Everyone wants to be somebody.
By that I don't mean that everyone is necessarily seeking his identity or that he is muddled in some measure of a mid-life crisis. But I do mean that everyone wants to achieve some measure of measurable and recognized success. They want to do something so that they will be recognized by others, acclaimed as high achievers, generously successful, and gracious "winners." We recognize that in a country of 300 million people, only one individual attains to the position of President, so we rarely strive for such a lofty goal. But most individuals would like to hear "well done," at least in their own circle of friends or even just from their families.
This includes all individuals — even pastors.
But what most people get is far less than that (if you're not a pastor, adapt the following description to your scenario; it likely will fit in some way) —
Most pastors will not regularly preach to thousands, let alone tens of thousands. They will not write influential books, they will not supervise large staffs, and they will never see more than modest growth. They will plug away at their care for the aged, at their visitation, at their counseling, at their Bible studies and preaching. Some will work with so little support that they will prepare their own bulletins. They cannot possibly discern whether the constraints of their own sphere of service owe more to the specific challenges of the local situations or to their own shortcomings. Once in a while they will cast a wistful eye on 'successful' ministries. Many of them will attend the conferences sponsored by the revered masters and come away with a slightly discordant combination of, on the one hand, gratitude and encouragement and, on the other, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, and guilt.
Most of us — let us be frank — are ordinary pastors.
Dad was one of them…
So begins the new book, Memoirs of on Ordinary Pastor by D. A. Carson (he recently spoke at the Desiring God Conference for Pastors, "The Pastor as Father and Son," illustrating his three messages with passages from this book). The book is a biographical and spiritual tribute to his father Tom, who pastored for many years in a bi-lingual church in Quebec — serving congregations that generally numbered between 20 and 40.
Memoirs is a history of Tom Carson and the time and place in which he served — when Tom was most active in ministry there were approximately 40 evangelical churches in the predominantly Catholic province of Quebec. By the time he retired, that number had grown ten times, and the size of many of those congregations had individually grown many times over as well. But Tom Carson never experienced that kind of growth in his ministry. And many of the journal entries cited by his son, demonstrate the overly critical self-examination and sorrow over the lack of growth and the lack of response to the gospel.
Where the book shines, though, is in D. A. Carson's honest and insightful analysis of what was transpiring in the life of his father and the ministry in Quebec. Why did his father struggle inwardly with discouragement? Or what kind of qualities did he evidence that enabled him to persevere when discouraged? These are the kinds of questions that Carson insightfully addresses and are an encouragement not only to a pastor, but to anyone who struggles from discouragement.
What D. A. constantly reminds the reader of, through recounting the life of his father, is that the value of an individual life is not based on the number or kind of accomplishments, but on the value of the Savior followed and the merit of the blood applied. The eternal value of all men is found only in their relationship with the eternal God-man, Jesus Christ. And the one who is in Him, has all things, though on earth he may have few things.
The concluding paragraphs to the book not only provide a fitting conclusion to the book, but also offer a correcting encouragement to those who may be frustrated by their ordinary status in life (this is a long citation, but it's worth reading):
Tom Carson never rose very far in denominational structures, but hundreds of people in the Outaouais and beyond testify how much he loved them. He never wrote a book, but he loved the Book. He was never wealthy or powerful, but he kept growing as a Christian: yesterday's grace was never enough. He was not a far-sighted visionary, but he looked forward to eternity. He was not a gifted administrator, but there is no text that says, 'By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you are good administrators.' His journals have many, many entries bathed in tears of contrition, but his children and grandchildren remember his laughter. Only rarely did he break through his pattern of reserve and speak deeply and intimately with his children, but he modeled Christian virtues to them. He much preferred to avoid controversy than to stir things up, but his own commitments to historic confessionalism were unyielding, and in ethics he was a man of principle. His own ecclesiastical circles were rather small and narrow, but his reading was correspondingly large and expansive. He was not very good at putting people down, except on his prayer lists.
When he died, there were no crowds outside the hospital, no editorial comments in the papers, no announcements on television, no mention in Parliament, no attention paid by the nation. In his hospital room there was no one by his bedside. There was only the quiet hiss of oxygen, vainly venting because he had stopped breathing and would never need it again.
But on the other side all the trumpets sounded. Dad won entrance into the only throne room that matters, not because he was a good man or a great man — he was, after all, a most ordinary pastor — but because he was a forgiven man. And he heard the voice of him whom he longed to hear saying, 'Well done, good and faithful servant; enter into the joy of your Lord.'
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