In Southern Baptist life, the associational director of missions–my job–is at the bottom rung of the leadership ladder. The churches in a county or parish, or several counties or parishes, are organized into an association–they do it themselves, however they choose–and then, if they have the money for a salary, they select someone as their leader. In the early days, they called him an associational missionary. When I was in seminary, the guy for New Orleans was Dr. Mercer Irwin, his offices were at the seminary, and he wore the exalted title of Executive-Secretary.

Most associations choose to call their leader a director of missions, or DOM. In Mississippi, they made it ADM, meaning Associational Director of Missions. The joke is they were tired of people referring to the DOM as a “dirty old man.”

I’ve been on the lookout for a director of missions named King, just to see his business card or letterhead: “King, DOM.” Haven’t found one yet.

All the Baptist churches in a state organize themselves into a state convention, select a headquarters office somewhere, choose someone as their Executive-Director and give him a budget with which to hire a staff, then sit back and wait on him to lead them to do something. Nationwide, all the SBC churches form themselves into the Southern Baptist Convention. We put our headquarters in Nashville, turned the keys over to an officer whose unusual title is President of the Executive Committee of the SBC–that office has been held for a generation now by Dr. Morris Chapman–and go from there.

The odd thing about this denominational organization is that the associations do not comprise the state conventions, nor do the state conventions make up the Southern Baptist Convention. You would think they would. On an organizational chart, each is separate and has nothing to do with the other.

The churches make up the association, the churches make up the state convention, and the churches make up the SBC.

There may be another religious denomination organized like this somewhere in the world, but I’ve not heard of it. As the fellow said, “I’m not a member of any organized religion; I’m a Baptist.”

Now, my “career,” if you want to call it that, has been solely as a pastor from 1962 until April of 2004. Well, there was that three year period 1971-73 when I was minister of evangelism at the FBC of Jackson, Mississippi. Other than that, I’ve pastored. Then, in May of 2004, I took this job. Became a denominational servant.

Denominational serpent, some say.

It’s an unusual job. Absolutely nothing like it. It’s great, it’s odd, it’s fatiguing, it’s satisfying, it’s frustrating. All of the above and more.

You don’t actually have any power except over the people who work directly under you. You are not a bishop, saying to this man ‘go’ and he goes, to that one ‘come’ and he comes. (Matthew 8:9) Whatever power you have is what people give you voluntarily as you earn the trust of your constituency. Much like a pastor in that regard.

Except the pastor sees the church members every week when he preaches to them. They quickly learn who he is from his sermons and from the contact with him through funerals, weddings, and informal meetings. The director of missions has a large number of churches–we have 94 at the moment; the figure changes frequently–and it takes years to visit the worship services of every one of them. Even then, he’s usually just sitting in the congregation, not bringing the sermon. He works for the people in that church, yet they do not know him and have little opportunity to do so. Building trust is a slow process.

The churches and pastors and members of churches in your assigned area–association, state, nation–are not quite sure what you do, but for the most part, they respect you and expect leadership from you, which they then are free to follow to whatever extent they choose.

Meanwhile, your mama wonders if you have left the ministry. Your friends want to know how things are since you retired.

What you do most of the time is attend meetings. You travel to the state office and confer with the leadership there who think, rightly or wrongly, that because you are closer to the local churches than they, that they can enlist participation of the pastors and congregations better if you are knowledgeable and on their team. In some cases, they’re right.

You sit in meetings with local committees of ministers and laymen: finance, administrative, personnel, buildings and grounds, long range planning, community action, missions, church planting, and such. You meet with denominational executives of every stripe who travel to your city to find out what is going on with their workers assigned to your area, with their money sent to your area, and with you yourself, because one of them has been assigned to work with all the DOMs. And you meet with your counterparts, the DOMs across the state.

You sit in meetings with a pastor of a church, hearing his tale of woe about a situation for which he needs your counsel. This is where I’m at my best. You’d have a hard time coming up with a church situation I’ve not been through. These scars were well won.

You visit the churches and meet with their deacons who are having a problem with a pastor, having problems with no pastor, or having problems finding a pastor. You are asked to lead church business meetings at which a decision will be made concerning a pastor who is not working out; you sometimes get shot at by both sides, which usually means you’re doing a good job.

For the most part, you do not receive constant criticism or harassment the way pastors do. The poor pastors get so much of it, that even though they work most closely with you, they don’t have the time or energy to focus on your assignment or to sit in judgment on how well you are accomplishing it.

But mostly, people don’t criticize the director of missions because they don’t really know what he does. As I say, it’s a strange job.

You meet with your staff, with visiting staffs of other associations, with pastors and leaders of other areas who are interested in partnering with you, your association, or some church in your area.

You go to meetings.

This is hard for anyone, but particularly for a boy raised on the farm. I know about hard work. I have baled hay all day long. I have plowed behind a mule for days on end. I have mucked out pig pens, the filthiest, smelliest chore on any farm on the planet. I’ve helped slaughter and dress hogs on the farm. I’ve picked cotton from early til late, and hoed cotton until your back felt like it was going to break. Shelled peas, shucked corn, built fences. I know tired.

Then the Lord calls you into the ministry. At first, you feel a little guilty taking the pay. All you did was sit in your air-conditioned office preparing a sermon, getting in your air-conditioned car and driving to the hospitals and nursing homes for pastoral calls, and standing in your lovely, air-conditioned church to deliver the sermons. This is work? you think.

Eventually, you get past that kind of false guilt, especially once you find where the hard work is in the pastorate: leading church members who don’t want to be led, knocking on door after door in the community trying to uncover people interested in their spiritual welfare, and dealing with warring factions inside your church. You labor in prayer over your people, labor in study over the Scriptures, and labor in sessions with your staff. In time, you decide you are earning your pay and more.

One of the most enjoyable parts of pastoring for me was that I set my own schedule and filled my days with a lot of variety. Some days I spent studying, other times visiting in the homes of members, sometimes retreats with the staff. The most pleasant memories I have to this day are the times we sat around in the office drinking coffee and sharing ideas, burdens, and funny stories. We prayed together, belly-ached to one another, and worked at encouraging each other. These are the best people in the world, and almost every pastor feels so honored, that the Lord chose him.

But, pity the poor denominational executive.

He attends meetings.

A year ago, six of us were sitting around the conference room table in our associational offices. Mike was there from our state convention. Freddie and I were there from our office, along with a couple of other guys from somewhere. And Albert was there. Poor, sweet Albert. He had been a pastor for all his adult life, and now had agreed to become an employee of the state convention, assigned to work with a number of parishes in this region.

The meeting droned on for a couple of hours. I grew fidgety, as always. (I was the kid in your 3rd grade class who could never sit still. God called me to preach because He knew I cannot sit still on a church pew for a solid hour; I have to get up and walk around. He is a God of mercy.) I drew a cartoon for Alberto and slipped it across the table. The caption read: “Enjoy this meeting, friend. Because from now on, THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!”

He laughed and passed the drawing around, then framed it and hung it on his wall. I shouldn’t have done it, I realized later, because within six months, he resigned. Said he missed the hands-on work of the pastor. Which I understood. I fear I might have contributed to his unrest. Or at least given voice to it.

It’s tiring. This week, as I write, we have been in meetings all day Monday and Tuesday. I got home Tuesday evening at 5 o’clock, brain dead. And yet, when my grandchildren asked what I did all day–we have this little routine where we tell each other about our days–I said, “I attended a meeting. We rode a bus around the city with some out-of-town friends and we talked about them helping us start new churches. We ate a great lunch at the seminary, and we prayed together. I talked to them a little bit, and mostly I listened.” I don’t think they were impressed.

It’s a good kind of fatigue, in many ways. You did positive things, trying to make a difference for the Kingdom, for people, for the city.

But it’s a different kind of fatigue from what most people are acquainted with. It’s not like following the mule, cutting the grass, or even cleaning the house. All you did was sit and talk.

The worst kind of tiring.

I could not wait to get in bed. Unfortunately, I had slept off the fatigue by 3 a.m., and that’s why I’m up writing this essay when normal people are still asleep. I’m not tired any more.

However, since I’m up too early, by mid-afternoon, I will be zonked. It will take a week to get my schedule back to normal.

Maybe that’s why we denominational serpents schedule most of our conferences in the morning, while we’re fresh. Come the middle of the afternoon and we’re pretty well spent.

Afternoon naps are quite nice, I hear. But, being an employee of Baptist churches, pastors, and members, I’d better not go there. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I was home napping when they were following the mule, mucking out pig pens, or bringing in the crop.

We denominational executives work out of a lot of self-imposed rules and regulations. But that’s another story.