Confessions of a Small Town Minister

Madison is one of those places where it isn’t uncommon to still hear the jingle of spurs or to get a whiff of horse sweat and saddle leather as someone passes by. It’s easy to tell who the tourists are. They tend to gawk and point, “Is that a real cowboy?” Locals take it all in stride, knowing that it is a place where cultures meet, actually, where cultures are expected to meet. Madison is located at a crossroads after all. Sit on a bench along Main Street long enough and sooner or later, you’ll see and hear it all. Tourists speaking a dozen languages and movie stars with a language all their own, ranchers and artists, white-water thrill-hunters and seekers-after-stillness, bird watchers and girl watchers; they’re all part of the mix and flow that makes Madison what it is, all patiently welcomed by those who stay through all the seasons.

I absorbed all this, absent mindedly, while I waited, immersed in my thoughts and in the sounds of a half-dozen conversations and the clatter of silverware on ceramic. The air was tainted tantalizingly by the aroma of coffee and bacon and cooking oil, and the morning’s baking—peach pies if my nose wasn’t betraying me. The photos and maps on the walls testified to the successful navigation of time in this place, of endurance and longevity, of struggle and innovation and an entrepreneurial spirit that cannot be broken as easily as a wagon wheel. I realized as I stared at a map of the Yellowstone River, that I had lost my way. Somewhere back along the trail, I had misplaced my map. I had enough back-country experience before the advent of GPS to know that when navigating unknown terrain, you needed to know first of all where you were. And for that, you need a map and a compass. With the compass you could find north and align the map—always “up”, the top of the map. Then, if you can locate some landmarks in real space around you and locate those same landmarks on the map (a mountain peak, a ridge, a river bend or a lake) then you could figure out where you are, get yourself oriented. But I was lost without a map, and I found myself so surrounded by tall trees that I couldn’t pick out a single landmark. Or so it felt.

I was stirred from these thoughts by the touch of a gentle hand on my shoulder; how long he had been standing beside me, I don’t know. It must have been obvious to him that I was deep in thought, and rather than startle me, he gently pulled me from the depths of deliberation, like one gently works a large brown from a deep pool.

He slid into the booth across from me, took off his Aussie-style Bailey felt hat, absent-mindedly combed his white hair, placed his elbows and forearms on the table, and wove his fingers together with this thumbs sticking straight up. “You looked lost in thought.”

The perceptiveness of those words startled me. I couldn’t hold his gaze for fear that I wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears. “Just lost,” I admitted, with a shake of my head.

Truth be told, I nearly bolted at that moment. Staring into the tawny depths of my coffee mug, as if to divine where to begin, I heard myself say, “Kain, why does ministry have to be so hard? Why does serving the Lord demand such a high price?” And with those words it seems I had found where to begin. He paused for a long moment, so long in fact, that I almost started to repeat the question. I lifted my eyes to his as he spoke, “Ben, you’re really hurting aren’t you?”

Well, I tell you, I nearly lost it right there and then. With my eyes brimming so that his face swam in my vision, I choked out, “I’m done.” It came out kind of squeakily so I stopped, cleared my throat, and said it again, “I’m done. I’ve hit the wall and gone ‘splat.’ I’ve given all I have to give, and there’s nothing left—emotionally, mentally, physically, I’m totally drained. I feel like an imposter, or better, a hypocrite. I can’t speak what I truly believe, and what I do say—in order to keep the peace—I no longer believe. Ministry is about heart, and I’ve lost mine. I’m . . . I’m a burn-out.” I laughed, but it sounded bitter, even to myself. “I remember one class I took on ‘Congregational Ministry,’ where we discussed burn-out, but I never thought it would happen to me. Knowing about it obviously isn’t enough to prevent it from happening.” I pushed my glasses up on my forehead and wiped my eyes on a napkin. I didn’t need the whole clientele of Maggie’s seeing my shame. I hadn’t expected to blurt out everything in such a rush. Oddly, though, having said it, having gotten it “out there,” somehow made me feel better. Maybe it was simply because it was a burden that I was no longer carrying on my own. Maybe because I instinctively felt safe with this man, despite the fact that at that point in time I really didn’t know him very well.

Looking back on that moment, what I now recall is his eyes. Blue-green pools of compassion. Siloam with a soul. Pools that had been fed over many years by melt-water from winter storms called “suffering,” “loss,” and “trial.” Eyes which expressed empathy of the sincerest sort. Eyes that held mine with a steadfast courage that said, without speaking, “I hear you.” I had never noticed his eyes before, shadowed as they were by bushy eyebrows, with “Lone Ranger” eyebrow hairs sticking in every direction.