This morning I was going to write my resignation. This afternoon I had an overdue deep sleep. Tonight I’m rehearsing the gospel anew and tearing lies out by the roots.

After putting it off for months, I finally got around to writing up my letter of resignation. Well, to be honest, I haven’t got it down on paper yet, but I’ve got it clear and sorted in my mind. I know what the opening sentence will say, I know how I’ll graciously phrase my failures and weave just enough scripture throughout to make it appear steeped in Biblical wisdom. I know how I’ll close it, with personal remarks to those I’ve served alongside, and with emotional platitudes for the opportunities I’ve been granted.

Of course, most of it would be a lie. Most of it would be simply a thin veneer to hide the heartache. Most of it, though claiming to be ‘God’s timing’, would be a masterful statement of victory by the enemy.

This morning I was going to write my resignation. This afternoon I had an overdue deep sleep. Tonight I’m rehearsing the gospel anew and tearing lies out by the roots.

Without exaggeration, I think that this past year may be the most difficult period of ministry I’ve faced. Don’t misunderstand me when I say, ‘ministry’, I don’t only mean my vocational hours as the lead teaching pastor at Raymond Terrace Community Church. I mean ministry. I mean the life and gifts, the passion and purpose, the uncounted minutes and unseen labour—the sum of the efforts of my life spent in service of King Jesus. And when I say, ‘difficult’, I don’t just mean challenging. I mean, discouraging, disheartening, and disappointing.

I think I entered ministry too early. Puffed up by praise, I charged forward on the toxic confidence of a vapour made of 90% gifting and 10% character. I was 18 and ready to change the world. I knew what was wrong with the church, what was wrong with other Christians, and what was wrong with, well, pretty much everything. Now here I am 25 years later. I’m 43 years old, and I’m not sure what I know anymore.

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