Yesterday, the judge in the Dr. Conrad Murray trial–he was Michael Jackson’s physician and is on trial for killing him–gave a witness a lesson in interpersonal relationship skills.

Turned away from the spectators, the judge addressed a woman in the witness chair. He said: “Now, Ma’am, you are to listen to the full question before you answer. I know when we have conversations with people, we often think we know what they are about to say, and sometimes we answer before they finish. You cannot do that here. Listen to the full question before you respond.

“Then, when you respond, you must not simply nod your head or say ‘Uh huh’ or ‘huh uh.’ You must answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to the questions.

The judge looked at her sternly and said, “Do you understand this, Ma’am?”

“Yes sir.”

A pity we can’t send some friends we know into that courtroom and have the judge instruct them.

A pity someone didn’t send me to that judge a long time ago. Those lessons are vital, not only to courtroom procedure, but to functioning well in our daily lives.

If there is one thing I excel in–and that’s debatable–this is not it. I have always been a better talker than listener. And that, for one called by God to minister to His sheep, is a major failing.

If the work a pastor does from the pulpit on Sunday can be likened to a doctor’s prescribing, then only by listening during the week can he properly diagnose.

Have you ever gone to a doctor who would not listen, but insisted that he knew what you needed before you opened your mouth? If so, you changed physicians in a hurry.

Why do we preachers think listening to our people–to anyone we are trying to help–is of little importance? The skill of listening is one of the rarest of qualities in ministers, but when you find it, you know you have found a jewel of a minister.

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What is the number one complaint I hear from church members about their pastors?

Brother Joe, what do you suggest be done about a lazy preacher? Our pastor preaches two times a week, and is trying to turn the Sunday night sermon over to someone else. He’s quit doing Wednesday night church, and he refuses to hold staff meetings. We ask him to make a visit to someone and he may or may not do it. No one seems to know what he does with his time.

My suggestion in every case is the same: Each pastor needs an accountability group. Without one, you are asking for trouble. An “accountability group” is two or three or more laymen who meet with him from time to time–not weekly, and maybe not even monthly, but definitely more than annually; perhaps quarterly–as his sounding board, to hear his needs and concerns, and to let him know if there are problems.

Without some kind of mechanism to make his needs known and to hear from the congregation, both the pastor and the members will grow increasingly frustrated until something bad happens: an explosion from one side or the other or both.

As one who is pro-pastor in most disputes shared with me, I reluctantly admit that there are lazy pastors in the ministry. But hopefully, not for long. Either they will be helped by that responsible group of laymen who will build a fire under them, or they will be out of work and looking for another job.

Before addressing the issue with 5 things the lazy pastor does not know, but is about to find out, let’s admit the obvious here: just because someone says he’s lazy does not make it so. Perhaps he does his work at unusual times, there may be extenuating circumstances, and so forth. I once knew a pastor who, for reasons I’ve long since forgotten, slept all day and worked all night. Really. Pastor Dan Scott of First Baptist Church of Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia. A great guy. And if there was dissatisfaction–after the congregation made adjustments in their expectations!–I never heard it.

All right then. Here is my list.

The lazy pastor is about to find out….

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The phone call last night was unnerving.

“Brother Joe,” the young pastor on the other end said, “the deacons voted to ask for my resignation.” They had met that night.

“They’ve given me 30 days to get out of the pastor’s residence.” They had also voted 2 months’ salary. And, if he plays along nicely, nothing will ever be said about his having been terminated.

I said, “Did they give a reason?”

“The chairman asked, ‘Do you have confidence in the pastor’s leadership?’ All six of them said they didn’t. So that sealed it.”

Granted, all I have is one side of this discussion. And I know from long experience with this young pastor he is not perfect. In fact, he told me of difficulties in administration he had experienced that may have brought this on.

But I know also that this pastor is a godly man of great integrity, that he works hard at his preaching, and that he has a servant heart. One could do a lot worse than have such a shepherd, particularly a small town church such as the one in question.

Having had 18 hours to reflect on this situation, and from a half century of observing similar dealings from church leaders, I would like to say a few things to these deacons as well as to other church leaders who are contemplating asking their pastor for his resignation.

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I’m a veteran.

A veteran minister. I received the call to preach in April of 1961, which means we have recently passed the half-century mark for that anniversary. I began pastoring in November of 1962, and was ordained on December 2. I served 6 churches as pastor for 39 years and one as a staff minister for 3. Does this qualify me as a veteran?

“Veteran,” at least to me, is a better term than what originally came to mind: “old.”

I’m not nearly through preaching, although, best as I can tell, I’ve pastored my last church. And that’s just fine. I do not miss the day-to-day grind of the pastoral ministry at all. If I never attend another deacons meeting, never preside over a monthly church business meeting, and never sit in on a finance committee meeting, it will suit me just fine. The preaching part, I love.

So, as the Lord wills and host pastors continue to issue invitations, I’ll keep preaching wherever He sends me.

The other thing we retired veterans do–in addition to trying to stay active and useful–is to look back and rethink what we did. We reflect on what we wish we had done. Not, hopefully, in a morbid sense. No one wants to do an autopsy on himself, to second-guess every decision he ever made. To do so would fill today with all of yesterday’s pains.

But there is value to thinking of the ministry behind. And wondering what we could have done better.

For the purposes of this article, let’s not make this a Joe-confessional. Let’s raise the question and confine ourselves to: what sermons most of us veterans wish we had done differently “way back when.”

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I’m pro-pastor, but I’m not blind.

These men (in our denomination, pastors are men) are called of God and assigned some of the most difficult work in the universe, and for the most part they labor well and long and you never hear a complaint out of them. They are my heroes.

Most of them.

The typical pastor in our denomination serves a church running 100 or fewer in attendance, which tells you the offerings are insufficient to provide much of a living for him. In some cases he holds down a second job or his wife works. Or both. Or, most amazing of all, he manages to live on what they pay him.

I believe in these guys. They are my brothers and my admiration of them knows no bounds.

Most of them.

But there are times when some of these ministers do the most self-defeating things. Not all of them, thankfully. But enough to warrant our addressing the issue as a caution to the rest of the Lord’s stable of shepherds.

Here is my personal list of the 5 most frustrating things pastors do.

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My friend Gene Brock and I have been reminiscing.

We were classmates in New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary in the 1960s, graduating the same year, ’67, and both went forth to pastor churches, he to SW Georgia and me to the MS Delta. These days, he’s serving sweet Little Ochlocknee Baptist Church outside Thomasville, Georgia, and this week I’m his revival preacherl.

We’re catching up on old times.

Gene and I agree that a revival we did for his church in Edison, Georgia, in the late 1960s is one of the best we’ve ever experienced. The funny part is how Gene invited me in the first place.

The mail that morning in Greenville, MS, brought a letter from Gene. His inviting me to preach a revival for him was most unusual, since we’d never been especially close during seminary, just classmates. But it was how he began the letter that we still joke about.

Dear Joe: If you are still as enthusiastic as you were in seminary, I’d like to invite you to preach a revival for my church.

I wrote back and said, “Sorry. Not as enthusiastic. Try someone else.”

Not.

I did not do that. No way was I going to admit to having dampened my enthusiasm for the Lord, for life, or for the Lord’s work.

I am enthusiastic about life, the Lord, and ministry to this day. I hope you are. But if not, it needs to be addressed.

That’s what this is about.

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I must have forty or fifty books on preaching. Some of them deal with humor–a little, not much–but as far as I’ve been able to tell, none answer the great question of the hour that is bugging the h–k out of a large number of preachers on this Friday morning, two days before the moment of truth:

Should I or should I not tell that joke when I get up to preach?

It’s a great joke. It’s had me in stitches all week, ever since I heard it at the pastors’ conference last Monday. And furthermore, I’ve figured out how to use it as the introduction to my sermon. Okay, it’s a stretch, but I think I can make it work. But it’s such a great joke, everyone will enjoy it.

Groan. (That’s the reaction of 99.9% of the non-preachers who are reading this. To them, it’s a no-brainer. “No! Do not start a sermon with a joke! The very idea!”)

Only the preacher deals with such temptation. He’s about to do the most serious thing in the world–speak for the living God to people who desperately need a word from Him–and he wants to begin with a funny story!

The first week of August, Greg Woodward and I led a seminary workshop for 45 masters level students on “Worship Leadership.” The actual classes took place that week–morning, afternoon, and an evening or two. Then, there were book reviews to turn in during the rest of this fall semester, and something else you might find interesting.

Each student was charged with visiting three worship services in various types of churches/synagogues and writing a report on each. This week, I’ve been reading those reports and grading them. One thing in particular keeps recurring.

Several of the students made a point of stressing that the preacher/priest/rabbi did not begin his message with a joke. (I think one of the texts had said something about that.)

Finally, after reading for the umpteenth time that the pastor of Buttercup Church did NOT begin his sermon by telling a joke–as though this earns the man accolades–I decided I’d about had enough.

There is a lot to be said for telling a joke at the beginning of a worship service or the start of a sermon.

And–just so you’ll know I haven’t gone completely looney here–there’s more to be said for NOT telling one. Still, there are two sides to this issue.

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