At 73 and no longer pastoring churches, I’m going hither and yon to preach as the Lord leads and the invitations arrive. It’s a satisfying life, the kind of retirement (if you insist on calling it that) I would have dreamed of had I known such was available.
Observing my host pastors as they lead the congregations, I remember so vividly experiencing the same life they know with its delights and demands, its burdens and blessings. My heart goes out to them. (In case anyone wonders, I do not arrive at a church handing out advice to host pastors, acting as some kind of inexhaustible fountain of wisdom to these good men. I come to do whatever they ask–to teach or preach or train, draw my pictures, or tell my stories–and if the Lord chooses to turn it into more than that, well and good.)
And frankly, looking back over my own lengthy pastoral ministry, sometimes my heart aches for the young McKeever, the pastor I was in my late 20s and 30s. I wish I could go back and give that eager young man a good pep talk, a needed bit of advice, a big hug, and a swift kick in the pants. The young Joe needed all of these at one time or other. (A few friends who have stayed with us from all those years will read this and smile and think, “At last, he gets it.”)
1) I wish I could tell that young pastor (which I was) to quit living and dying by the numbers from each Sunday. You know about those numbers–our attendance today, what the offerings were, did we have any additions, and how all this compares with last year.