Grace and Truth: A word from pastors

Some years ago, I wrote a story about a Mennonite detective named Jake King. Jake speaks in that sardonic, world-weary voice made famous by Spade and Marlowe. Like his fictional predecessors, Jake gets bowled over by every Beautiful Woman who comes to him for help. And he is reminded that women can get along fine without him.

So far, Jake has paid a long overdue visit to his mother, initiated by a dark-haired woman and a cassette recording of 606*. He’s recovered a clown’s stolen voice and sung a lullaby for a little boy with big feet. And, most recently, he helped a certain rich young ruler decide to do what it takes to follow Jesus.

This is the kind of thing pastors get up to when not writing sermons: not creating stories about a pacifist detective of little brain and large heart. Rather, wishing and praying that something good will happen at the end of every story. We pastors want to make things come out right.

One of the gifts of pastoral ministry comes when members of our community invite us into their stories. The invitation usually comes during a specific chapter in those stories, a specific set of circumstances that call for pastoral care.

It is a pastor’s privilege to walk alongside sisters and brothers as they negotiate a transition, mourn a loss or celebrate something unexpected and wonderful. We do premarital counseling. We try to offer support when marriages fail. We laugh with new parents. We cry with those who’ve lost someone dear. We stand by hospital beds and pray. We bear witness to the movement of the Holy Spirit in the lives of others.

While it may seem that pastors are the ones offering ourselves—that we are the givers—the truth is the other way around. When people invite us into their stories, into the deeper places of their lives, we receive a gift both precious and profound. As we get caught up in their stories, we begin to see our sisters and brothers more fully, more honestly, even more lovingly. Such a gift!

I cannot speak for all pastors. But I have a powerful desire for happy endings. I want those who come to me with a hope or a dream or a need to find something good at the end of their story. I want broken hearts to find solace. I want broken relationships to find healing. I want sick bodies to recover. I want loving couples to live well together all their days. I want babies to grow strong and wise and beautiful and become exactly what God intends them to be. I want to solve every mystery and rescue everyone in distress. I want a happy ending.

I know I am not God. I know I cannot make things always turn out right. Not for myself. And certainly not for other people. If being invited into the stories of others is the gift of pastoral ministry, discovering that it is not in my power to right every wrong and fix every problem is its heartache.

Which may be why I invented Jake King, Menno­nite detective. By the end of the story the mystery is solved. But our hero is not unscathed. More often than not, the real mystery being solved is in his own heart. And the solution? A deeper awareness of his inability to make all things right. Because even Jake King, Mennonite detective, must reckon with his limitations. He may sometimes make things better. But he cannot always make them right. Jake helps me explore the distance between what I wish I could do and what I can do.

It’s not just pastors and fictional detectives who struggle with the distance between their desire for a happy ending, and their capacity to bring it about. Sooner or later, we all learn that we cannot make everything come out right, no matter how hard we try.

But we need not despair. Because the Author of our stories is still writing. And though we may struggle now, we do not lose heart. For God has promised a happy ending. And God can make it so.

Ron Adams is pastor of Madison (Wis.) Mennonite Church.