EFCA Today

“Like many other pastors, I once had a “rescuer” mentality that sought to answer every beck and call and minister to every need. I lived daily under the fear of failure—of letting down my people, my church and my God.

It came to a head in 1989. At the time, I was pastoring a church in North Dakota, serving on the EFCA national board of directors (plus two national search committees) and traveling to Minneapolis on an almost-weekly basis for various meetings.

Our home life was a whirlwind, too, since my wife also worked full-time. In addition to adding my mother-in-law to our household, we had a rambunctious 10-year-old son and two teenage daughters who were expressing their independence.

If that weren’t enough, our church was dealing with a significant staff challenge, a capital stewardship campaign and an outbreak of spiritual warfare issues that required meetings late into the night.

To compensate, I was giving away the things that had once re-charged my emotional, physical and spiritual batteries: long walks, gardening, golf, uninterrupted days off and extended times with God. The idea of protecting my days off seemed “lazy,” something that was anathema to my family of origin.

Yet I was “living the dream” of being not only a senior pastor but also, at some miniscule level, a denominational leader.

As fatigue took over my life, I actually began to picture myself as a “vending machine”—spitting out another meeting, another sermon, another responsibility as husband or dad. I had little patience with people who needed shepherding, would erupt at meetings (very uncharacteristic of me), couldn’t sleep at night and saw every part of my life as another duty. Even God seemed distant.

It’s not that no one noticed; people were suggesting solutions for my weariness, which I would quickly shrug off. But finally the elders forced the issue and insisted on a six-week break (which I later extended by two weeks of vacation). Until then, there had never been a sabbatical process in place at our church.

As a full partner in my ministry and with a job of her own, my wife had been trying to keep up my pace and so was nearly as spent as I was. Although her job didn’t grant her a sabbatical, she was approaching some shorter summer hours that would prove helpful. And my slowing down also gave her room to slow down.

During my sabbatical, I concentrated on personal projects, family time and lots of reading, as well as one full day a week just to be alone with God. Still, it took weeks before I began to climb out of my funk. As the seventh week approached, I was actually a bit panicked that the textures of my emotions hadn’t returned. I still felt dull of mind and heart.

That weekend, my wife and I spent a few days alone together. After hiking at a national park, we held our own worship service. There, our prayers turned into tears of repentance as we confessed bad habits and our dreadful pace of life. We sang hymns and choruses in sheer delight and read through portions of Scripture together. We then strategized how to make sure this never happened again.

That night, at an outdoor amphitheater, a comedian had me rolling in belly laughs. At one exquisite moment, I turned to my wife and noticed tears flowing down her cheeks. Alarmed, I asked what was wrong and she smiled and said, “Nothing. It’s just that this is the first time I’ve seen you laugh in months.”

The impact on my church was more significant than I realized at the time. I wasn’t being a compassionate shepherd; I wasn’t giving healthy, proactive leadership; and I’d lost my sense of vision. I was actually becoming a distraction, and other leaders might soon have found themselves at risk of burnout, too, as they took on my responsibilities.

My guess is that if the elders hadn’t insisted on that sabbatical, I was headed for some sort of collapse or breakdown for sure. I was already talking with other churches, seeing that as my only escape.