I recently read that the average length of service for pastors in Protestant churches in America is about four years. If accurate, it makes sense why so much of the advice to pastors concerning church leadership seems to be directed to the early years of ministry. From seminary professors to denominational leaders, I have often heard encouragements to pursue a long pastoral tenure. These encouragements often included descriptions of the benefits that come from long tenures. In last week's blog post, I wrote on eight blessings I have experienced after pastoring Central Baptist Church for over ten years. But I have also discovered that having pastored here for more than a decade has also brought some burdens. Here are three burdens that have come from pastoring Central Baptist Church over ten years.

A successful pastorate is as much dependent on the church as it is on the pastor. Since 2012 I have been privileged to pastor Central Baptist Church in Waycross, GA. There have been seasons of great joy and great sorrow, but there has not been a day I was not thankful for this fellowship. Recently, I have been reflecting on how pastoral ministry differs once you pass the 10-year point. Below are my observations of eight blessings that have come from pastoring CBC over ten years.

I felt a sadness as I explored the three church buildings of Cades Cove. I felt a longing for what was and grieved for what would never be again. Each building retains the same beauty of its construction and ornamentation as they held before their congregations moved away. Though lacking modern accoutrements, all three church buildings have been well maintained and still house the accommodations and furniture employed by their former members. Unfortunately, they are today essentially museum exhibits, preserved for observation but not for use. This designation was a source of sadness and grief for me as I walked through these empty church buildings.

The architecture of church buildings often is designed for beauty, but esthetics is not the primary concern for the design of a church building. Church buildings may be beautiful, but they are not constructed singularly for esthetics but primarily for action. The three church buildings of Cades Cove are functional in form and simplistic in nature, built for ministry. While it is true that more sophisticated and moneyed congregations have built more elaborate and ornate structures than those that grace Cades Cove, they too are mostly functional in their architecture. Whether it be for preaching, teaching, or meeting a need in the community, church buildings are designed to support the church's ministry. And it is ministry that is at the heart of a church's existence.

Outside of each church building are small cemeteries. The tombstones are a lasting witness of those who worshiped in each congregation. These gardens of the dead have their own stories to tell about the congregations that worshiped in these buildings. Common surnames top many of the stone markers telling of prominent families in each church. Dates of birth and death are chiseled into each grave marker giving witness to the world that the occupant knew at birth, the events of history they knew in life, and the plenty or scarcity of the number of their days at death. Though most markers give up few secrets other than the most basic biographical information about the person that lies beneath, some speak, though cryptically, a more elaborate witness. Historians tell us that the residents of Cades Cove were greatly divided in their loyalties during the Civil War. The festering disunity in the congregations was so great that the churches chose not to hold services for long periods during the war. One grave marker leaves no doubt about the loyalties of the one buried beneath by declaring that rebels in North Carolina murdered its occupant. Other graves are remarkable simply because of their age. This is particularly true for the graves of those who fought in the Revolutionary War. Yet these realities are expected. These churches are old; thus, so are the inhabitants of their cemeteries. Though remarkable, it is expected to find graves of those who died long ago. However, what I did not expect to find in these old cemeteries beside abandoned church buildings were modern grave markers. The congregations that built these buildings and buried their dead in these cemeteries have long since disbanded, but I discovered in the freshly turned dirt and slabs of marble not yet stained by the abuse of weather that their legacy remains.

Several years ago, a friend allowed me to use his river cabin for a week to study and write. During that particular season of my life, the pressures of ministry were heavy and unpleasant, and I very much needed a moment of respite. The use of the cabin was a welcomed gift. I was thankful for the opportunity for the respite, and I was thrilled by the opportunity to enjoy this particular place. My friend’s river cabin had been the place of many church events and gatherings during my childhood and thus held happy memories for me. These memories, along with my awareness of how much I needed the opportunity to momentarily step away from the difficulties of ministry, filled me with hope, that the week I would spend there would be a blessing to me.

Looking back, I think I was in a more precarious situation mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and even physically than I realized at the time. The particulars and causes of why ministry was so burdensome during those days are no longer important. What is important is that every area of my life was being consumed by these burdens without any relief or space for other things. Though others contributed, the fault for this lay with me. I had not actively created healthy boundaries and space in my life. Having dangerously neglected my own need for these things, I was hopeful that a week alone at the lake would provide a lifeline that would allow me to persevere. The use of the cabin was a gracious gift. Even the timing of the week I would spend there was ordered by God’s grace. I arrived late in the afternoon of Labor Day. This is the last day of summer fun on the lake for many who have houses there. Not only did I have the cabin to myself, but because there were so few there after Labor Day, it felt like I had the whole lake to myself.

I have an odd collection of rocks on the bookshelf in my office. Among the collection are a jagged chunk of concrete, two broken bricks, three red cylinders cut from a brick wall, and a large cement cylinder cut out of a floor.

The first of the collection is the large cement cylinder. It stands about 4 inches tall. The sides are smooth from the blade that cut it. The smooth sides reveal the rock and rebar that were once part of the first floor of Roberts Hall, a men’s dormitory on the Rome, GA campus of Shorter University. During my sophomore year of college, the building was being wired for a new campus phone system and computer network. To provide access to each floor for the needed wiring, holes were drilled through the concrete floors. The new phone system was rendering the payphones on each floor obsolete, so their closets made convenient spaces through which to run the new wiring. The payphone closet was adjacent to the place at the end of the hallway, where I would often go late at night to read scripture and pray. The circular coring blade that cut through the concrete produced smooth-sided cement cylinders that the workmen left on the floor when they finished. One night, as I was reading scripture and praying, I noticed the forsaken remnants of the previous day’s work and decided to take one piece to be a reminder of how the Lord had been so gracious in those days and at that spot to draw me to Himself. It became a treasured reminder to me of God’s grace to convict me of sin and to deepen my obedience to His word.

Preaching the gospel is a strange thing. Observing from a human perspective, it seems rather simple and powerless. And yet, the humble appearance of preaching is in contrast to what Scripture declares it to be. Vested in the humble act of proclaiming the word of Christ is the power to save.

The church we attended while in seminary had a ministry at a local nursing home. They would send someone out each week to conduct Sunday services. Several times I was asked to lead these services and preach. It would just be me and someone who would play the piano. The nursing home staff would assemble the residents in the dining room where I would lead the singing of a hymn then preach. Some of the residents were aware that they were participating in the service, while others were not. Some would grow tired and fall asleep before I finished leading the service. I preached with all the effort and skill that I had but often wondered what real effectiveness or eternal impact I had.