I Have No Idea What I'm Doing

I came to Blackhawk Church (EFCA) in Madison, Wisconsin, in 1994 as a small church pastor. For 10 years before that, I’d pastored an independent church in Shreveport, Louisiana, of around 120 people. It was a classic small‑church environment: simple structures, modest growth, strong relationships. I preached, visited the sick, led a few meetings, and while life was full, it still felt manageable. I loved my time in Shreveport.

When I arrived at Blackhawk, attendance was about 300. That still felt like “small church” to me. I assumed I could more or less do what I’d always done—preach, care for people, keep things moving—and the church would be fine. 

I was wrong.

Within a few years, Blackhawk grew rapidly. Our 12,000‑square‑foot building suddenly felt way too small. Services were full; hallways were crowded; children’s ministry was bursting; parking was a nightmare; and the hallway conversations were increasingly about change, frustration and confusion.

I knew something about pastoring a small church, but I knew nothing about how to lead a rapidly growing church through complexity and change. 

I was in over my head—big time.

What follows is not a story about how I figured everything out. It’s a story about how God used people outside our church—through the EFCA and various networks—to help me when I didn’t know what I was doing.

My cold-floor confession 

One moment from that season is etched in my memory.

We'd just gone through a period of intense growth and stress. An outside consultant— recommended to us by the EFCA—came for a weekend visit. He was brutally honest with us: “God is clearly up to something in your church, and all of you are resisting what He is doing.”

That was a defining moment. We were clinging to old forms while praying for new fruit.

Soon after that, I walked into one of our children’s ministry rooms. I laid down flat on the cold floor and complained to a good friend.

“I am a small‑church pastor,” I said. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

That’s not the kind of thing I’d say from the platform; but I felt like everyone knew it was true, and they were all talking about me behind closed doors.

I could feel the demands of the role had outgrown my skills. My experience and training had prepared me to make disciples and preach sermons—important work—but not to lead a complex, rapidly growing organization through conflict and change.

It was a moment of deep vulnerability. People were paying me to “be the guy,” and internally I was thinking, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.” We’d just moved to Madison—was it time to move again?

Looking back, that confession was a turning point. Not because it solved anything, but because it pushed me toward a simple, humbling step: asking for help.

Learning to trust a denomination I didn’t fully trust 

I did not come into the EFCA as a denominational enthusiast.

I arrived with a built-in suspicion of denominations. My early experiences with EFCA meetings did not exactly calm my fears. At one gathering, we had to vote on who would pass out ballots so we could then vote on something else. I remember thinking, This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Just grab five people and hand out the ballots.

When Blackhawk started to grow and my inadequacy became painfully obvious, my first thought wasn’t, The denomination will rescue us. But I needed help. So, I picked up the phone and called our district superintendent.

To his credit, he responded immediately. He contacted other leaders in the denomination, and soon, leaders from the national office came to Madison. They sat in our conference room, listened to our story, asked questions and gave us honest feedback. They didn’t arrive with a prepackaged program. They came as co-laborers, with experience we lacked. I felt like I was part of a big family.

They also sent a consultant to help us think about our building constraints and overall direction. He talked about square footage, yes—but also about vision and what growth would require of us structurally and spiritually. Together, we framed what became our “Everyone’s Project,” which was really about more than a building; it was about embracing the fact that God was doing something, and we needed to cooperate.

In those days, the EFCA stopped being an abstract label to me. It became a set of faces and names—people God had sent to walk with us when we didn’t know what we were doing.

Finding pastors ahead of me 

The official help from the EFCA national office was crucial, but some of the most important support I received came through friendships with other EFCA pastors.

Early on, I connected with a small circle of EFCA pastors who led churches in the area. We met for coffee and pancakes once a month. We all faced problems and formed a tight bond because of it. Later, I started to meet with pastors who led churches larger and more complex than Blackhawk. Over time, those relationships deepened through phone calls, visits, and shared experiences at retreats and conferences.

What they gave me wasn’t a growth formula. It was something simpler and more human: 

• Perspective I didn’t have
• Honesty I needed
• Companionship in a role that can be lonely 

Around tables with coffee and donuts, we talked about elder boards, staff issues, worship conflicts and personal discouragement. They told me the truth about their own missteps. They reassured me that the confusion and fatigue I felt were not unique.

Not long ago, at one of these EFCA gatherings, a pastor blurted out in the middle of a conversation, “Where else can we share stuff like this?” He wasn’t trying to be profound. He was simply grateful—grateful to be in a small group of like‑minded pastors who could spend a few days together, eat together and help one another carry burdens that we weren’t meant to carry alone.

His question summed up what those relationships had meant to me for years.

One particular network of larger‑church EFCA pastors became a lifeline. Pastors named Larry, Tom, Rob, Jimmy and many more became colleagues I could trust. I could call them at any time and talk about anything. I didn’t feel like I was alone on a cold floor anymore.

I would come back from those gatherings with pages of notes. Our staff would sit down and sort through them: “This might help us. That doesn’t fit us. This we should pray about.” Not everything transferred to Madison, and that was fine. The real gift was knowing I wasn’t crazy, and I wasn’t alone. 

Outside insight, inside changes 

Our hardest challenges at Blackhawk weren’t just about space. They were about identity and structure. 

When I arrived, we had a very traditional, congregational model: 

• We projected the entire budget on a screen at congregational meetings, line by line.
• Salaries were public, and we voted on things as small as whether to rent or buy a copier.
• Committees, rather than teams, handled much of the church’s work and decision‑making. 

That model had served the church for a long time. But as we grew, it began to creak under the weight. We were spending enormous energy on institutional mechanics and not nearly enough on disciplemaking.

The outside voices God brought into my life—consultants, denominational leaders, seasoned EFCA pastors—helped us see what we couldn’t easily see from the inside: If we kept our old structures, we would hit a ceiling and stay there. 

With a lot of help from others—and a lot of trial and error—we started shifting: 

• From committees to ministry teams with clearer purpose and responsibility
• From a culture where “being involved” meant voting at meetings to a culture where “being involved" meant serving and making disciples
• From simply filling roles to developing people, including future leaders 

None of this was smooth. Some long‑time members felt like they were losing “their church.” In one gathering in a member’s home, we listened as people expressed different complaints. Underneath them all was grief: “What happened to the church I knew?” 

Without outside help, I might have taken that as a sign we should stop leading change. The people walking with us reminded me that, when deep patterns change, grief is normal. They encouraged us to listen well, love people sincerely and keep moving toward the kind of church we believed God was calling us to be. 

A staff decision shaped by outside wisdom 

Looking back, my role in that season was mostly, by God’s grace, to keep admitting what I didn’t know and to let other people speak into our situation. One of the clearest examples of that came in a hiring decision that, at first, felt wrong. 

As we grew, it was obvious our worship needed to change. Younger people were already there; our services weren’t. I went to the elders and said, “We should hire a worship pastor.” Their response was honest: “If the music gets better, we’ll really grow—and then we’ll be in trouble. We’re already stretched.” 

After much discussion, the elders decided to hold off on hiring a worship pastor. Instead, we chose to hire someone who could help us organize small groups and strengthen our disciplemaking. If we were going to keep growing, we needed a better way to care for people and share leadership. 

At the time, it felt like the wrong thing to do. In hindsight, it turned out to be a significant gift from God to our church.

The person we hired to lead small groups did far more than schedule meetings: 

• He knew how to build structures that could bear weight. 
• He helped our small staff tackle change rather than avoid it. 
• He could shepherd people through transition, not just manage logistics. 
• He nudged us toward a more team-based way of doing ministry. 

Many of the instincts behind that hire had been shaped by conversations with EFCA leaders and other pastors. They had seen what happens when a church improves its platform (like worship) without building the relational and structural capacity to care for people. Their stories made us cautious in a good way and steered us toward this quieter, but wiser, decision.

Looking back, that small‑groups pastor became one of the most important staff decisions we ever made as a church, and I don’t think we would have made it without the outside perspective we’d been given. 

A word from someone who was overwhelmed 

If you’re reading this and you feel in over your head, I don’t know your story. I don’t know if your church is growing or shrinking, if your elders are supportive or difficult, if you have staff or if it’s just you.

I also know how easily a story like mine can sound like, “Here’s what we did; now go do likewise.” That’s not what I intend.

Much of what happened at Blackhawk was outside my control. I didn’t engineer the growth. I didn’t create the networks that eventually included me. I felt like I was stumbling backwards through a maze wearing a blindfold. I either could pretend I knew what I was doing, or admit I didn’t and ask for help.  

Over time, God gradually taught me to lean more into that second option. And when I did, He repeatedly met me through people: 

• Denominational leaders who showed up and listened
• Consultants who told us the truth and gave us tools
• Pastors who were a few steps ahead and were willing to share their scars
• Staff and lay leaders who brought gifts I didn’t have 

Not everyone will have the same connections or story. But I have yet to meet a pastor who doesn’t, at some point, need to say, “I have no idea what I’m doing,” and then let God answer that confession—not with lightning bolts, but with people. 

For me, one of the main ways He did that was through the Evangelical Free Church of America. I’m grateful. And I’m still learning.