Can I tell you a story? Actually, three.
The first begins in college, at Jacob’s Porch in Columbus, Ohio. It wasn’t a church in the traditional sense. It was a community of seekers, doubters, believers, and strugglers gathering around meals, scripture, conversation, and silence. We asked big questions and rarely found easy answers. It was messy, but it was honest.
That place shaped me. It gave me a glimpse of what the church could be – a place where people don’t need to have it all figured out to belong. A place where we learn, slowly and together, that faith is formed not in isolation, but in relationship. With each other. With God. And often in spite of ourselves.
As a pastor, maybe you’ve longed to create that kind of space. Maybe you have. Or maybe you’re wondering if it’s still possible.
“Church could be a place where people don’t need to have it all figured out to belong.”
The second story begins in the wilderness.
Years ago, I accepted what looked like a dream job in ministry. But shortly after moving overseas, I found myself profoundly disoriented. Spiritually numb. Personally alone. Professionally untethered. I was in a desert and I didn’t even realize how thirsty I had become.
Here’s what struck me in that season: when we’re most parched, most disillusioned, our first impulse is often to retreat from community, not seek it. We say things like, “I can’t preach right now. I don’t want to sing. I don’t feel anything. I don’t believe what I’m saying.”
And so we withdraw. We isolate.
We’ve been taught, whether implicitly or explicitly, that community is for people who are well. That church is a place for people who believe. That leadership requires clarity. But what if we’ve had it backwards?
What if community is the very thing that holds us when our faith falls apart? What if leadership includes being honest about our own wilderness, not hiding it? What if community isn’t what we offer after we’ve healed but the place where healing begins?
If we truly believe that faith is something we work out “with fear and trembling,” then community isn’t a reward for the faithful. It’s the workshop for the weary.
As pastors and ministry leaders, if you are exhausted – spiritually, emotionally, or relationally – you are not alone. And you don’t have to fix yourself before re-entering community. In fact, it may be the only place where you can be truly restored.
“When we’re most parched, most disillusioned, our first impulse is often to retreat from community, not seek it.”
The third story is one you’ve likely preached before.
A group of friends bring a paralyzed man to Jesus. They can’t get in the door because of the crowd, so they tear a hole in the roof and lower him down.
And here’s the part that always gets me: “When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the man, ‘Your sins are forgiven.’”
Their faith.
It wasn’t the paralyzed man’s belief that healed him. It was the faith of the people who carried him. Sometimes we are the stretcher-bearers and sometimes we are the ones being carried.
Who is carrying you?
We’re trained to hold others up. To carry the liturgy. The vision. The grief. The meetings. The anxiety. The conflict. The hope. But who is lifting you into the presence of grace when you are paralyzed by exhaustion, fear, or doubt?
If you don’t have an answer to that question, please don’t let that just sit in you. Let it stir something. Let it challenge you – not in shame, but in invitation.
Because here’s the truth: an individual spiritual life may be holy, but it’s not whole without community.
I practice solitude. I love meditation. Yoga. Personal prayer. They’re sacred parts of my rhythm. But the spiritual life is not just about me and God. It’s about us. It’s about me sometimes surrendering the illusion of self-sufficiency so that I can be part of something bigger, something honest and interdependent and real.
That’s the vision of community that we’re called to cultivate as pastors. Not a church that looks perfect. Not a ministry that performs well. But a space where we are allowed to be human. Allowed to be carried. And invited to carry others.
Maybe that’s what’s missing from so many of our models of church. We’ve traded community for programming. Participation for performance. And we’re seeing the cost in our own lives and in the lives of the people we serve.
“An individual spiritual life may be holy, but it’s not whole without community.“
So I want to offer you this question: Who are your people?
Who knows where you are in your spiritual journey, not just as a pastor, but as a person? Who listens without needing to fix? Who asks how you really are and can handle the honest answer? Who shows up when you stop showing up? Who is your support when the journey feels long and aimless?
As you wrestle with these questions yourself, remember that you are leading a community grappling with the very same uncertainties. How are you cultivating a space that welcomes people at every stage of their spiritual journey? Are you creating a safe and inviting environment where those who come unsure, hesitant, or searching feel truly embraced? Are you nurturing a community that grows in faith, encouraging curiosity and transformation? Or settling for complacency or self-assured certainty?
As pastors and church leaders, there are times when we are the ones laid on the mat before Jesus and times when we are the friends lowering that mat. In either role, remember that you are always in Jesus’ presence, surrounded by a community that loves and cares for you. This is what it means for faith to be made whole in community.
For a deeper dive on this topic, see Pastor Jay’s podcast on his Good Courage Podcast: https://open.spotify.com/episode/1btvSOSYJPtOyDTfQJVWBu?si=851286bd1a124053
