Pedestals are for Cliff Jumping
Last week, I wrote on pastoring and how I got into it. That piece of writing is turning out to be the first of a few writings I would call “My DTR with the Church”. If this strikes a nerve or even connects with you, please feel free to reach out. I’d love to chat!
Most of the time these days, when I introduce myself to a complete stranger, I won't tell them I'm a pastor. When I was a teens pastor, it was easier to say, "I teach teenagers." Or that I'm a counselor for teenagers. All are technically true. These days, I just tell people I work at a church, hoping that they think I'm the church's janitorial staff, not the pastor. Suddenly, when they realize I'm a pastor, the demeanor changes. The language changes. Suddenly, the wave of expectations and judgment floods like a tsunami.
The P-word bothers me. Actually, there are two P-words at play here. The first one, "Pastor," doesn't really bother me as much. I think, in the beginning, the label felt a bit like a badge of honor. Something I proudly wear. I was young and naive and driven by an ego the size of the Atlantic. This year marks eleven years of being in full-time ministry. For those of you unfamiliar with church lingo, I have been a professional Christian leader for eleven years. That is 4,166 days of being a clergy person. In the course of those days, I have felt the label's weight increasing by the minute. Then comes the realization that the "Pastor" label is deeply connected socially to yet another P-word: the pedestal. This word bothers me way more than the first word ever could.
Pastors and other spiritual leaders are, more often than not, placed on pedestals. Somehow, there's this enormous chasm between the "professionals" and the "civilians." The professionals are often viewed upon as inerrant, perfect. They are the ones who should always know the right things, always do the right things, never doubt, never fail, never struggle, never loses it. They are the ones who should always be available to guide, support, listen, give advice, and forgive. They will never get upset. They are the ones who need to be available 24/7 and should always know the right thing to say. The right way to live. The right clothes to wear. If we dare to be truthful, for some, their pastors and priests are the equivalents of minor gods.
From my experience, the pedestal is toxic. I know this might sound extreme, but let me count the ways.
Pedestals are deceiving. Somehow it gives the impression of perfection. No one is perfect. I understand that we want someone who provides guidance or leadership in our lives to be perfect because, then, following them would involve minimal doubts and disappointments. The impression of perfection given by the pedestal then wedges a distance between people. Those on a pedestal became a whole other, an entity not even human. One that no mere mortal would be able to relate to. Surprise, surprise. Pastors are people. However, when we put them on pedestals, somehow, we are deceived into believing they might be some kind of super-people.
Pedestals nurture pride. When you're put on a pedestal, it gets to you. It's addictive. The attention and the respect are nothing less than intoxicating. The applause and the sycophancy get to you. It got to me. Early on in my career, there was a point when I felt like I knew everything. When I felt like I was always right. When I felt like I deserved the pedestal. It might be my personality, but my ego loved the pedestal at some point. Andy Stanley said this, and I fully agree with what he said, "Applause-intoxicated people don't make good decisions." I have made some less-than-stellar decisions when applause-drunk on a pedestal.
Pedestals involve an inordinate amount of pressure. What's exceptional and applauded suddenly becomes an expectation. Those put on a pedestal face the pressure of expectations all the time. Always judged by their actions, not their motivations. Always expected to get things right. People love commenting on leaders who have fallen from grace. The pressure to be perfect makes it difficult for those on pedestals to process through life. More often than not, they process things in the dark, having to hide their imperfect life. Then, when things are un-hideable, they blow up on the front page of the news. Henri Nouwen, a Dutch priest and writer, explained this quite well in his book, In the Name of Jesus:
It is precisely the men and women who are dedicated to spiritual leadership who are easily subject to very raw carnality. The reason for this is that they do not know how to live the truth of the Incarnation. They separate themselves from their own concrete community, try to deal with their needs by ignoring them or satisfying them in distant or anonymous places, and then experience an increasing split between their own most private inner world and the good news they announce.
It's sad. More than that, for me, it's downright terrifying.
Pedestals permit little to no privacy. It doesn't respect the privacy of the one put on said pedestal. Somehow, when you're a leader, people forget to respect your privacy. They seem to forget that you don't want to share every single little thing with them. That there are things and memories and decisions and experiences that you want to keep for yourself.
Pedestals foster paranoia. Once someone gets a little "comfortable" on a pedestal, paranoia can kick in. The understanding is that it is extremely easy for those who shower you with accolades to quickly turn on you. Look at what happened to Jesus. Within a week, the crowd went from oohing and aahing with palm branches to shouting, "Crucify him!" If you get comfortable on your pedestal, sometimes the idea of not being on it can drive you up the wall. You know that someone can easily push you off that pedestal. You know that what goes up must come down, and you fear that. Some even do everything in their power to stay on their pedestal, no matter what the cost.
Pedestals are lonely. There's no room for community on a pedestal. There is no room for a support system when you're on a pedestal. Pedestals have a one-person occupancy. No sharing. It is really lonely up there. You feel like no one understands you, and no one wants to. Not even others being put on their own pedestals. Respect isn't love, nor are accolades or power. Love requires honesty and vulnerability; it is to know and be known by someone else. There's no room for that on a pedestal.
Pedestals are impossible to stay on. To stay on it requires sacrifice. What are you willing to sacrifice? Relationships? Integrity? Values? After years of being a professional Christian leader, the thought of being placed - or staying - on a pedestal makes me want to cliff dive off that blasted thing.
I fuck up. My word usage might even convince you of that. I disappoint you. I am nothing like what you expect of me or my position. Just because I go around wearing a label that says, "Hello, my name is Pastor," doesn't mean I am perfect. It doesn't mean that I will sacrifice all of myself to make people feel better. (That, my friends, is not even remotely the role of a pastor.) I'm a work in progress, same as you. The difference might be in my vocation. In what I do, I am constantly faced with the Truth. Next to that Truth, I am constantly confronted by my own brokenness. So I will be the first to tell you that I have no place on a pedestal. Pedestals are made for inanimate works of art in museums and art galleries or for deities in temples. I, for one, are neither of those things.