What I Miss About Pastoring: The Kids

One of the neatest things about being a pastor is the kids. Kids are great. They just love and accept you like you are.

Every year during Vacation Bible School, I'd get dressed up like a character that pertained to the theme that year. They loved that. They'd follow me around and laugh. They thought I was pretty cool. They were right, of course.

It was always something to watch them all grow up in my decade there. To see them know me as "Bruddah" Arthur and then, if I was fortunate enough, watch them to grow and learn the gospel.

I was so careful when evangelizing children. None of this, "who wants to go to heaven?" mess. No, they understood sin and what Christ did.

To watch a child as God touches their heart and see them grasp grace is one of the most beautiful thing one can witness - especially when you see it in your own children. Thanks be to God I got to baptize my two daughters. Moments I will forever cherish. 

Kids have some of the best questions and some of the best answers. They let you know they're thinking. They ask about the problem of pain, "Bro. Arthur, why did God make tornadoes?" And to that, my friend, you must shape your answer so that a 6 year old may understand.

I had a church member ask me once about whether I thought Noah's Ark would ever be found. I just wanted to say, "No, it's rotted away." An astute 9 year old was standing there and said, "wouldn't Noah and his family have used all that wood to build and burn with?" I smiled and said, "Excellent answer."

While some of the adults come at you with complaints right before church starts, the kids just run up and offer you hugs. They just want to look up at you and say, "I love you Bro. Arthur." They don't want anything in return except your love.

Especially the kids who come from less fortunate backgrounds. Their parents drop them off or their grandparents bring them. They're just happy to get a little snack at church on Sunday or Wednesday and have people show them some interest and give them a smile.

I remember late at night on one New Year's Eve when I still lived in the parsonage, someone was pounding at the door. It was dark and cold outside. I approached the door carefully and saw that it was a woman and a little girl standing there shivering.

I invited them in. Angelica came into the room and just stood there looking at me inquisitively. I vaguely recognized the woman, a few tattoos covered her arms, nose ring and heavy make-up - but her most obvious feature was that she and her little four year old were soaking wet. The little girl looked up at me with big brown eyes and was crying.

She apologized profusely for coming so late but that her boyfriend had chased them out of his trailer. They had gotten lost in the dark, waded through a pond and found their way to the church parsonage. She begged me for a ride about five miles down the road.

I got them both blankets and put them in the van. I offered to call the police, but she quickly turned that offer down. The girl kept crying, "I'm so cold Mama! Why is this happening?" I realized I knew them. They had visited church several times. The girl had even been to a Vacation Bible School.

I talked to the girl and reminded her of this. I even reminded her of the goofy character I had dressed up as. She smiled a little as the van warmed up.

During that short van ride, all I could think of was, "it's by the grace of God that my kids are in a house warm and cozy. And this poor girls is wet and frozen." I had to fight the tears back.

I dropped them off at a friend's house and told her that if she needed help to come back. She never came back.

But the little girl came back. The next VBS, I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off worrying about something stupid when a little hand grabbed mine. I looked down to see a cute little five year old smiling up at me.

It took a moment to register, but it was her. I smiled and she hugged me around my legs and about broke my femur. But it felt good. I just stood there and cried like a big goofball. For the rest of the week, every time she saw me, she'd grab my hand and want me to eat with her, play with her, or sit with her. She hardly ever said anything to me, but I could tell she felt safe with me there.

Those are the moments I miss.

Common Traits Of The Fallen Pastor, Part 1: Poor Father Relationship

Before I get to my epilogue (of sorts), I want to do this short series on common traits of the fallen pastor.

Since I started blogging, I've talked to and emailed a decent number of pastors who, like me, fell because of moral issues. I've read other online articles about how to avoid moral sin in the pastorate and warning signs, etc. However, most of these articles were written by men who hadn't fallen or didn't know a fallen pastor. That's not to say there wasn't any truth to those articles, but I hope I can offer a little more insight.

Just a preamble to this series - I'm listing things that seem to be common traits. Of course, that doesn't mean they exist in all fallen pastors. But they did seem to be a common thread in discussions. This isn't a scientific study, by any stretch of the imagination.

Also, none of these traits are an excuse for sin. If I've mentioned that once on this blog, I've said it a thousand times. There is no license for sin. Are there factors that lead us there? Yes. And it can be helpful to notice certain things that could lead to a fall.

I'd like to discuss the common trait of a poor relationship with the fallen pastor's father. Fathers have a huge influence on pastors.

I remember the first day of seminary orientation, they asked us a few questions about our background. One of the questions they asked was, "How many of you have fathers who were pastors?" Most of the hands in the room went up. The questioner said, "75% of pastors have a father who was also a pastor. I didn't raise my hand that day.

I had always had a rocky relationship with my dad. I think it's because we were too much alike. He had a great relationship with my sister. They stayed up late at night going over the Bible and studying together. He and I rarely had much to say to each other.

He took us to church, was a deacon once, and kept to himself a lot. He worked hard, traveled a lot, and gave us a nice place to live. But we never really bonded during my life.

I smarted off a lot to him. I wasn't a bad kid, just had a smart mouth. When I was 15, I suppose I had smarted off to him for the last time. He looked at my mother and said, "I'm done with him, you raise him. He's yours." He was serious. He shut me out after that.

My sister achieved academically better than I did and I always felt (whether it was right or not, I'll never know, but it's how I felt) that Dad always preferred my sister over me. I suppose if I had to deal with me and my smart mouth, I would have preferred my sister too.

After I went away to college, my relationship with my father got a little better. We would talk on the phone and I'd ask for life advice. When I made the decision to go to seminary, he got critical of me again. I'll never understand that. It may not have been about seminary. Maybe he was dealing with his own life issues. He had dealt with a lifetime of anxiety himself.

I remember once, he came to visit Angelica and me at seminary. I jogged out to meet him and Mom at their car and the first thing he said to me was, "You're getting a little fat, aren't you?" This was coming from a man who was 150 pounds overweight himself. I rue that I rarely got praise from him. I never heard him tell me he was proud of me.

I had a counselor tell me once that he was subconsciously competing with me. Or whatever. I can see part of that being true. Whatever the problem was, it only got worse.

Even when I got ordained, or when he came to hear me preach, he'd unload on me. Not many kind words, but a lot of underhanded criticism.

He had a fall of his own. He and my mother divorced and I was angry. He basically kicked her out of the house. I judged him. Harshly. Something, I've learned, is wrong. I shut him out of my life completely for a period of about two years.

At the end of that two years, I started becoming convicted about it. I started talking to him a little, started trying to forge some sort of relationship. But it was too late. He died in an accident. I stood there, over his hospital bed while he was on life support realizing that I had done something horrible, but I didn't quite know what it was right then.

Later, I realized what it was. I had failed to love him for who he was instead of looking past what he had done.

Other fallen pastors seem to have a similar problem with their fathers. I don't know how much it adds to our sin later in life, but it has a significant impact upon who we are as adults.

There's a lot to be learned here, I think. First, if you're a father, make it work with your children. Lay aside any petty disagreements and humble yourself before them. Show them your vulnerability and just love them. Let them know you're proud of them regardless of what they've done. Just love them for who they are. Heck yes, parenting is hard. But it's worth it.

Secondly, if you have a parent who has caused you pain and still alive, don't let time expire before you do whatever you can to fix it. There are many of you who have parents who have done horrible things to you. I'm sorry. It may never be the same again with them. We can, however, still have a relationship with them where we draw boundaries and still have a salvageable relationship with them. We've only got this life. Tell them how you feel. Write them a letter and share your pain constructively. It's hard, I know. But don't let the later pain of regret and the "what ifs" get hold of you.

Thirdly, learn to love people as Christ did. He looked past what people did and loved them for who they were. Never shut the door completely on someone. Sometimes, you might be the only person in this world that someone will listen to. If you shut that door on them, it's dangerous.

Relationships with parents can be a great joy or a great pain. Those relationships form the people we are today whether we freely admit it or not. We cannot escape our generational past. But we can learn from it.