Last week, as we completed the fourth article in this series, I put on Facebook that we were yet to decide on the fifth IRS, and invited suggestions. They were–as you might expect–all over the map: love, humility, kindness, honesty, and so forth.

Those are all good ones. To be sure, there are NOT “five” interpersonal relationship skills which supersede all others in importance. There are more like five hundred. But, given the limitations of life and this blog, we settled on five.

Yesterday, in a conversation with my pastor, Dr. Mike Miller (Kenner LA’s First Baptist Church), I realized what the fifth one should be: vulnerability.

I’ll tell you why in a second. It’s the story Mike was relating to me, something embarrassing that happened to him not long ago. But first, let’s see if we can find a workable definition for vulnerability.

To be vulnerable is to open yourself to be wounded. Going into battle without proper armor, you are vulnerable. Walking into a lion’s den–think of Daniel–with no visible protection but God, and Him invisible at that and given to not telling us everything He has in mind for a given situation, you are being vulnerable. Standing in the pulpit of a church on Sunday morning, admitting to your error, your humanity, your weakness, your own sense of deep need, you are making yourself vulnerable. You are putting yourself in a position where you can be criticized, opposed, attacked.

I say to you that vulnerability is one of the greatest assets (skills, strengths) one can bring to relationships with other people.

To be vulnerable, then, would mean an openness, an honesty, a lack of hypocrisy or pretense. These qualities are standard equipment in all believers, but particularly in those called as shepherds of the Lord’s flock.

Okay, here’s Mike’s story. He gave me permission to share it.

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Pastor John came by my office a few minutes ago to visit. Since I’ve been retired for over two years as the local SBC “Director of Missions” (for non-Baptists, that’s our title for the leader/servant of pastors/churches in a given area called an “association”), this was John’s first visit, and a complete surprise.

He handed me an envelope, saying, “It’s just a little ‘thank-you’ note.” I said, “For what?” He said, “Read it later.”

What he had written caught me completely by surprise.

Thank you for your leadership during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. (That was late 2005, over 6 years ago.) Thank you for your awareness of the association’s need for new vision. The idea for a new associational vision was birthed in your heart, and you took action by laying the foundation for years to come. For that, I say ‘thank you.’

I share this with you because it hits precisely the theme I’ve been working on in my mind all day: One of the primary interpersonal relationship skills for pastors is gratitude. The very quality Pastor John exhibited this very day.

Would you like to hear of the times I have helped pastors–speaking in their churches, doing art projects for them, counseling them through tough situations–and never received so much as a ‘thank you’ from them?

Well, you’re not.

I do not have such a list.

A roll of those owing us thanks is one nobody should keep. It’s a sure recipe for resentment and frustration. Better to do a favor, then go on to the next assignment than stick around and wait for gratitude.

We would do better to keep a list of people to whom we are indebted.

Today, as I scanned over my e-mail in-box, I saw names of pastors and associate pastors who have had me in their churches over the past few months. With this subject on my heart, I began wondering whether I had adequately thanked them for the privilege of serving in their churches, for their hospitality, and for the opportunity to know their people.

So, I sent quite a number of emails. Thank-you notes. Similar to Pastor John’s note to me.

Now, John’s note was store-bought and hand-written and personally delivered–how rare is that!–whereas the ones I sent today were e-mailed. We could make an issue of that.

But let’s not. This is about gratitude.

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“Preacher,” said the fellow at the door shaking the pastor’s hand, “You ought to loosen up. Learn to laugh at yourself. We do.”

It’s a wise preacher who knows how to laugh at himself. And a sad one who doesn’t.

Few skills a minister possesses will get him through troubled waters like a great sense of humor: the ability to laugh at things that would otherwise have destroyed him, the gift of seeing the humorous in any circumstance, a love for oddities and incongruities in every situation, the enjoyment of life itself.

Did our Lord have a sense of humor? Without a doubt. I refer you to Elton Trueblood’s classic, The Humor of Christ.

Baton Rouge’s Bob Anderson told us in seminary one day, “We know Jesus was a happy person because children loved Him. And little children do not like to be around an unhappy person.”

That’s good enough for me.

Although, if you are like me, you’d be more convinced if somewhere along Galilee’s dusty trails, the Lord Jesus had turned to the disciples and said, “Stop me if you’ve heard this one….”

I’d like it if the Apostle Paul had dropped in a tale of something funny that happened on the road to Ephesus to illustrate a point. That he didn’t doesn’t bother me, but still, I wish he had.

I apologize in advance for what follows….

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Today, I picked up the phone and called the service number for my gasoline credit card. The last few times I’ve used it, “see attendant inside” came up on the screen. And the last time, the clerk inside said, “This card has been canceled, sir.”

The only thing I could figure is that since I pay the card off each month, they’re not making any money off me and decided to cut me free. But, I thought, let’s find out. So I dialed the number.

“Sir, we show a security hold put on the card. Just a minute and I’ll connect you with someone in security.”

A moment later, a lady with a heavy foreign accent came on. Direct from Calcutta, I imagine. “Sir,” she said, “the computer froze your account because it shows you purchased gasoline from a Shell station you don’t usually use.” I said, “Which one?”

She said, “The one on Jefferson Highway in Harahan, Louisiana.” I said, “Ma’am, that’s the one closest to my house. It’s the main one I use.”

She had no idea why, she said, and promised to activate the card immediately.

I said, “But are you telling me every time I use a station I don’t usually frequent, it’s going to stop the account? Because I travel a lot. I logged nearly 3,000 miles in the last two weeks.”

She said, “And did you use this card?” I said, “No. You had frozen it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, sir. The computer blah blah blah.”

I was not aggressive, on the one hand, or passive on the other.

I was assertive.

Assertiveness is a good skill to have to function in this world. It means to (ahem) assert yourself, to express what you are feeling, to inform the people around you of something important to you even if it makes them unhappy.

Have you ever seen a non-assertive pastor? They’re fun to observe, if you like disaster movies and car crashes.

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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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