why isn't she experiencing forgiveness and freedom? Has she really experienced conversion? Is perhaps some demonic power at work in her?

Not that he had had much experience in spiritual warfare, but so many groups were talking about it he couldn't help but consider it.

Still, he repeated his standard counseling format: he helped her confess her sins and pray for forgiveness. Then he hoped God would work a miracle.

Twice more she came back, even more troubled still. Pastor Jones was baffled and even a little irritated. He wondered, Could she have some deep-seated emotional problem? Has something snapped in her mind, or is there something bad from her childhood coming back to haunt her?

He felt inadequate. But he hesitated to refer her to someone else for fear Cynthia and others would think him incompetent. This seemed a spiritual problem. Why couldn't he just do his job as a pastor? He stewed about what to do.

Pastor Jones is not alone here. I have heard this story, with minor variations, over and over from pastors. No pastor can become an expert in every aspect of the human condition.

And yet every pastor has to diagnose, if only at a rudimentary level, a troubled person's problem: Does this person need to be pointed toward making a commitment to Christ and thereby experience the new life of regeneration? Does this person need some supernatural intervention? Or is this a case for psychotherapy or counseling?

Before I set out some guidelines for diagnosing people who come to see pastors, first let me discuss two factors that complicate a diagnosis: (1) how psychological factors, especially childhood experiences, can impact or impede spiritual healing; (2) the difference between demon possession and its most popular imitator, schizophrenia.

Psychological Scars

Hardly anyone reaches adulthood without collecting a few psychological scars on the way. Even Christian homes can be severely dysfunctional and anxiety producing. Abuse can take many forms. The worst is not physical but emotional.

Divorce is increasingly common even in Christian circles, wreaking havoc on the social and emotional lives of children. Or psychological damage can be caused by bad parenting-neglectful, overly permissive, or overly repressive.

In later life these scars can interfere with a person's spiritual development and prevent a free, unhindered experience of Christ.

For example, our understanding of God is very much shaped by childhood experiences of people significant to us. When a father, for instance, is abusive, demanding, cold, or unforgiving, we are likely to assume that most authority figures, even God, are that way.

One woman told me, "I can't approach God without confusing him with my father. I can't pray with my eyes closed because if I do, I see images of my father towering over me and making threats. I can't even pray the Lord's Prayer because saying 'Our Father' sends fears flashing through my body. God and my father seem to be the same-emotionally I can't tell the difference. When someone speaks of God's love, I don't have the slightest idea what they are talking about. It's all very confusing to me."

This woman will have great difficulty in developing a healthy and balanced spiritual life. Scores of people in most churches suffer from such distorted images of God. When such people are in emotional pain, these distortions will hinder their ability to appropriate God's help.

A pastor counseling such a person will need much wisdom in correcting these distortions. Merely educating people in the "attributes of God," teaching them about who God really is, is only part of the counseling task.

The psychological damage needs to be healed, and while God does sometimes intervene in wonderful ways to erase these scars, other times such supernatural intervention does not occur. (God does not always short-circuit the healing process, I believe, because in the long run we are better off having "worked through" these problems by God's grace rather than experiencing instantaneous cures.)

False guilt is another example of psychological damage that can hinder spiritual growth. Many children raised in devout Christian homes are traumatized by excessive and unrelenting guilt. Sometimes parents, yearning to raise "God-fearing" children, impose rigid discipline and practice severe punishment.

For instance, one Christian family, who lived in a house next to us when we first arrived in the United States, had strict rules about whom their three daughters could talk to. The parents were so scared that their girls would become "contaminated by the world" that they told them: "You may not have any conversation with a non-Christian child. If we catch you talking to such a person, we will punish you."

These children developed intense guilt about talking to non-Christians. My daughters (who were allowed to be their friends) would listen for hours to their fears. Our neighbor's daughters grew up to be excessively guilt ridden; one now suffers from a major emotional disorder.

This sort of guilt is often referred to as "neurotic" or "false" guilt, as opposed to true or healthy guilt. Although many psychologists see all guilt as false, I do not. We need healthy guilt. We need to develop a clear sense of right or wrong. But when we feel condemned by arbitrary rules, or when the guilt we feel is far in excess of what is appropriate, then it becomes neurotic.

Why is it neurotic? For one important reason: such guilt does not respond to forgiveness, whether it is offered by human beings or God. It only knows punishment. It demands to be punished. It won't let up even when all is fully restored.

This was the problem with Cynthia (the person Pastor Jones was counseling). Her upbringing made her conscience oversensitive and out of control. She could find no way out of the prison of guilt brought on by her wayward behavior. Having strayed, she could not find her way back to the peace of mind that forgiveness from God should have provided.

Is this purely a spiritual problem? Obviously not. Can God not miraculously cure such a problem? Yes, but often he doesn't. God's wisdom is far greater than ours, and his concern is much more for our sanctification than our comfort. Cynthia needed to replace her neurotic guilt with a healthy sense of guilt. She also needed to experience forgiveness-the deep and profound forgiveness that God offers her, conditional upon her repentance-so that she can come to live with her imperfections.

Schizophrenia and Demon Possession

If psychological trauma, especially in childhood, can impede spiritual growth, what about spiritual powers? How do these impact psychological or spiritual problems?

I encounter scores of emotionally troubled people every year who at one time or another have been told they have an "evil spirit" or a "demon" possessing them. But demon possession is not always the problem.

Not every person who has a sexual addiction is under the control of a "lust demon." Lustful thoughts and behavior can be the consequence of poor self-control, inappropriate exposure to sexual activity as a child, sexual abuse, or ordinary sin. We don't need to jump to exotic explanations.

In addition, it can be harmful to assume demon possession too readily. No doubt Satan appreciates the extra publicity, but even worse, the hopelessness that such a label, especially when untrue, engenders in the victim (especially after exorcisms fail to cure the problem) can often do more harm than the original problem.

Falsely attributing emotional problems to demons has several dangers: It removes the victim from responsibility for recognizing and confessing human sinfulness. It enhances Satan's power inappropriately. But most importantly, it delays the introduction of effective treatment.

And delaying treatment for a problem like schizophrenia can significantly decrease the likelihood of the sufferer's return to normality.

Schizophrenia is a physical disease. Because it exhibits bizarre symptoms, it is frequently labeled as demon possession. But just as we learned with epilepsy (another disease formerly labeled as demon possession), we now know that schizophrenia is the result of a defect in brain chemistry. Medication can cure people of it.

And any delay in starting the right medication for treating schizophrenia can impact the sufferer's long-term recovery. Misdiagnosis here can have serious consequences. This is especially true for a form of schizophrenia that starts in late adolescence.

Every pastor, therefore, should be able to recognize the basic symptoms of schizophrenia. Frankly, those who cannot should not be counseling. Some basic symptoms include:

Marked social isolation or withdrawal;

Marked inability to function as wage-earner, student, or homemaker;

Markedly peculiar behavior (collecting garbage, talking to self in public, hoarding food);

Marked impairment in personal hygiene and grooming;

Digressive, vague, over-elaborate conversation, or lack of conversation, or lack of content in conversation;

Odd beliefs or magical thinking that affect the person's behavior (superstitiousness, belief in clairvoyance, telepathy, "others can feel my feelings");

Unusual experiences (recurrent illusions, sensing the presence of a force or person not actually present);

Marked lack of initiative or energy.

Naturally, schizophrenia is a complex disease. But if a pastor suspects it in a client, he or she should make the appropriate referral as quickly as possible.

If this is schizophrenia, though, what does demon possession look like? The characteristics of demon possession are not neat and simple to discern, but those with extensive experience with possession look for such things as:

The presentation of a new personality. The person's voice and expressions change, and he or she begins acting and speaking like a different person. However, this is also seen in "multiple personality disorders," a severe psychological problem associated with "splitting" and childhood abuse. It takes someone trained in psychopathology to tell the difference.

A striking lack of human warmth. The possessed seem barren and empty, and they lack empathy.

Marked revulsion to Christian symbols. The cross, Bible, and other Christian symbols make the possessed extremely uncomfortable. However, I also see many schizophrenics evidence this reaction. So this sign, by itself, is not evidence of possession.

Physical phenomena. Many describe an inexplicable stench, freezing temperatures, flying objects, and a "smooth, stretched skin" (see Malachi Martin's Hostage to the Devil).

Behavioral transformations. The victim has "possessed gravity," in other words, cannot be moved physically or can levitate or float.

Obviously, then, possession is not as common as is supposed, and many so-called possessions have more natural explanations. Diagnosis of demon possession is usually a matter of eliminating the obvious causes of the problem first.

How should the pastoral counselor set about making a diagnosis of possession? By ensuring that other professionals also examine the person to be certain that no obvious cause of the problem is being overlooked. If all natural explanations are exhausted and several of the above symptoms are present, then the pastor may wish to proceed with such a diagnosis.

The Law of Parsimony

In all matters of discernment the principle that should guide us is the "law of parsimony."

In essence, this law requires that we try to understand a problem at its most obvious and fundamental level. Simplicity is the rule. When diagnosing a problem, we must first try to find the most obvious and natural explanation before moving on to explain it in more complex or less obvious ways.

For instance, if I have a headache, I first try to see it as a result of stress or eyestrain (depending on the circ*mstances). If rest doesn't cure it, I may then need to consider whether I have a bad case of the flu. If that hypothesis doesn't pan out, I may need to go to a neurologist to check if I have a brain tumor.

But unless the symptoms obviously suggest a brain tumor, I don't immediately jump to the conclusion that every time my head hurts I have a tumor. All diagnostic processes follow this law.

Here's how we can apply that law to the pastoral counselor's task of determining the nature of a person's problem.

1. Take a careful history. This lesson we can borrow from other disciplines like medicine. Most pastors are not trained to take a thorough history, but it is vitally important if you are not going to miss an obvious cause of a problem. A history should include the following:

-Details of family background.

-History of dysfunctional patterns in the family.

-History of mental illness in the family.

-History of the presenting problem.

-When it first occurred.

-How often it occurs.

-The changes that have taken place in recent history.

-History of spiritual experience and practice.

-Experience of conversion-when, where, and how?

-Patterns of spiritual development since conversion.

A thorough history should provide a clear picture of what troubles the person, how it started, and the context of the problem.

2. Consider obvious causes first. Following the law of parsimony, you now try to explain the problem in the most obvious or natural terms.

For instance, if there is a history of mental illness in the family and the person you are counseling is experiencing bizarre behavior or emotions, the most obvious cause is likely the familial pattern of illness. Genetic factors strongly influence the severe mental disorders. Unless you are trained in psychopathology, however, the most responsible action you can take is to refer the troubled person to a psychologist or psychiatrist for diagnosis.

3. Intervene at the most obvious level first. It is helpful to think of counseling intervention in hierarchical terms. Not only does diagnosis work upwards from the obvious level of explanation, many interventions should also follow this approach. Treat the basic symptoms first, then move on to more complex symptoms.

For instance, a man may be behaving bizarrely and saying he sees things or hears voices that no one else sees or hears. The first intervention should be to refer the man to a competent professional who will treat these unusual behaviors and hallucinations.

While treatment for the bizarre behavior is underway, you may wish to counsel the person in the steps of Christian commitment, encouraging a "surrender" to the claims of Christ. (Your responsibility as pastor doesn't end when you make a referral.) Of course, the one intervention (professional treatment) may need to temporarily take precedence over the other (spiritual guidance) simply because the disease needs to be under control before the person can adequately comprehend spiritual matters.

4. Consider supernatural causes. At what point should one consider the possibility of supernatural or demonic causes for a problem and invoke deliverance as the remedy? Only when the more obvious causes have been eliminated.

If there is a history of schizophrenia in the immediate family of a troubled person, for instance, the treatment of schizophrenia must be given first consideration. I think it is gross negligence to move beyond this diagnosis without addressing the presenting issue.

But what about less bizarre behaviors? The same principle applies. Find the most obvious cause and treat this first. If you have eliminated the obvious, or if the symptoms are so strange as to rule out any natural cause, then you might want to consider moving directly to supernatural factors.

Some words of caution:

Never try to diagnose supernatural causes by yourself. Always seek corroboration from others, and hold yourself accountable to the corporate discernment.

Remember that many experts believe that possession doesn't usually manifest itself in bizarre behavior. Satan is more creative than that. We may need to look elsewhere for it.

Even when you think there is a state of possession, remember that psychological or psychosomatic problems accompany and complicate possession. These may also need treatment.

While Jesus instructed his followers to deal with demons (Luke 9:1-2), we find no injunction to seek them out. In other words, avoid preoccupation with these causes. Focus rather on the victory and protection we have in Christ.

5. Consider the need for regeneration. One of the great drawbacks of counseling or psychotherapy is that it does not deal directly with the core problem of human existence: our alienation from God.

Whatever the problem that a troubled parishioner presents, the question of regeneration is always a legitimate one. Without the regeneration that God works in the core of our being, all human endeavor to improve the quality of life (mental or physical) is limited. Pastoral diagnosis must always address the question of whether or not regeneration has occurred.

I am not saying that we judge people's salvation. But we have a right to call people to accountability for their souls. This is the work of evangelism.

During emotional turmoil people are more open to spiritual interventions. The caring pastor will carefully suggest ways the client can experience renewal by receiving God's grace. Regeneration literally means "rebirth," and only when the core (or "heart") is regenerated can counseling or psychotherapy make a significant difference.

As Christian counselors we can prepare a person to be receptive to God's work. We can help remove the obstacles of childhood traumas or distorted God images so that God's grace can be effective. Therapy or counseling does not do the work of grace; it merely aids it. It is nothing more than burden bearing as instructed by Galatians 6:2, 5 as well as Romans 15:1, helping others to rely upon the greatest burden bearer of all (Mt. 8:17).

6. Don't delay in referring. Whenever a problem is complicated or when you feel that it is beyond your training or expertise, refer the person to someone capable. Develop a relationship with a group of trusted professionals to whom you can make referrals.

Let me emphasize the word trust. Unless you know these professionals personally, you will not have complete trust in them. Cultivate a relationship. Go to lunch and talk to them so that they understand where you come from. Find out their orientation. If you are not satisfied, move on to someone else.

And even after you've made your referral, maintain ongoing contact so that you can evaluate progress and decide when and how you will intervene with spiritual direction.

While I suggest a parsimonious model of diagnosis, I cannot stress too strongly the importance of continuing education for pastors, especially in the area of understanding the human condition. Ignorance here is dangerous and can do much harm.

The misapplication of a spiritual solution may delay appropriate treatment of serious mental disorders. By the same token, the exclusive use of psychological treatments for spiritual problems is costly and dangerous to the soul.

Ultimately, calling people to respond to God's grace through regeneration has to be our primary focus. After all, "What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?" (Mt. 16:26).

For many, however, evangelism may mean helping them overcome the psychological obstacles to surrendering to this grace. This is where Christian counseling becomes a means of grace.

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

The nurse gently pulled me aside, away from the metal crib, away from my baby. She held me in her arms as another nurse examined Angie. I watched her reach over the crib and shut off the monitor. The arms around me squeezed tighter.

The other nurse turned away from the crib and faced me. “It’s over,” she whispered, her cheeks wet with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

The memory of Angie’s pale face remains with me today. She was just 11 months old, a victim of cancer. Angie’s father, my estranged husband, was attending college in another state. The lonely two-week vigil beside her crib left me dazed and numb.

I pulled away from the comforting arms around me and wandered, looking for a place to grieve. I don’t know who called my pastor, Jon, and his wife, Linda. They found me in the sun room on the top floor of the hospital. I stared out the window, not blinking, not thinking, not feeling.

Linda embraced me as Jon paced the floor. Just one month earlier he had held Angie in his arms at a church service, anointing her for healing. With her arm and its tumor draped over his shoulder, he had paced the altar and wept. As he prayed, I saw Linda through the nursery window, holding their infant son tightly. She prayed for Angie too, placing her hand against the glass.

This was the first time my young pastor had ministered to grieving parents or conducted a funeral for a small child. But Jon’s inexperience didn’t matter to me; his compassion and concern were what I needed.

He didn’t say much. He put his arms around both Linda and me and whispered, “She’ll never hurt again.” That’s when the tears started, releasing months of bottled-up sorrow. They helped me sit down, and we wept together-the three of us clumped in a bundle of grief.

My pastor and his wife ministered to me when I needed most to know God’s love. I was comforted knowing they felt the pain and anguish I felt. But their ministry began long before the day Angie died.

Facing difficult decisions

Angie’s surgeon suggested that if her arm was amputated, she might have a 10-percent chance to extend her life by a year. It was an excruciating dilemma. Her father and I would have given our own arms to have her with us another year, but we decided against the amputation.

My pastor didn’t question our choice. He didn’t judge me in the life-and-death choices I had to make. He simply acknowledged our struggle. “I can’t possibly know what I would do in your situation,” he said. “I know how difficult this decision is for you.” And if others in the congregation wondered how we could refuse any treatment, any chance, of extending our child’s life, he kept those questions from reaching my ears.

When a child is sick, parents face heart-breaking choices. What if the amputation would have been God’s tool for healing her? Had I sealed my daughter’s fate? Pastor Jon never tried to answer my questions. He knew any answer would seem trite.

A few days after the funeral he called and said, “It must be some comfort to know her last days weren’t spent with the additional pain of a major amputation. Your choice allowed her to go gently. I admire your courage.”

I appreciated his thoughtful encouragement.

Understanding the doubt

I could not understand how a loving God would allow a baby to suffer. Nor could I escape the daily, harsh reality of that suffering. Well-rehearsed religious phrases mean nothing to parents who sob over their screaming, pain-wracked baby.

Nights were a rhythm of pain. Two hours after receiving her pain medication, Angela began to whimper. After three hours she was sobbing. I watched the clock and prayed that God would make it speed up. At three and a half hours, Angie’s screams pierced the night, her head tossed from side to side, her legs drawn up with the pain.

The clock seemed to stop. It never made it a full four hours before I administered another dose. Two hours later the agonizing cycle started again.

I am grateful my pastor didn’t tell me I shouldn’t doubt. He didn’t try to suppress my anger or frustration. “I don’t know why Angela must hurt like this,” he said once. “But, I know your questions are valid, and I believe those questions will drive you to God, not away from him.”

Once, after Angela had fallen into a fitful sleep, Linda said, “God cries for this planet. This was never what he wanted.”

I remembered her words recently when the pastor of the church I now attend said, “We keep hearing people ask, ‘Why does God allow children to suffer or go hungry? Why does God allow war?’ But God asks, ‘Why do people allow such things? What have you done to yourselves?’ “

Since no one has the answers, it’s okay to say so. We can’t put something in the place where awe, reverence, and humility belong. We are mortal, and we have limits.

Providing practical help

Shortly after I told my pastor about my long nights with Angie, several church women took turns spending the night with me. Some came only one night. I understood why they couldn’t come back. It’s never easy to encounter stark suffering.

Others became partners in our pain. They rocked my screaming baby, sang to her, prayed with me, or just made tea. Their presence seemed to calm both Angie and me. I began sleeping a little more, and the added rest helped me cope.

Rather than scolding me for having doubts, Jon and Linda and the women they recruited were themselves tangible proof that God loved Angie and me and that we weren’t alone.

My friends didn’t react to my anger or doubts. Instead they responded to my pain with friendship and support. They helped my questions draw me closer to God.

It doesn’t always happen that way. About ten years ago, my friend Alice watched as the body of her 3-year-old daughter was pulled out of the pond at a church picnic. As her husband cradled the blue body of his little girl, a well-meaning deacon said, “You just have to accept God’s will.” As far as I know, her husband hasn’t entered the door of a church since.

Doubting, grieving parents don’t need others to question their relationship with God. They need the space to express their doubts and anger. They need others who can share with them in their suffering.

Helping grief happen

I wanted Angie’s funeral to run smoothly. I didn’t want any emotional displays. And I did not want to see the body. The funeral director was instructed to close the coffin when I entered the building.

I did not trust myself. The pain was so strong, I was certain the sight of Angie in the coffin would send me over the edge of sanity.

I did not cry the first night I accepted visitors. I did not discuss Angie. I asked my friends about their families, jobs, vacations, about anything except the tiny casket in the next room.

The next evening Jon pulled me aside and said, “I understand you haven’t seen Angie.”

I looked at the carpet and didn’t reply. He took my hand. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “You should see her. She looks like a doll.”

It didn’t take much encouragement to get me to go with him. As I looked at her frail body, reality set in. My baby was gone. I wept freely into the clean handkerchief Jon gave me. Pastors need extra handkerchiefs for times like that.

Being real

A couple from my present church, Laura and Ron, were married eight years when their son, Christian, was born. They had struggled with fertility problems, so the baby was a miracle. If they cornered you, they would praise God exuberantly for their miracle baby. Christian was six months old when an inexplicable brain hemorrhage suddenly killed him.

Our current pastor is a qualified minister who has conducted many funerals. But something about their tragedy shook him as it did all of us. Laura and Ron smiled through their tears and talked about how thankful they were for the short time they had Christian. We knew they meant it.

But still it was evident our pastor struggled with their loss. He hesitated as he spoke; he forgot things; he was unusually quiet.

Laura told me later it was a great comfort to her knowing our pastor wasn’t unaffected. He did not just go through the motions mechanically. He didn’t hide his feelings, but neither did they rule him. In short, he was real. He showed Laura and Ron that grieving was acceptable.

At Angie’s funeral, Jon listened to me talk a long time about the day Angie learned to stick out her tongue. I told him about the nurse who taught her how to do it. I told him how delighted she was to perform her new skill for others.

There was nothing Jon could do as I talked. There was nothing he could say. But he didn’t have to say anything. He simply stayed there; he listened; he encouraged me to talk. To me, he was being real.

Continuing care after the funeral

Grieving parents receive a lot of support during the first days following a funeral. This support dwindles quickly. That’s why they need someone who will stay in touch with them.

Within two weeks, people stopped asking me questions. They stopped talking about Angie. But I found it impossible to shake off my loss in a few weeks or months. My worst period of grief set in about three months after Angie died, when most of my support had diminished.

Pastoral follow-up reassured me that the grieving process was normal. When silence otherwise engulfed me, it helped to know someone understood I still hurt. It helped to know prolonged hurting is normal. When I was encouraged to talk to others and pray about my feelings, I could work through my grief.

Other simple things helped as well, such as a call on Angie’s birthday. A call on other holidays or on the anniversary of her death would have meant just as much. These are especially painful times. I needed the time and companionship of others. I didn’t want people afraid to ask me how I was doing or if I needed to talk. Their prayers also gave me strength.

The genuine care of others eased my pain and helped me cope with a terrible loss. But I realized my pastor and my friends were only human. They were limited. Sustaining comfort could finally come only from God. He gave me peace of mind when I clung tightly to him in my grief. I could not expect my pastor to heal my wounded soul, but I’m glad he brought me to the One who does.

-Lonni Collins Pratt

Lapeer, Michigan

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

"Do you believe in the supernatural?"

"Yes," I said. "Sometimes I think it's all that I believe in."

"I mean all of it-virgin birth and bodily resurrection?" – "Yes."

"The soon coming of our Lord and signs and wonders? Healing and prophecy? Miraculous visions and dreams?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. And also walking on water and feeding the hungry."

This conversation was taking place in the living room of a man and woman who had visited the congregation I serve. They had recently moved into the area, had visited the church, and had asked me to come to their home to talk. They were frank in telling me that they were shopping around for the "right church." They liked what they had seen in our church but needed to make sure about me. They wanted badly to verify my belief in the supernatural.

I was and am sympathetic to their concern. If I was new to an area and looking for a place to worship, I would certainly want a pastor who embraced the supernatural. I would want a spiritual leader who believed that God was alive and active, who did things past understanding, who spoke from the whirlwind and parted the waters.

I would be very unhappy if I found that behind the conventions of cross and altar my pastor was mostly concerned with plotting strategies for increasing the Sunday offerings. I would be furious if I discovered that when my pastor prayed for me, he had no expectation that God would do something neither of us could do for ourselves but was only working a therapeutic technique that would calm me down and make me feel better. I would feel thoroughly gypped if my pastor used the pulpit as a counter from which to hand out aspirin advice and candy-striper inspiration when what I had come for was prophetic surgery and a kerygmatic resurrection.

If I were in their place, I also would want a pastor who believed in the supernatural. Why else would I bother with church? God is doing a lot more things in this world than get reported in the newspapers and verified in the laboratories; I would want a pastor who helps me see and name them. God has many more things yet to do in me and my friends than he has done; I would want a pastor who keeps me ready and responsive for whatever they are.

If I had the slightest suspicion, I would certainly ask, "Do you believe in the supernatural?" And I wouldn't be satisfied with a stingy, minimalist supernatural-I would want something embracing and robust, risking foolishness.

But as the conversation developed that evening on Foxcroft Drive, it turned out that we had different ideas of how this belief in the supernatural was worked out in the congregation. They had in mind demons shouted down, converts glamorized, and miracles advertised. The supernatural for them was excitement and glitter; they wanted to know if I would serve as ringmaster.

I realized that given their expectations, simply saying that I believed in the supernatural would be misleading and would very soon disappoint them. I asked if I could tell them a story. They gave permission. The story didn't convince them, for they never came back to church. But for this pastor it is still the truth of the matter, so I am going to tell it again.

The Poisoning of "Pastor"

Pastor was a ruined word for me before I became one. The term did not release adrenalin into my bloodstream; it designated nothing to which I aspired.

Surprisingly, the Christian community itself, in which pastors did their work, was wholly positive for me. I came to know the person of Jesus at an early age, learned the Scripture stories, and entered quite freely into the way of life that developed out of Jesus and the stories. My home had a rich texture and much love in it. It always seemed far more interesting and colorful than the homes and families of my friends.

The small, sectarian church to which we belonged was an exciting place to grow up. Spring and autumn revivalists wound our emotional clocks with equinoctial regularity.

"Characters" predominated this working-class congregation, untouched by the hom*ogenization of mass culture. Itinerant eccentrics brought the latest news in about-to-be-fulfilled prophecies of Gog and Magog. Misfits found space into which they didn't have to fit. The wild weeping of Jephthah, the wanton beauty of Bathsheba, the ruined hulk of Samson-these were familiar sights and sounds in our congregation.

Every Sunday, Sister Leiken, a shrunken replica of St. Luke's Anna and well into her tenth decade, recounted the vision in which the Lord promised that she would not die but be caught up with the saints in the air at his Second Coming. That kept me on my eschatological toes!

The men and women I saw in church on Sundays were redolent with story, with Bible story. While in later years I would struggle to get the "two horizons" into hermeneutical harmony, for the years of my formation in the faith there was a single horizon, no gap between the Bible stories I was told in church and the people stories I carried home from church.

A most biblical community it was. By "biblical" I don't mean well-behaved or holy-it tended more to the Corinthian side of things-but it was sin-conspicuous and God-aware.

The miracle Sven Olsen reported when his cucumbers were preserved from a mid-summer frost was of a piece with the water turned into Cana wine.

The suicide by hanging of 18-year-old Jess Fletcher in the barn at the end of our alley after he had been discovered in sexual congress with one of the barn animals paralleled Judas at Akeldama. It also prompted my first reading of Leviticus.

The arrival of Stephanie, a young Polish refugee, and her later marriage to a chubby middle-aged bachelor made Ruth the Moabitess audio-visual (but unfortunately cast a shadow of doubt on the long-term happiness of life with Boaz).

But in this extravagant mix of love and laughter, sacrificial beauty and dark sexuality that I felt so at home in, so biblically at home, there was one person who did not fit-the pastor. Our mountain valley attracted hunters and fishermen, some of whom posed as pastors, coming and going with regularity. I don't know when it occurred to me that they were frauds, but it was well before adolescence.

I assume that most of them were good people personally, but vocationally they were dishonest, ego-driven, and more interested in the religious effects they could produce and profit from than in God.

They entered our town, grabbed the wilderness ecstasy and emotional loot, and were on their way again. I sensed they were not telling the truth from the pulpit, that it was propagandistic manipulation and spiritual blackmail. They all made extravagant claims for the supernatural. I never had a pastor I respected.

It is a marvel to me now as I look back how little difference that made to my feelings about God. In one sense, the pastors were conspicuous-they took up a large amount of space on the Sunday stage-but their effect on me was marginal. They never managed to interfere with the faith itself, my sense of God and salvation. They were important in a kind of external way, but they never penetrated my psyche. What they did was insure that I would never for a moment think of becoming a pastor.

In my late adolescence and approaching adulthood, I more or less drifted into the mainline churches. I was looking for a spirituality that also embraced the life of the mind and had roots in history, and found it-found minds that were robustly sane in thinking to the glory of God, found roots that penetrated one-generation experiences down into the centuries-deep soil of lived faith.

But in those churches where I found access to theology and tradition, I was no more fortunate than before in my pastors. If my earlier pastors had been cheap parodies of sideshow barkers, these later ones were dull parodies of corporation executives. They had been institutionalized into blandness, turned into religious businessmen who worked hard for the Company. Their enthusiasm in running an efficient religious store did not excite my admiration.

All the while I was looking for work to do, hoping I could find something that would have to do with God and the Scripture and the church. Teaching seemed to be the thing. I was good at books and loved them. I would teach theology, Scripture, and languages-this material and experience I found so congenial. Eventually I arrived on a seminary faculty.

I was now married, with a child coming. My salary was insufficient for expansion into the family way. I realized that if I did not find a way to supplement my income, I would soon be putting the promise of the first Beatitude to the test. I then discovered that I was more interested in teaching the Bible than living out one of its less congenial details and went looking for a part-time job.

The only thing offered was pastor-an assistant pastor, but still pastor. I took it reluctantly, conscious of something vocationally dishonest in doing so, for I was not a pastor and never intended to become one. I entered the ranks of the mercenaries.

The Power of the Pastorate

After a few weeks it dawned on me that this pastor to whom I reported as an assistant was unlike any pastor I had known before. I was 27 years old and for the first time next to a pastor whom I respected as a man of God and of integrity. I most certainly had been in the vicinity of such pastors before, but because of my hardened prejudices was unable to see who they were. But now as I saw who this pastor was, what he was doing, and how he went about doing it, I remember saying to my wife, "This is what I have always wanted to do; I just never knew there was a job for it."

I liked the seminary teaching and would not have been unhappy doing it the rest of my life, but what I was now experiencing was touching me at my vocational center: this is what I was made for. I loved being in on those junctures where life was being formed: birth and death, doubt and belief, joy and pain, healing and salvation-the ten thousand interstices of life that don't show up on schedules or agendas but that pastors happen onto. I loved being in on these risky ventures into hope and love, the shaping of holiness in these lives.

What I loved most was the sense of working at the borderland of the supernatural: God alive and active in mercy and grace, love and salvation, invading, penetrating, surprising whatever we had gotten used to calling merely "natural." As a professor I had been talking about what had happened; here I was in on the happening. I felt like a poet in the making of a poem, except that what was being made was life, a salvation life.

Over the course of the next two years I revised my vocational identity from professor in the academy to pastor in the parish. As the old imprisoning stereotypes receded, I became free for the vocation of pastor. I had been let over the wall in a basket.

Pastor: that was who I was. This was the life I would lead. I saw that it was possible to be a pastor and not manipulate people under cover of the supernatural, possible to be a pastor and not take charge of a religious business. There was a way of being a pastor that took people with supreme seriousness in the place they were, respecting all the contingencies of that time and place. And there was a way of being a pastor that let God's Word be the shaping, saving, determining word that I could simply proclaim and trust, and not use.

Bridging Nature and Supernature

I went about my work and then found I had a foot in both worlds, natural and supernatural, and that keeping my balance was difficult. Sin splits natural and supernatural apart. We winners take up residence on one side of the split and have as little to do with the other as possible. When we become pastors, the old residential habits continue.

But the gospel doesn't permit it; the gospel puts the split-apart worlds together again: "The Word (supernature) became flesh (nature)." I soon found this miracle of Incarnation at the very core not only of the gospel but of the pastoral vocation. "On earth as it is in heaven" became my vocational text.

I found that I was better at the "heaven" part than the "earth." I was more or less at home with the supernatural; it was the natural that set me my largest challenge. I began to think that maybe this was the very genius of pastoral work-to take earth with as much seriousness as heaven but always working and praying "as it is in heaven."

Pastoral work is heaven's work on earth. Pastoral work is local, earthy. The difficulty is that we have an eternal message that has to be worked into a limited place and scheduled times. We are eloquent with the message, but grow peevish with places and times. We work under the large rubrics of heaven and hell, and then find ourselves in a town of 3,000 people on the far edge of Kansas, in which the library is underbudgeted, the radio station plays only country music, the high school football team provides all the celebrities the town can manage, and a covered dish supper is the high point of congregational life.

It is hard for a person who has been schooled in the supernatural urgencies of apocalyptic and with an imagination furnished with saints and angels to live in this town very long and take part in its conversations without getting a little impatient and pretty bored.

Our voices take on a certain stridency as our disappointment at being stuck in this place begins to leak into our discourse. Fed up with the two-year losing streak of the football team, we compensate by fantasizing signs and wonders in the sanctuary.

Now is the time to rediscover the meaning of the local, what "on earth" means. All pastoral work takes place geographically. Every detail of the supernatural gets worked out in the natural, which is every bit as important and God-created as the supernatural. "If you would do good" wrote William Blake, "you must do it in Minute Particulars."

The gospel is emphatically geographical. Place names-Sinai, Hebron, Machpelah, Shiloh, Nazareth, Jezreel, Samaria, Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Bethsaida-are embedded in the gospel. All theology is rooted in geology. Pilgrims to biblical lands are sometimes surprised to find that the towns in which David camped and Jesus lived are no better or more beautiful than the hometowns they left behind.

If the fallout of our belief in the supernatural is a contempt for these one-horse towns and impatience with their dull-spirited citizens, we had better reexamine what we say we believe in. For supernatural in the biblical sources is not a spectacularly colored hot-air balloon floating free of awkward contingencies but a servant God with basin and towel washing dusty and calloused feet.

Congregational Topsoil

The gospel is local intelligence, locally applied, and plunges with zest into flesh, matter, place. It accepts whatever happens to be on the premises as material for the kingdom. One of the pastor's continuous tasks is to make sure that these conditions are honored: this place just as it is; these people in their everyday clothes.

Wendell Berry is a farmer from whom I have learned much in these matters. Besides being a farmer plowing fields, planting crops, and working horses, Berry writes novels, poems, and essays. The importance of place is a recurring theme for him-place embraced and loved, understood and honored. Whenever Berry writes "farm," I substitute "congregation." The substitution works for me every time.

One major thing I have learned under Berry's tutelage is how on guard I need to be against invoking the supernatural out of disgust or frustration with the natural. There is a kind of modern farmer, Berry tells me, who is impatient with the actual conditions of any farm and brings in large scale equipment to eliminate what is distinctively local so that the machines can do their work unimpeded by local quirks and idiosyncrasies. They treat the land not as a resource to be cared for but as loot.

But a farm, Berry contends, is a small-scale ecosystem, everything working with everything else in precise rhythms and proportions. The farmer's task is to understand the rhythms and proportions, then nurture their health, not to bully the place and decide that it is going to function on his rhythms and according to the size of his ego. If the farmer is only after profit, he will not be reverential of what is actually there but only greedy for what he can get out of it.

The parallel with my parish could not be more exact. I hear Berry urging me to be reverent before my congregation. These are souls, divinely worked on souls, whom the Spirit is shaping for eternal habitations. Long before I arrive on the scene, the Spirit is at work. I must accommodate myself to the supernatural that is already in process. I have no idea yet what is taking place here: I must study the contours, understand the weather, know what kind of crops grow in this climate, be in awe before the complex intricacies between past and present, natural and supernatural.

Wendell Berry has taught me a lot about topsoil. I had never paid attention to it before. I was amazed to find that this dirt under my feet that I treat like dirt is a treasure: millions of organisms constantly interacting, a constant cycle of death and resurrection, the source of most of the world's food. There are a few people who respect and nourish and protect topsoil. There are many others who rapaciously strip-mine it. Still others are merely careless and out of ignorance expose it to wind and water erosion.

Even as I write, I look across the road from my study window and see large earthmovers rearranging the surface of eight acres of farm land in preparation for building a school. The topsoil is in the way and so it is scraped off, leaving the hard and level clay. The topsoil will be replaced by brick and cement and asphalt.

Congregation is the topsoil in pastoral work, the material substance in which all the Spirit's work takes place-these people, assembled in worship, dispersed in blessing. They are so ordinary, either unobtrusively inoffensive or stubbornly obstructive, that it is easy to lose respect for them as I become preoccupied in building my theological roads, mission constructs, and parking lot curricula. Before I know it, I am treating this precious congregational topsoil as something dead and inert to be bulldozed to the sidelines in order to make room for something eye-catchingly supernatural.

This is highly effective for developing a religious organization. People can be motivated to do fine things, join meaningful causes, contribute to wonderful funds. The returns in numbers and applause are considerable. But in the process we find ourselves dealing more and more in causes and generalities and abstractions, judging success by numbers, having less and less energy for particular people, and a blurred memory of the complex interactions and crisscrossed histories that come partially into view each Sunday morning.

"The devil's work" says Berry, "is abstraction-not the love of material things, but the love of their quantities-which, of course, is why 'David's heart smote him after he had numbered the people' (2 Sam. 24:10). It is not the lover of material things but the abstractionist who defends long-term damage for short-term gain, or who calculates the 'acceptability' of industrial damage to ecological or human health, or who counts dead bodies on the battlefield. The true lover of material things does not think in this way, but is answerable instead to the paradox of the parable of the lost sheep: that each is more precious than all."

Why do we pastors so often treat congregations with the impatience and violence of developers building a shopping mall instead of the patient devotion of a farmer cultivating a field? The shopping mall will be abandoned in disrepair in fifty years; the field will be healthy and productive for another thousand if its mysteries are respected by skilled farmers. Pastors are assigned to care for congregations, not exploit them, to gently cultivate plantings of the Lord, not brashly develop religious shopping malls.

The congregation is topsoil, seething with energy and organisms that have incredible capacities for assimilating death and participating in resurrection. Pastors who realize this are understandably wary of false advertising in spurious accounts of the supernatural, which sow seeds of unrest in these fields of precious topsoil or divert precious energy from their daily cultivation.

Where most of us need help is not in working up a marketing plan for the supernatural yet to come but in acquiring an appreciation for the supernatural that is present and already far exceeds our capacity to take in. We pastors need help in recovering the biblical stance of awe so that we work "on earth as it is in heaven," healing the split between nature and supernature, not driving additional wedges between them. When we see what is before us, really before us, we will take off our shoes before the Shekinah of congregation.

The God of the List

A number of years ago these two pastoral essentials-the natural (deliberate immersion in ordinary everyday place and people) and the supernatural (prayerful expectation of the invading, miraculous Spirit who heals and saves) came apart on me. I found myself frazzled, disconcerted, irritable.

Things came to a head on Easter Sunday. Coming home after leading worship, I said to Jan, my wife, "Let's get out of here. I can't handle this any more."

Several things that had required sustained attention and intensity were finished. There was a feeling of let-down: Lent was over; I had just completed a book manuscript and had it ready for the publisher; my confirmation class was over and the seven young people confirmed; I had just finished teaching a course at the University, and the final exams were graded.

I had loved doing each of these: leading the congregation deeper and further into Lenten worship, getting to know these youth and sharing the faith with them, writing the book, teaching the university students. It was all good work, exhilarating work, but also demanding work, and I was exhausted.

We talked of how we could get away for a couple of days. We decided to go to Assateague Island first thing in the morning. Assateague is a designated wilderness seashore, a barrier island off the Maryland coast along the Atlantic Ocean. Sand dunes, wild ponies, gulls and terns, and surf breaking in on the long beaches. And no people for miles and miles and miles. We got out our backpacking tent and sleeping bags, gathered a few groceries in a box, threw some outdoor clothes together.

Assateague is about a three-hour drive away, an adequate buffer, we thought, from the hassle so that we could recover our spiritual stability. But getting out of town wasn't simple.

There were still a number of things to get done: stop at the post office to mail the just completed book manuscript; stop at the University to leave my class grades at the registrar's office; make two telephone calls to straighten out the nursery schedule for Sunday worship. I had a list. I was anxious to get away. I was checking items off the list so that I could get away from the odds and ends disorder and accumulating fatigue.

The last item on the list was "Murray-St. Anthony Hospital, Room 522." Murray was scheduled for surgery the next day; a pastoral visit was required. But Murray was not a person I took any delight in being a pastor to-whining about his wife, quarrelsome with his children, tedious. I anticipated the scenario of the visit: I would enter his room to bring a ministry of healing and hope and comfort; he would supply the context: a litany of discontent into which I would attempt to insert my antiphons of gospel grace. I didn't look forward to making the visit, but there was no avoiding it.

I completed my visit. It went as anticipated. I came off the elevator with my list in hand and looked it over to make sure everything was done. Murray's name, the last on the list, was crossed off. I crumpled the list in my fist, threw it with some ferocity at a waste can, and got into my car feeling free, having cut the last of the Lilliputian strings that confine my giant spirituality to the petty rounds of niggling parish detail.

We arrived at Assateague, set up our North Face tent, cooked a macaroni and cheese supper, and walked the smooth beach, marveling at the seabirds, emptying ourselves into the emptiness, taking in the long, easy rhythms of surf and tide.

That night we slept with the tent flaps tied open. It was early spring and the air was cool, verging on cold. The moon was just past full, and the skies cloudless. All night long the breeze poured through our tent, purging the fatigue, cleaning out the dust of anxiety.

And I dreamed. I dreamed a wonderful dream. The moment I woke and realized what I had dreamed, I knew it was a gift dream, the kind of dream that locates God's actual presence in my actual experience-a Bethel dream.

In my dream I walked into a Baltimore bookstore and saw at the entrance a stack of books with the title, Lists. Alongside the display there was a reprint from the New York Times bestseller list showing that this book was the number one bestseller for that week. The book's author was Geri Ellingson.

I knew Geri Ellingson; I had known her for thirty-five years. She had married a good friend of mine, and we had been neighbors for several years. I was excited-Geri Ellingson the author of a bestseller! I had no idea that she wrote books. I ran to the telephone booth and called her home in Montana: "Geri, I just saw your book; a bestseller! I didn't know you were a writer."

"Didn't you?" she said. "I've been writing that book almost daily for most of my life."

"Wow," I said, "I had no idea." Here was a woman whom I had identified in common, everyday terms as the wife of my friend, a neighbor, a housewife, mother of four kids. I had watched her scrub her kitchen floor, saw her with her head bowed in prayer in church on Sundays, picked up groceries for her in emergencies. And now it turned out she was the author of a New York Times number one bestseller.

"Well," I said, "Congratulations. I can hardly wait to read it."

I left the telephone booth, went back to the bookstore, and bought a copy of Geri Ellingson's new bestseller, Lists. I opened it and started to read: it was a compilation of lists. That's all, lists. Grocery list, laundry list, fix-up list, Christmas card list, bill-paying list, shopping list. No text, no narrative, no explanation, no commentary. Just lists.

I woke and knew immediately the meaning of my dream: lists are bestseller material. In my hurry to recover a sense of the supernatural in my life, an aliveness to the presence of the Lord and his miracle-making Spirit, I had thrown away the raw material for it: my list. The items I thought were interfering with the holiness of my vocation were the materials of its holiness.

Leading a congregation in worship was glorious-this weekly gathering of hungry and thirsty people around the bounteous mysteries of Word and Sacrament. But telephoning a couple of forgetful sinners to straighten out a misunderstanding on the nursery schedule was a triviality I resented.

Teaching university students was a high calling. One student who entered the class an atheist had become a Christian-a great thrill. But getting the grades to the registrar's office was an irritation.

Writing a book was satisfyingly creative. Getting the manuscript packaged and mailed was beneath the dignity of my office.

Praying for God's healing and love as I laid on hands and anointed with oil was a priestly honor. But listening to the whine and resentment of an unattractive man was something I would delegate to my deacons next time around.

And then the dream showed me that each of these items was bestseller material, grist for the supernatural: grading exams, standing in the post office line, putting up with inconvenient emotions, telephoning forgetful mothers.

I had treated each item as garbage, waste. As soon as possible I got them out of sight, throwing the debris into the waste can.

I told my wife the dream. I thought about it. While on the island I had a couple of days of non-list making to assimilate its significance.

I realized how much of my life consisted in paying as little attention as possible to details that didn't seem important so I could be free to attend to the big things, the important things, the spiritual things, the supernatural.

When I got home again, the first thing I did was call up Geri Ellingson and thank her for the book. She didn't remember writing it and hadn't received any royalty checks. I assured her it was real enough and told her my dream.

Next I bought a notebook and started keeping a journal. At first, and for a long time, my journal contained only lists: people to see, letters to write, visits to make, errands to run. I put them in the journal rather than on scraps of paper to give them some dignity, some semi-permanence. I call my journal "My Eschatological Laundry List." And I pray my lists, this bestseller material.

This is my pastor work, giving loving and leisurely attention to every natural detail in my congregation and at the same time living in urgent openness to the supernatural so my work "on earth" will connect "as it is in heaven."

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Though he did not live to age 30, David Brainerd became one of the most influential missionaries in American history. Born in 1718, Brainerd was headed toward a life of farming in his native Connecticut when he was converted at age 21. After studies at Yale College, he was ordained a Presbyterian missionary in 1744 and began serving Native Americans in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.

In 1745, while Brainerd was preaching among the Delaware tribe, a revival began. Here, condensed from his Journal, are Brainerd’s descriptions of his own inadequacy and the Spirit’s remarkable work. As they reveal, God often works after many days and months of preaching seem to have borne nothing. And when God moves, one evidence is that people are given a genuine concern for their spiritual condition.

Lord’s Day, January 27. Had the greatest degree of inward anguish that almost ever I endured. I was perfectly overwhelmed and so confused, that after I began to discourse to the Indians, before I could finish a sentence I sometimes forgot entirely what I was aiming at. I know it was a degree of distraction occasioned by vapory disorders, melancholy, spiritual desertion, and some other things that particularly pressed upon me with an uncommon weight this morning, the principal of which respected my Indians.

This distressing gloom never went off the whole day, but was so far removed that I was enabled to speak with some freedom and concern to the Indians, at two of their settlements. I think there was some appearance of the presence of God with us, some seriousness and seeming concern among the Indians, at least a few of them.

June 19. Not having had any considerable appearance of success dampened my spirits and was not a little discouraging to me. I preached to those few I found, who appeared well disposed and not inclined to object and cavil, as the Indians had frequently done elsewhere.

August 3. The Lord, I am persuaded, enabled me, in a manner somewhat uncommon, to set before them the Lord Jesus Christ as a kind and compassionate Saviour, inviting distressed and perishing sinners to accept everlasting mercy. A surprising concern soon became apparent among them. They were about twenty adult persons together and not above two that I could see with dry eyes.

August 6. They all, as one, seemed in an agony of soul to obtain an interest in Christ; and the more I discoursed of the love and compassion of God in sending His Son to suffer for the sins of men; and the more I invited them to come and partake of His love, the more their distress was aggravated, because they felt themselves unable to come. It was surprising to see how their hearts seemed to be pierced with the tender and melting invitations of the gospel, when there was not a word of terror spoken to them.

August 8. In the afternoon I preached to the Indians; their number was now about sixty-five persons, men, women, and children. I discoursed from Luke 14:15-23 and was favored with uncommon freedom in my discourse. There was much visible concern among them while I was discoursing publicly; but afterwards when I spoke to one and another more particularly, whom I perceived under much concern, the power of God seemed to descend upon the assembly “like a rushing mighty wind,” and with an astonishing energy bore down all before it.

I stood amazed at the influence that seized the audience almost universally, and could compare it to nothing more aptly than the irresistible force of a mighty torrent, or swelling deluge, that with its insupportable weight and pressure bears down and sweeps before it whatever is in its way. Almost all persons of all ages were bowed down with concern together, and scarce one was able to withstand the shock of this surprising operation. Old men and women, who had been drunken wretches for many years, and some little children, not more than 6 or 7 years of age, appeared in distress for their souls, as well as persons of middle age. And it was apparent these children (some of them at least) were not merely frightened with seeing the general concern; but were made sensible of their danger, the badness of their hearts, and their “misery without Christ,” as some of them expressed it.

The most stubborn hearts were now obliged to bow. A principal man among the Indians, who before was most secure and self-righteous and thought his state good because he knew more than the generality of the Indians, and who with a great degree of confidence the day before told me he “had been a Christian more than ten years,” was now brought under solemn concern for his soul, and wept bitterly. Another man advanced in years, who had been a murderer, a powwow (or conjurer) and a notorious drunkard, was likewise brought now to cry for mercy with many tears.

They were almost universally praying and crying for mercy, in every part of the house, and many out of doors, and numbers could neither go nor stand. Their concern was so great that none seemed to take any notice of those about them, but each prayed freely for himself.

It seemed to me there was now an exact fulfillment of that prophecy, Zechariah 12:10, 11, 12; for there was now “a great mourning, like the mourning of Hadadrimmon”; and each seemed to “mourn apart.” Methought this had a near resemblance to the day of God’s power, mentioned in Joshua 10:14. It was a day wherin I am persuaded the Lord did much to destroy the kingdom of darkness among this people today.

Those who had been awakened any considerable time complained more especially of the badness of their hearts. Those newly awakened, of the badness of their lives and actions past; all were afraid of the anger of God and of everlasting misery as the desert of their sins. Some of the white people who came out of curiosity to “hear what this babbler would say” to the poor ignorant Indians were much awakened, and some appeared to be wounded with a view of their perishing state.

Those who had lately obtained relief were filled with comfort at this season. They appeared calm and composed, and seemed to rejoice in Christ Jesus. Some of them took their distressed friends by the hand, telling them of the goodness of Christ and the comfort that is to be enjoyed in Him, and thence invited them to come and give up their hearts to Him. I could observe some of them, in the most honest and unaffected manner (without any design of being taken notice of) lifting up their eyes to heaven as if crying for mercy, while they saw the distress of the poor souls around them.

A young Indian woman, who, I believe, never knew before she had a soul nor ever thought of any such thing, hearing that there was something strange among the Indians, came to see what was the matter. On her way to the Indians she called at my lodgings, and when I told her I designed presently to preach to the Indians, laughed, and seemed to mock; but went however to them.

I had not proceeded far in my public discourse, before she felt effectually that she had a soul. Before I had concluded my discourse, she was so convinced of her sin and misery and so distressed with concern for her soul’s salvation that she seemed like one pierced through with a dart, and cried out incessantly. She could neither go nor stand, nor sit on her seat without being held up. After public service was over, she lay flat on the ground praying earnestly, and would take no notice of, nor give any answer to any that spoke to her. I hearkened to know what she said, and perceived the burden of her prayer to be Guttummaukalummeh wechaumeh kmeleh Ndah, that is, “Have mercy on me, and help me to give You my heart.” Thus she continued praying incessantly for many hours together. This was indeed a surprising day of God’s power and seemed enough to convince an atheist of the truth, importance and power of God’s Word.

-compiled by Kevin A. Miller

editor, CHRISTIAN HISTORY

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Have you ever felt that people expected you to produce signs and wonders on demand?

Last year I had to confront a member of our church. This man had come to Christ out of a hom*osexual lifestyle. Although he had contracted AIDS, we had accepted him fully into the life of the church.

But then he resumed his deathstyle of cruising and trysts. When I confronted him, he cried profusely and said he would repent. I told him repentance included informing those he had exposed to the AIDS virus. At that, his sorrow turned to anger. He venomously accused me: “You’re no man of God! If you were Spirit-filled, you would have discerned this sin before it got out of hand. I’ve been doing this for months now. Why didn’t you get a word of knowledge when you prayed for me?”

I reminded him that several months previously I had inquired point blank how he was handling temptation.

“That was just a hunch,” he replied. “That was just pastoral concern, not a spiritual gift.”

True, my gumshoeing didn’t sound supernatural. And I didn’t feel spiritually powerful when he severed ties, walked out of the church, and spread the rumor that I booted him out because he had AIDS.

I am a believer in the supernatural, and I believe God has worked through me at times in supernatural ways. But people can turn the supernatural into a superburden. For some, certain spiritual manifestations mark a “real man of God.” Others, when I lay hands on them, expect a certain feeling or quasi-thunderbolt. Still others, if miracles don’t come on demand, suspect sin in my life or, at minimum, spiritual lethargy.

That, of course, gives me pangs personally, but worse, it hurts the church. Most of all it hurts those with excessive expectations because, like the man with AIDS, they shift responsibility for their problems from themselves to the pastor. Many want to duck the disciplines of Christian growth and overlook their weaknesses and sins.

For the sake of these people, for our church, and for my own sanity, I do five things to pull them into balance.

Keep stressing the basics

I was flipping a paintbrush with my brother, a contractor, when the owner of the house told me she was a Christian. I told her I was a pastor. Pleasantly surprised, she said, “It just so happens I’m in the process of looking for a church.” She went on to describe how she had moved to town a few years ago and still had not found a church to her satisfaction.

She knew precisely what she wanted: a church charismatic in worship and Pentecostal in power, where Satan is bound and angels are loosed, where everyone is healed, and no one suffers poverty.

“Do you practice spiritual warfare?” she asked.

I knew what she meant, but sensing her lopsidedness, I tried to steer our conversation toward the fundamentals. I talked about Christ’s finished work at Calvary, the importance of a sustained devotional life, and the need for regular fellowship. I spoke of the pitfalls of fixating on Satan.

My words were met with polite impatience. To someone who wants to bind the principalities over city councils, armies, political parties, and drug lords, spiritual staples taste like gruel. But I still keep teaching the subjects emphasized in the church for centuries: holiness, servanthood, the person and work of Christ, discipleship, commitment.

I don’t ridicule or quench the spectacular side of ministry; I’m a Pentecostal by tradition and practice. I just believe that while the miraculous is an important part of a balanced diet (not merely the glazed dessert), it isn’t everything. Some may prefer a more exciting diet, but I keep serving meat and potatoes.

Tastes are acquired. The more we eat a balanced diet, the better we like it. For finicky eaters, even small portions of the four food groups improve health, and good health in turn stimulates an appetite for balanced meals. If I stressed only the sensational, my people would never acquire an appetite for the other essential aspects of faith.

Teach the value of suffering

My daughter Faith Rebecca caught a severe case of chicken pox. One of her church friends did, too, but healed remarkably fast, shortening her agony by days. The church heard the family’s testimony that she was touched by the Lord.

But the pastor’s daughter wasn’t. Hundreds of angry sores afflicted her from foot to scalp. One night while my wife, an R.N., was at work, Faith kept me awake till 4:30 A.M.

I anointed her with calamine lotion and prayed with faith, yet I continued to hear and answer her cries every ten to thirty minutes. Eventually my prayers of faith devolved into “Lord, what’s going on? Little Megan gets a healing. Why not my Faith?”

Then I heard God’s still, small voice: “I have given you a greater miracle. You have been given the honor of showing your daughter the nature of a loving father. By your example you have the privilege of teaching her the nature of God. She is learning that she can call out in her agony to her father. Isn’t that worth losing a little sleep?”

What could I say? I decided a miraculous healing from chicken pox is a small thing compared to the grace that kept me loving, kind, and caring into the wee hours.

I tell such stories in my sermons so my people see that God works for good in our sufferings. I emphasize that even miracles are not an end in themselves but are given so we can further glorify God.

Remind people of their responsibilities

A woman in our church requested marriage counseling. Knowing that their marital difficulties exceeded my experience and training, I recommended a professional counselor.

“I want you to counsel us,” she insisted. Having a minor in counseling herself, what she and her husband needed, she felt, was “to hear from the Lord, to establish some strict scriptural parameters.”

I agreed to meet with her to at least hear her out.

At our first session I discovered what she meant by “scriptural.” She urged me to confront her husband and rebuke him if he refused to repent. Citing Matthew 18, she asked me to haul him before our church council, if necessary before the whole church, and shun him if he continued in his ways.

I declined. “Instead,” I suggested, “let’s focus on what you can control. How can you improve as a wife?”

That session ended with negligible progress.

Five weeks later her husband stormed over to my house. They had clashed again. In the heat of the battle she began to bash some of his expensive audio equipment. He forcibly restrained her. She called the police. He broke her china cabinet. He was arrested and had just now been freed from jail.

While he was at my house, she called. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had followed God’s Word,” she cried. “Don’t you listen to God? Why didn’t you bind up those spirits that drive him?”

I saw little benefit in answering her questions.

“What you and your husband need,” I suggested, “is the fruit of the Spirit much more than someone else’s gifts of the Spirit.”

I urged repentance and forgiveness, and again I recommended a marriage counselor. She would have none of that. She left the church, spreading the word, “Don’t look for God’s power there.”

This woman wanted to make me responsible for their immaturity. Just as people blame God for their self-incurred plights, so they will, at times, blame the pastor. I have learned to refuse the millstone. In a nondefensive way, I gently remind them that they have to put on their own spiritual armor; I cannot do it for them.

Publicize the non-spectacular

In one Sunday service, Bob and Mary, who are both in their seventies and have no grandchildren, stood to thank God for the pregnancy of their daughter-in-law. When they sat down, I led in prayer for the child.

Later their daughter-in-law reacted adversely to an amniocentesis. We rallied people in the church to pray. In a short time, however, she miscarried. Although Bob and Mary were shaken, they rose the next Sunday, told the story, and finished by saying, “We thank God that despite this loss, he is working for good. Our son has responded to this crisis by acknowledging his need for God.”

Once again we prayed for the entire family, steadfast in our belief that God hears the cries of his children.

Real life, like a leash and choke collar, has a way of jerking people into balance. Consequently, simply letting people report publicly how God is working in their lives, in ways both happy and painful (salted when appropriate with my theological commentary) helps people better understand God’s intervention or lack thereof.

Though I lean toward boosting faith with positive testimonies of answered prayer, I don’t discourage expressions of disappointment (unless, of course, the person has an ongoing foul attitude). Nor do I hastily cork the melancholy bottle so we can all smile again. We rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. We talk about the Christian life, and then we pray.

When the only personal reports allowable are victories, that can disillusion people who are still battling. Showcasing only the positive makes them wonder, What’s wrong with me?

Preach expositorily to cure craziness

If my people don’t get a balanced perspective on issues such as healing, it’s my own fault. The Bible offers balance if I will preach it. Expository preaching brings context, and context cures craziness. Expository preaching brings the whole truth of God’s Word to bear, gradually giving perspective to those who like to prooftext.

Scripture speaks about times when God’s people experienced the supernatural-and times they didn’t. If they went through times of disappointment, why shouldn’t I?

I preach James 5:15: “And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well.” But I also preach Galatians 4:13: “It was because of an illness that I first preached the gospel to you.”

Through expository preaching I teach people not to deal with contrasting Bible verses in one-or-the-other fashion but as a whole. We rejoice that God raised Dorcas from the dead, yet we remember that Paul left Trophimus sick in Miletus and that Epaphroditus, while he worked with the great apostle, became sick and almost died.

A few days after my daughter Faith recovered from her chicken pox, my other two daughters, Savannah Hope and Sarah Bethany, awoke in the night with similar cries of discomfort. Once again, I called on the supernatural power of God, not to escape but to endure in kindness and love.

Although l was unable to give my daughters an exhibition of miracles, I was able to show them an example of the father who would never leave them or forsake them. And for those difficult evenings, that seemed to do. All my daughters seemed to expect was that I be there.

And I’ve learned that, sometimes, being there is all a pastor can do. But at that moment, being there fulfills our calling.

-Louis Templeman

Living Hope Chapel (Foursquare Gospel)

Charlottesville, Virginia.

Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Randolph Strom had been married to Katrina almost twice as long as I’d been alive. One day he asked me, “Pastor, what do you think? Should I continue to stay in our home after Katrina is no longer with me?”

I was certainly the youngest, the least experienced, and the least intimately involved in the difficult choices confronting him as he faced the imminent death of his beloved Katrina.

Why was he asking me?

Well, I was his pastor. Maturing adults sometimes have great difficulty discussing such issues with their children, and vice-versa. So much is at stake-roles, emotions, finances. Yet often they turn to their pastor for objective advice.

I don’t see myself as an answer man. Nor do I relish being cast in the role of arbiter in another’s domestic decision. Like it or not, though, I find decisions about life transitions are often run by me for my guidance, direction, or blessing.

Pitfalls in the process

Giving counsel can be hazardous. Life-passage decisions often are interwoven with sadness, anger, fear, and grief. Sometimes pastors are asked-overtly or indirectly-to make such decisions on behalf of the parties involved.

And sometimes a change of living situation isn’t the primary issue.

During several visits, a widower in his nineties seemed to want me to tell him whether to move out of his house. Yet any suggestions I’d make, he’d quickly shoot down. I finally realized that he didn’t want to change his living situation. But he was lonely and enjoyed a pastoral audience to vent his discouragement. After this realization, I started responding to his needs for encouragement without getting hooked into fruitless fact-finding missions about retirement communities.

On other occasions, I’ve felt like a fulcrum in a seesaw struggle between aging parents and their adult children. I was asked by an adult daughter to “help Dad see a little bit of reason about this thing” (moving to a retirement community).

I knew her father was against the idea, because I’d been receiving an earful from him. I empathized with the daughter’s frustrations but didn’t volunteer support for the plan. Since neither party appeared interested in sitting down together to talk through the issues or their feelings, I remained neutral.

The family catalyst

Some situations arise, however, in which we can help people make these hard decisions. The goal is to assist families as they arrive at their own decisions-without being personally consumed in the process. I try to act as a catalyst-an agent that helps bring about a reaction without being involved or changed in that reaction itself.

I can be a catalyst, for instance, through the church’s educational ministry. Classes or seminars, especially if led by an outside “expert,” can help seniors address such issues without the direct intervention of a pastor.

It’s especially important to get people to talk about living arrangements before a crisis arises.

Naturally, elderly couples don’t like to contemplate leaving their homes or think about the time they will no longer be independent. Their children also hesitate to broach the subject. It can feel too much like wanting to put in dibs on Mom and Dad’s house, or like shipping parents off to an institutional holding facility until they die.

Nonetheless, if these discussions can be held before a crisis precipitates them, the emotional stress on all involved will be lessened considerably.

Two Sundays in a row, Dan Price, one of the seniors in our church, told me he’d been “a little depressed.” So we arranged to talk. When we did, it became apparent that Dan was not the Dan I’d come to know. His steps were halting and his mind lethargic.

When he shared his concerns about his health, I quietly asked, “Have you and Eleanor ever discussed what you might do if you couldn’t continue to stay in your home?”

“No,” he said, “we haven’t.”

I urged him to raise the matter with Eleanor and his children (especially an unmarried daughter who lived with them) before such a crisis caught them unprepared. He said he’d consider it.

A couple of weeks later, after church, Dan approached me and said he’d thought things over and decided to take my advice. He asked me to sit in on the family discussion and help move it along. I agreed.

“But,” I added, “I only want to help get things rolling. Any decisions belong to you and the family.” He nodded, and we set a date.

When I arrived for that evening, I found Dan and Eleanor and two of their daughters gathered in the living room. After we exchanged greetings, I reiterated my desire to be a catalyst only. I also cautioned them against running fast-forward, immediately comparing, for example, the merits of this or that nursing home.

“First, discuss the preferences and priorities of all involved,” I said. “Talk about your emotions and bring up a variety of options. Only then will hurt feelings and power struggles be avoided.”

Then I gave each of them a list of questions to consider:

1. What is my fondest hope for Dan and Eleanor’s living situation in their remaining years? What can I do to make this happen? What can others do?

2. What is my greatest fear for Dan and Eleanor’s living situation? What can I or others do to help avoid this?

3. What is the hardest part about contemplating changes in Dan and Eleanor’s living situation? What will make this process easier for me? For the others involved?

4. What is the next step to take in this process of discussing Dan and Eleanor’s living situation?

After giving them a few minutes to consider the questions, I helped initiate the discussion on the first two questions. Even after my cautions, they started getting ahead of themselves. So, I gently reiterated that they should first identify the values behind any future decision.

These cautions greatly relieved an apprehensive Eleanor. About twenty minutes into this discussion, I excused myself and let them continue on their own.

After that discussion, Dan’s health improved almost as dramatically as it had faltered prior to our meeting. But the process was started, and that family will be better prepared to make a living transition when it becomes necessary.

I’m also better prepared to respond the next time I’m greeted by a request to help members through one of life’s most difficult transitions.

-Rick McKinniss

Kensington Baptist Church

Kensington, Connecticut

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