I feel it’s only fair to be honest about who is writing this letter. I know who I am, but you may not.
I am a 40 year old woman who is pursuing ministry in the holiness tradition. To some, my age makes me a baby, too young to know better or else so old that I am out of touch. To some, my theology makes me a deceived fool. To some, my gender makes me dangerously outside of God’s will. To some, the combination of all of these nullifies everything I will say from this point on.
If I am disqualified in your estimation because of these things, by all means, do not suffer my words. Feel absolutely free to move to the next article.
But if you are open to hearing my words, I invite you to hear my thoughts on the plow.
Oh, and one final word of who I am, or who I am not, rather.
I am not a farmer.
But I do own a push mower.
This year has been the toughest year that we have faced as pastors, as church leaders, as Christians, as humans. Collectively. I will grant that some may have faced bigger personal struggles or defeats than they faced this year, but I hold to the statement that in the past year leading has never been so hard.
Decision after decision, we shifted, we adjusted, we pivoted. No direction could satisfy everyone, but that was little encouragement as people left.
They left us.
They left our churches.
They left the Church.
And that hurt.
Babies you baptized. Couples you married. People you counseled. You loved them. And they are just gone.
This year delivered a slashing blow to many congregations, and as churches bled out congregants, pastors and leaders were left trying to bind up that wound.
Any hold you could get on the bleeding would be made more difficult by the force of government mandates and political opinions and unclear science. The force pulled in two, division over everything. How could this gash heal if the sides kept pulling apart?
Finally, infection bubbled up. The wound stayed open and dirty looks and words and acts set in. What was originally a clean cut was now festering, so raw and putrid that one would wonder, “Was this site already infected when it was cut and we just didn’t know?” Like, it wasn’t a fresh cut at all, but a blister that had ripped open.
And there you stood, hand to the plow.
You recalled the first time you heard that passage from Luke 9.
“Jesus replied, “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” Luke 9:62
You are fit. You’re not looking back. You’re pressing on. And so you pushed. You pushed hard. You’ve kept going. Maybe others will stop. Maybe others aren’t fit. But you won’t disappoint Jesus. Just. Keep. Going.
Pastor, leader, brother, father, sister, mother, friend: This word from God….it’s not a threat.
And the way we plow, y’all, it’s like we don’t know how to farm. It’s like we don’t know who owns the farm either.
No sensible farmer would plow endlessly, never stopping. No sensible farmer would go in a straight line and never turn. When you plow a field (or in my case, mow my yard) you reach the end of your boundary, and you turn around. You go back and forth. With each turn, you have to look back. You have to evaluate your work and adjust.
And yet, we have pastors plowing as if they want to prove they will never turn, never pause for a drink, never change pace, never reach the end of the row. Make no mistake about it, if this is you, you are living a life of toil. You are turning your ministry into the fruit of the curse of the fall of man.
We keep our eyes fixed. We hoe to the end of the row. At the same time, we must be willing to evaluate our work, and that might lead to a change in direction, a course correction. But if you are serving a master who looks at you, holding your fresh wounds, sun beating down on your exhaustion, and they yell, “You are not fit for the kingdom!” That master is. Not. Jesus.
How do I know? Again, not because I know farming. I don’t.
But I know Jesus. And Jesus knows farming.
We cannot be so committed to our plow that we don’t hear Jesus say this other word about farming.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Mathew 11:28-30
Pastors, leaders, Jesus is not cruel.
His yoke is easy and His burden light.
In your effort to lead well, to care for the church, to heal hurts, to keep on top of everything, to shift and adjust and pivot, if you have heard the voice of condemnation, of merciless driving and never turning, look up. Look to the end of the row. See Jesus there calling you to him. You are his child, and He is a good Father. You are his worker, and He is a fair Master.
You, too, are worth His kindness, His compassion, and His mercy.
Look up. Look up.
There is grace enough, even for you.
Because at the end of the day, He does not call you “Pastor.” He calls you child, beloved, friend. He calls you by your name. He sees who He created you to be and who He is continuing to form you into.
Look up. Look up.
Plow like you were intended to plow, with turns and breaks and grace.
Plow for Your Master, the same one who laid His life down for you…for even you.
Look up.
Sarah Kinzer 