The Potter's Hands and Your Pastor's Peculiar Grief
I don’t speak of this often in a public setting, but today I feel compelled it appropriate to share a glimpse of our story. I’d ask you to suffer me a bit and hang with me till the end, for the sake of your pastor.
In Jeremiah 18, the Bible says,
This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: 2 “Go down at once to the potter’s house; there I will reveal my words to you.” 3 So I went down to the potter’s house, and there he was, working away at the wheel. 4 But the jar that he was making from the clay became flawed in the potter’s hand, so he made it into another jar, as it seemed right for him to do.
In this passage, there are many riches I can’t and won’t unfold today, but suffice it say that the Potter was busy; busy working to build a vessel. He did not set out to produce a vessel of no value or a vessel of no worth, but a vessel of honor and purpose. Unfortunately, or fortunately, for the vessel, the path to honor passed by the way of initial destruction, pain, and seeming disaster. But thankfully, the vessel was in the hands of the Master Potter, the Creator, and Artisan in Chief.
September 24th was the last Sunday I preached a regular sermon in the church I had pastored for 10 years. There would be no more worship sets, no more sermon prep, no more alter calls, communion, Sunday School, Baptisms, weddings, funerals, or fellowships. The church was closing its doors.
We were financially solvent, relationally sound, and on fire for the Gospel. We had something we may never experience again in such a corporate setting. Honestly, it was a very sweet and wonderful time. A time that had come to an end.
We had voted that the following Sunday, October 1, 2017, we would cross the street en masse and join the fellowship across the way and make one church where there was once two.
It was a beautiful thing; a thing you don’t see every day. We were a part of something spectacular, and odd, and crazy, and weird all at the same time. It was exciting and sobering, happy and sad all together.
That following Sunday I felt a bittersweet peace and excitement. You see, I love new experiences and new things; I understand Bilbo Baggins’ thirst for adventure and this was a new adventure for sure.
It’s hard for a pastor to sit in a congregation and listen to another preacher preach to his people a Word they’d probably heard him preach many times before. There are many emotions and feelings that must be dealt with in a transition such as this and I didn’t always deal with them well.
There were days I lashed out in anger, withdrew in sadness, grew bitter with disappointment, and entertained a critical spirit regarding the new path He had placed us on. Over time I came to realize all those things grew out of a profound sense of loss. In a word, I was grieving.
I grieved the loss of something wonderful; something given from God to a group of people as a precious gift and taken by God in an exercise of faith. I went through the classic phases of grief as if someone dear to my heart had passed away. The readings in Lamentations suddenly had new meaning.
Over time the Lord was gracious to grant me repentance for finding my identity in a place, in a thing. Even though they may be gifts from Him, good things can become idols when we place them above Him in defining who we are and what we are made for.
In the recent past, He has granted me peace, joy, and love for those with whom I serve which can only be the result of a miraculous work of the Holy Spirit. I’m excited to see what is over the horizon and what He has in store, but that doesn’t mean the grief is all gone. It doesn’t mean the real and appropriate lament doesn’t occasionally pay me a visit.
What it does mean is there is hope. Hope of a new day. Hope of things to come. There is comfort in knowing things sometimes must die in order for new things to live.
So why am I telling you this story? What does it have to do with Potters and wheels and the peculiar grief of pastors?
I tell you this because grief and loss are real and pastors feel it, too.
However, before you can understand fully, you must first understand pastors a bit more deeply. Pastors aren’t built, they are called. I don’t mean the ones who do it for the money, the fame, the flexible schedule (yeah, right!) or the good retirement. I mean the shepherds. The ones who labor in the Word and grieve for the souls of their flock and their community. The ones who continually pour themselves out for others. These are a special kind, and I’m sure yours is just this sort.
Pastors don’t want you to come to church just to tick off another number on the head counter. They love to see your face, hear your stories, hug your children, marry off your daughters, bury your aging family, celebrate your triumphs, and weather your disasters. Pastors love people. Period.
Pastors love all those things, but most pastors I’ve ever known, me included, live for the Sunday sermon. Gene War, an old Navigator, once said, “You’ve not lived until you’ve exploded the Word of God in the heart of another man!” He as more right than you can ever know.
There is an exhilarating joy when you stand and open the Word of God on a Sunday. When you see people nod their heads or smile, or flip to another passage to run something down you just clued them into. When they get that sparkle in their eye because you unknowingly answered an ages-old question you didn’t even know they had.
Pastors weep and hurt when they see the word cut so deep that tears begin to flow. They rejoice when repentance is granted and forgiveness is found. They do so because they see it in your face and if fuels them as they speak. They feel encouraged when you tell them afterward that they touched your soul with His Word and they made a difference in your life as you look in their eyes … face to face, person to person, life to life.
Then one day, by executive order of the Governor, that all vanished. Now, they preach to empty rooms and cameras. They fuss over lighting so the camera will catch them just right. They worry about volume and pitch; about energy and eye contact. They are aware of angles, shadows, and technical glitches.
It’s sterile. It’s cold. It isn’t the same.
Don’t get me wrong, they love the excitement and joy of reaching new people in places they could never go, simply by hopping on the internet. Some who can barely send a text message on their new-fangled smartphone have become YouTube personalities and have a Facebook following, but …
It’s cold. It’s sterile. It isn’t the same.
Oh, sure they will adjust and many already have. In fact, I’m amazed at how quickly many have mounted a fresh digital horse to deliver the Gospel in ways they never dreamed possible. But never forget, your shepherd misses his sheep.
He longs to see your head bob up and down in agreement as he preaches. He can’t wait to see you smile and laugh at his preacher jokes. He grieves deeply over missed hugs, handshakes, and affirmation. He misses … YOU.
As you pray, pray for your pastors. Pray for strength as they weather the storms of being disconnected from their flock. What you may not realize is you are their LIFE! You are their joy and their reason for getting up in the morning … and they miss you in deep parts of their soul they can’t even identify. Pray for them.
The church is different now. I suspect it will never be the same. Just as the vessel in Jeremiah 18 was marred and broken in the hands of the Potter, so has the church been allowed to be broken in the hands of our Savior and under His watchful eye.
Whether or not the destruction of the first vessel is a disaster or a gift depends on one’s perspective.
To Jeremiah watching from afar with incomplete information and only a minuscule amount of the Potter’s knowledge, he can’t see the intended outcome. He can’t see the picture in the Potter’s head to which He crafts and molds this stubborn lump of clay. He has only the command to watch. He has only the ability to trust the skill and knowledge of the Potter’s Hands.
Sometimes it hurts being an old lump of clay; broken, beaten, and reformed… but oh the product that results. I’m so grateful the Potter doesn’t discard flawed vessels, but he cares enough to break them and rebuild them into vessels of honor “as it seems right for Him to do.”
Pastor, I give you have permission to lament. Grieve over what is lost. Then get up, wash your face, and keep a keen eye on the Potter’s Hands … he is working a work on the wheel and only time will tell what vessel He will make.
Blessings …
