Don't Kill the Horse

“God gave me a message to deliver and a horse to ride. Alas, I have killed the horse, and now I can’t deliver the message.” (attrib. to Scottish pastor Robert Murray M’Cheyne, age 29, on his deathbed)

In 2014, five years into full-time ministry, I noticed my health beginning to decline. I gained weight, struggled to sleep and slowly watched as my blood pressure rose to levels of hypertension. I was emotionally thin—nagged by a constant, vague sense of restlessness and urgency. My marriage was deteriorating. 

As my health continued to break, I scheduled a doctor’s appointment.

“Physically, you’re fine,” the doctor said. “I can’t find any cause for your symptoms.” He paused. “But how is your work treating you?”

“Way too busy,” I said without thinking. To that point, I’d served at the same church for my entire ministry career—a military-populated congregation near Joint Base Lewis-McChord, just south of Tacoma, Washington.

“Tell me more about your rhythms of work and rest,” the doctor said.

Carefully, the doctor began to pry behind my guarded disposition, and, in doing so, he exposed a reality I didn’t want to accept: My life was out of balance. I worked too much. I had little to no time to spend with my wife or my kids. The white noise of people’s issues, unrealistic expectations and poor self-care had drained any sense of joy from my life.

Before he let me go, he asked one more question: “Do you feel taken advantage of by work?” 

Again, my soul spoke before my head could catch up. 

“Yes!” I said.

Recognizing my blindness

My father was a military vet—as were my brothers, my grandfather and his father before him. For as long as I can remember, I felt at home in systems with clear structure, rigid rules and demanding expectations. My wife, Amy, grew up in a similar environment, which is partially why we felt drawn to that first ministry post in Washington.

When we arrived, I was optimistic, naïve and chock full of energy. Life felt too slow, so I worked 60- to 80-hour weeks, took minimal Sabbaths and rarely used vacation time. As my mentor at the time told me, “Busyness is our dutiful response to God’s call.” And the results spoke for themselves (rapid growth, baptisms)—or so I thought.

As my pace of ministry quickened, Amy’s spiritual health took a negative turn. Unresolved wounds from her childhood began to manifest in her life. In my ignorance, I plodded forward, dragging her along and asking God to “fix” her so I could focus on “real ministry” and “fulfill the call.” The more I worked, the more “successful" the ministry, the more was expected of us. Everything had to be faster, bigger and better.

Two years after my doctor’s visit—when the consequences of my ignorance and immaturity began to surface—I was assigned to preach on John 9, about the man born blind and the Pool of Siloam (“sending”). As I prepared my sermon, God revealed to me a deeper story—one that went beyond just an ocular healing. The more I studied, the more I saw John giving us a real-life parable of Jesus on spiritual blindness. 

The man born blind saw who Jesus was, but the Pharisees—impelled by their heritage (John 8:39) and compelled by the fear of man (John 12:43)—remained blind to the glory of God, even as it looked them in the eyes.

After I preached, the church leaders put me on leave without warning. Three months later, they terminated my employment, knocking the slow train wreck of my health totally off the tracks. The weeks and months that followed were filled with confusion, rumination and festering wounds. The disciple’s question in John 9 (“Lord, who sinned that this man was born blind?”) became my own life-question: 

“Lord, who sinned that I was born so blind?” 

My heart wanted to blame the church leaders. My soul was suspicious that I was culpable. Conventional wisdom pointed to my family of origin.

This is where, I believe, my true ministry calling (or “sending”) began. God began to use my blindness to display His work.  

Beginning to heal

In 2016, still shell-shocked from my termination, Amy and I stumbled to Trinity Evangelical Divinity School (TEDS) to heal and regroup. We wanted rest but still wanted to stay “in the industry.” I pursued my Master of Divinity while Amy pursued a master’s degree in mental health counseling.

In my blindness, I attempted to ignore the effects of our previous season. To try to erase the pain, I returned to busyness. Along with the MDiv, I opened a small business and joined the staff at TEDS. My mind refused to let go of my need to perform—until God stopped me in my tracks.

During our first year at TEDS, our youngest son, Sam, was born with DiGeorge Syndrome, a life-threatening genetic disorder. For a year, our young family lived in and out of the pediatric ICU in downtown Chicago. Despite my best efforts, God was telling me to slow down and give Him my full attention. It was time to look in the mirror, do the hard work to understand who I was and finally begin to see. 

Amy's graduate studies on trauma gave us a launchpad to start the healing process. We learned that, as adults, we tend to subconsciously replicate our family of origin systems and codify our childhood coping mechanisms. For me, this helped explain my pathological performance for the approval of authority. But that was just the beginning.

The MDiv flew by too quickly. I knew I had plenty of healing left, so I jumped into my PhD to study the rising phenomenon of pastoral burnout. I wanted to understand not just what had happened to me, but what was happening to so many other pastors around the country—and I had a hunch it wasn’t just pastors, either.

As I researched, one overarching truth became increasingly apparent: God made humans according to His specific design, but in our blindness, we try to live by our own. To bear the image of God means to intentionally mature into the fullness of His design, not abiding by our own ancestral traditions and flawed intuition. In His grace, God also gave us a perfect example of His image to imitate: His Son.

For a lifelong Christian, all of that may sound pretty basic, but a symptom of spiritual blindness is to gloss over small, foundational truths, which—if we’re not careful—can carry monumental consequences.

Stewarding with self-care

A key piece of living into God’s design is understanding and stewarding the bodies God has given us—i.e., the practice of self-care (think: sleep, diet, exercise). Our culture tends to view self-care along a continuum of two errors: 1) idolizing and worshiping the body, or 2) minimizing and neglecting it. Like many pastors, I chose the second camp‚ even growing suspicious that self-care equated to selfishness. Except in doing so, I neglected the fact that, without adequate self-care, we cannot function. 

The human brain is truly magnificent. Using just 2 percent of our body weight, it utilizes 20 percent of our body’s resources. Several things are unique to humans because of our giant brains, but the costliest cognitive load humans undertake is mentalization: our ability to perceive what others are thinking or feeling. No other task drains the brain so quickly.

If it seems like the hardest part of pastoring is working with people, there’s a reason for that. When we encounter interpersonal friction while mentalizing, our brain classifies it as physical pain. It’s like God programmed a giant flashing sign in our brains to say, “This is the most important part of life! Be vigilant!” This is why people-helping professions (clergy, education, healthcare etc.) are the most prone to burnout.

You won’t find “burnout” in a list of mental health disorders, but you can self-diagnose if you experience these ongoing symptoms:

1. Physical exhaustion
2. Cynicism and/or emotional distress
3. Long hours with low productivity

For me, I suddenly lost all motivation and—despite working long hours and isolating myself from my wife and kids —saw no tangible fruit.

Pain and stress are essential for growth, but only if we listen to them. If we ignore our bodies’ God-given feedback systems, we strip the pain of its purpose. As humans, our gut reaction to feedback is often to repel or avoid, but when avoidance becomes a coping mechanism, we open the door for spiritual blindness. And if we muscle past these symptoms long enough, our bodies eventually shut down. We kill the horse.

Sociality—living in community, relating with each other, pursuing God—is the apex of human design. Or, in the words of Jesus, the “greatest commandment” (Matt 22:36-40). We were designed for relationships, but if we let ourselves burn out, we end up neglecting the most important people in our lives. We busy ourselves preparing sermons while turning blind eyes to the ministry opportunities right in front of us. 

When we ignore the critical importance of relationships to ministry, we miss the whole point.

What makes a mature EFCA pastor?

Once I had these ideas framing my dissertation, I traveled to the Midwest to conduct ethnographic interviews with real pastors and record the relevant themes. I asked EFCA district superintendents to recommend pastors who had flourishing ministries, healthy families and intact self-efficacy, and they gave me a list of 30 names. One by one, I asked those pastors to define “maturity” and explain how they got there. 

Their responses were surprisingly simple: 

1. “You need to be grounded and centered in Christ.” To shepherd God’s sheep without a life-giving relationship with the Great Shepherd is hypocrisy. We know this intuitively; however, many pastors reported having phases of life where that became the case. Ministry demands can become so pressing that we inadvertently lose connection with the Source of Life. When this happens, our work becomes a painful slog in an arid desert, a fast track to cynicism and burnout. Flourishing pastors universally reported staying connected to Christ, no matter the trials. 
2. “You need trait conscientiousness (discipline, organization, work ethic) paired with chronic self-awareness moving toward specific goals.” There’s a specific contour to our human design that, in order for flourishing to happen, requires us to apply self-discipline and understanding of ourselves to move toward specific goals. Essentially, pastors—and all of us—must use our training and intelligence to make a strategic plan and move toward it, all while listening for relevant feedback to consider and incorporate. Those who shun feedback wash out; those who are paralyzed by feedback never move forward. Self-awareness leading to transformation is the indicator that the pastor has incorporated wisdom effectively.
3. “You need interdependence with good people.” Each one of the 30 EFCA pastors reported having strong key relationships, beginning with their spouse and children and extending to their elders, staff, colleagues, mentors and church families. Interdependence—rather than solo heroism—is what ensures strength and longevity both for the pastor and the church.

More specifically, here are some of the habits these pastors practiced to help facilitate these three truths: 

• They had thoughtful, flexible personal devotions and scheduled extra time for walking and reflection.
• They practiced a weekly Sabbath and took a month off preaching and public ministry every year (typically July or February).
• If married, they honored daily family dinners and celebrated weekly date nights.
• They invested in hobbies with tangible, enjoyable outcomes. 
• They exercised regularly and made time to enjoy God’s creation. 

One final thing these pastors had in common: They’d been there before. Most of the pastors I interviewed had also suffered an early career burnout—but they learned from their mistakes.

Becoming a healthy, flourishing pastor—or human being—doesn’t mean never making mistakes or pushing past your boundaries. Experiencing a burnout can be pivotal for growth. It teaches us where our limits are, reminds us to live as nefesh chaya (“living soul”) and forces slow-learners to keep a closer watch on their life and doctrine. The key question is not whether we’ll experience burnout or not—it’s how we’ll respond when we do.

Living as image-bearers

After finishing my research, I joined staff with the EFCA Great Lakes District and was asked to preach on burnout at a church in the district. I covered some of the theological origins of burnout, showed examples and offered some suggestions for how to heal. When I finished, the congregation applauded. I was shocked.

After the service, as I engaged with the line of congregants that formed in front of the pulpit, I realized that burnout isn't just a topic for overworked pastors. The gods of the American dream have many American Christians on the ropes with anxious overwork, desperate for God's model of rest and maturity.

As pastors, you shape the cultures of your churches. In the words of Scott Barber (EFCA director of pastoral theology and care), “You are the immune system of our movement.” If we're immature in how we apply our work ethic, it will inevitably filter down to the people we disciple. If we model Exodus-style slavery or Cretan-like apathy, they will imitate us, thinking our behavior reflects the character of God. But if we model balance between work, family and rest, our congregations will be free to flourish in the fullness of their human design. 

For those of us not in vocational ministry, who are the people in your life who need to be reminded of these truths? Who are the pastors or missionaries you could pray for and encourage? In what ways could you help give them more space to remember their finiteness, practice self-care and reconnect to their true Source of Life?

In Deuteronomy 5, when God gave us the Sabbath, He commanded the household heads to protect nuach (rest) for everyone in their care, down to the animals. As such, pastors must ensure their families, their staff and their congregations rest like our Father in Heaven and resist the desire to live by our own design. In the end, the goal is to say, “Come to Jesus all who are weary and find rest” (Matt 11:28), with the sincerity of having lived it out.