The Privilege of Pastoral Ministry: A Letter to My Church

Abstract: Raymond Johnson writes a letter to his congregation expressing the privilege he feels in serving as their pastor. While there are many difficult things that seminary can’t prepare a pastor for, it is also unable to prepare him for the profound affection he will feel for his people as he shepherds them through blessings, trials, and suffering of various kinds. 

There are many things seminary doesn’t prepare a pastor to do. 

I’ll concede, however, that much of what seminary doesn’t prepare a pastor to do is based on the context in which he serves. For example, in my early years of pastoral ministry at Christ Church West Chester (then The Journey), seminary didn’t prepare me for the reality that I’d have to shovel snow off the sidewalk on the same Sunday mornings I was frantically trying to finish my first sermons; it didn’t prepare me for the fact that I’d have to learn how to troubleshoot a boiler system via FaceTime with Terry Kraus so that we could assemble in a warm gathering space; or that I’d (literally) have to chase bats out of the sanctuary so they wouldn’t fly in circles over people’s heads during our evening services. 

Today, though, I can happily say, nearly eleven years later, I’m prepared for (some of) what seminary didn’t prepare me for: we have interns to shovel our sidewalks; more competent men alongside Terry Kraus to service our building; and bats have been (mostly) chased out and are now (mostly) kept out, thanks to the wire fencing in our tower. 

And yet, after all these years and on the other side of my sabbatical, I’m still learning about something that seminary didn’t prepare me for—understanding the privilege of pastoral ministry. Now, to be fair, I don’t believe seminary can prepare a pastor to understand this privilege, at least not in the way I’m thinking of here. This type of understanding is based on both the place and the length of a pastorate. 

For example, seminary didn’t prepare me for the happiness I’d experience at Claire Baker’s wedding; for the anguish I felt when Terri Melloni’s daughter passed away; for the burden I sense for those afflicted by trials and temptations and delayed providence and broken promises and missed expectations and scary situations and uncertain futures; or for the distraught hopefulness I feel in the wake of Murray Mullins’s sudden death last Thursday. (There are many other examples I could share, but not all of them can be in a public forum). 

Seminary didn’t prepare me to understand that this is the privilege of pastoral ministry—to be beside you, serving as your pastor at the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in your lives; to be with you from life’s first cry, when you welcome your child(ren) into the world, to life’s final breath, when you leave the land of the dying for the land of the living; and to be near you when life doesn’t work out the way you thought or expected or desired. And reminding you all along the way of the love of God the Father through God the Son in the power of God the Spirit, even as I’ve prayed that you would keep the faith and not lose heart. 

Writing Murray’s funeral sermon last week brought these feelings to mind, as I had the privilege of exercising my final duty as his pastor. I smiled as I wrote, because I realized that it was a gift to remember the man, our beloved brother, Murray Mullins. (I even told Meghan that funeral sermons for our members are my favorite sermons to write and preach, not because I want you to pass, but because I get to think about you and serve you one last time). 

As I continue to learn the privilege of pastoral ministry, I think for the first time I understand the apostle and can say, “For what is [my] hope or joy or crown of boasting before the Lord Jesus at his coming? Is it not you,” Christ Church West Chester. “For you are [my] glory and joy” (1 Thes. 2:19–20). 

Faithfully, 

Your pastor, 

Raymond M. Johnson