Because my Western default definition of success is worldly, it will bother me when attendance is low or they don’t respond well to my teaching. Because I am deeply prideful and filled with self-love, I am often offended when church members see weekends at the beach/lake/mountains as vastly more compelling than hearing me talk about the things of God. Or because I sometimes subtly exchange my confidence in God’s Word as the transforming agent for my own ability to change people, I will consider adjusting the message or the methods to make people happy.

During the unholy morning hours of June 6, 1944, U.S. Army paratroopers jumped from their airplanes into the occupied countryside of northern France, miles inland from the beaches at Normandy. My father was one of those soldiers. As a member of the rough and ready 101st Airborne, my dad had the best combat training available in the free world. He had studied in vivid detail the topographical features of the French countryside. Training had coached him on the deadly perils of anti-aircraft fire; the shock of jumping out of an airplane into the yawning darkness; the proper way to land, roll to avoid injury, gather, and engage the enemy; and how to handle hundreds of other battlefield eventualities. Dad had undergone enough drills on weapons and tactics that he could repeat the steps in his sleep for decades to come.

But June 6 was not a drill; it was war. He was not quite prepared for the relentless ferocity of the German machine guns, the exploding mortar shells, or the omnipresent and deadly Bouncing Betty mines. Basic training had given him wonderful training, but it could not have simulated the sights, sounds, smells, and overall horrors of war. Only one thing could acclimate him to the battlefield: war itself.

Ministry, likewise, is war. And only war can prepare you for the heat of battle. Will you fight, or will you run in the face of the menacing realities of ministry? Only the front lines of Christian ministry called the local church will answer that question for you.

My father’s son attended one of the finest theological seminaries in the world, the theological-ministerial equivalent of Army Ranger or Navy Seals school. They taught his boy great theology. By God’s grace, they lashed his heart and ministry to an inspired, inerrant Bible and centered his eyes on the story of redemption that beats intensely at the Bible’s heart. It was rigorous and wonderful preparation for war. But it was not war.

Two years ago, I left that great theological training camp. In the months since, it has been my privilege to serve as pastor of a wonderful, patient group of godly people in Birmingham, Alabama. Together we are learning the difference between life and ministry in theory and life and ministry in reality. I have learned much, and I have much more to learn. Here are 10 things no theological seminary, no matter how faithful and competent, could have prepared me for in real-world ministry:

1. Ministry is war.

There are two theaters of war in ministry: one within and another without. There is an ever-present enemy within, the flesh, which tempts us to run from the battle. I cannot take a minute off from this war, or I will surely perish.

There are also enemies on the outside seeking to defeat me by singing an alluring siren song. They tempt me with a peacetime mentality, a life of ease and earthly prosperity, far from the bad deacons meeting, the church member whose marriage is collapsing, and the family that thinks I am killing the church by teaching sound doctrine.

John Newton knew this struggle all too well, but saw this war as the best place for fallen ministers:

The people of God are sure to meet with enemies—but especially the ministers. Satan bears them a double grudge. The world watches for their halting, and the Lord will allow them to be afflicted, that they may be kept humble, that they may acquire a sympathy with the sufferings of others, that they may be experimentally qualified to advise and help them, and to comfort them with the comforts with which they themselves have been comforted of God. But the Captain of our salvation is with us. His eye is upon us; his everlasting arm beneath us. In his name therefore may we go on, lift up our banners, and say, “If God be for us—who can be against us? Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors, through him who has loved us!” The time is short. In a little while—he will wipe all tears from our eyes, and put a crown of life upon our heads with his own gracious hand!

2. My fictional church was a fictional church.

In seminary, my fictional church adored me. Every person loved the teaching. They loved my personality. They spoke often and gratefully of “all the things I bring to the table.” On Monday, they pondered next Sunday’s sermon with the giddy anxiousness of a 4-year-old on Christmas Eve. They were ready to carry me out of the pulpit on their shoulders as a theological hero.

My pastoral ministry now plays out in the non-fiction section, and they don’t look at me that way. They see my flaws. They feel my inexperience. And rightly so. Most of them love me anyway, and over time, I will come to see how misguided was my desire for that fictional church and how good God is for humbling me through the ministry of his local church.

3. Theological knowledge does not equal pastoral maturity.

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