When barbarians crossed the Alps in the sixth century, Romans living in northern Italy fled in terror. Some went south towards Rome, others scrambled east towards Gaul, while some simply accepted fate. One group fled west, to a series of islands within a sheltered lagoon. They were a frightened and desperate people. The islands of the lagoon provided a natural defense against the conquering hordes, who, it turns out, were not good mariners. Over time, the refugees built a city amongst these islands, which would soon become a world-leading centre of trade. The name of the city? Venice.

Few cities capture the imagination as much as Venice. Its immaculately maintained fusion of Gothic and Eastern architecture, cobblestone streets, and busy canals, all present a picture of romantic opulence. It is a far cry from its humble origins as a refugee center. There is one lingering problem, however: Venice is sinking.

There are many technical reasons for why the city is sinking, but the simple answer reveals a confounding reality: Venice was built upon mud-banks. In the medieval era, the weight of its buildings was certainly problematic, but it wasn’t until the industrial era that the problem became almost catastrophic. But the portrait of a beautiful city resting on islands of mud reveals a profound reality about human perspective: not everything is as it seems. What we show people, it turns outs, is rarely the truth of our condition.

Sunday-Morning Shine

Sunday mornings in the Kentie household were a spectacle of organized chaos. My mother had the enormous responsibility of feeding five people, dressing three children, and ensuring that we were all out the door by 9:30 AM. On Sundays where she was responsible for setting up coffee and tea in the Church foyer, she had us out the door an hour earlier. But this paled in comparison to what would transpire during the drive to church.

The drive between our house and the church was approximately fifteen minutes. Within that short window of time, all manner of hell could break loose between my sisters and I. Bickering, teasing, and general discontent was the rule, not the exception. My dad was many things, but easy-going he was not. Add the chaos of the drive to the pressure cooker that is being a pastor in a rural church on Sunday morning, and things were bound to become explosive. When the arguing reached a crescendo, Dad let us have an earful of his frustration.

The hot temper of a father in the heat of frustration is nothing unusual. But what I always found perplexing was the way that temper was turned full blast until the moment we pulled into the church parking lot and opened the door. Then something miraculous happened: We all turned into the perfect pastoral family. It was an unspoken rule that the moment we step out of the vehicle, we will project ourselves as perfect. The scowl on my father’s face turned to a smile. His vocal tone shifted from harsh and abrupt to soft and genteel. Even the glasses, which had been flung on the floor in frustration, were now sitting safely over his eyes. As for us children, a two-hour long truce was called. No one would realize that this beautiful family was resting on mud-banks.

There’s a certain logic to the Sunday morning façade. It would be unhelpful for a pastor to walk into church with a scowl on his face and frustration in his voice. But there is a tremendous danger in presenting people with an unrealistic picture of ourselves. If the role of a pastor is to lead people in the pursuit of Jesus, where honesty and integrity abound, what good is it for us to project a false narrative about ourselves? As leaders, we would only be teaching our people to do the same. This level of corporate authenticity would be toxic to any faith community.

I interpreted my father’s behaviour poorly. To me it seemed that pastors should never allow their true selves to be known. Frustration, hurt, and sadness; these are all things that should be swept under the rug in view of the congregation. But as I pastored over the years, I realized the profound danger in this: maintaining the façade means I lack a profound trust in the people I’m leading. And when I don’t trust my people, it means that I lack the vulnerability of Jesus that my people need.

Lonely Islands

Venice presents us with an obvious contradiction. While the city is opulent and appeasing to the eye, its foundation is shifting and prone to instability. This leads to another contradiction of sorts: while the Venetian islands provided a certain level of protection in the medieval era, constant human development has ceased to protect them in the modern era. It turns out that human-made islands are not always the best idea. Self-induced Isolation has its price. While it may protect in the short term, the long-term results can be catastrophic.

We as pastors are prone to creating human-made islands. It is a subtle process that occurs when we feel threatened by congregants, ideas, or even other pastors. Like the Roman refugees of the sixth century, we retreat to the safety of these self-made islands. At last, no one can touch us, no one can know who we are, and no one can challenge us. There we can build a façade of splendid religiosity, have-it-togetherness, and untouchable power. “Look world, I am doing amazing,” we proclaim. The best part is, no one can come near us to investigate our claims, to unearth our motivations, or to question where all this wealth has come from because we control who gets to come near us. The problem is, below the surface, the ground is shifting, and the water is rising. The cathedrals are sinking, the cracks are forming, and the grand façade is eroding. Even worse, we think that no one else notices.

Isolation can be a splendid thing, but as pastors, it can also be detrimental. When we fail to let people in, we risk becoming the makers of our own reality. In isolation, I can then consider myself completely right about everything. It is only when a friend, a spouse, or a congregant challenges me on this point that my hubris is sufficiently arrested. It turns out that allowing others to walk with me is the key to dismantling my pride. But more than this, allowing others into my life actually makes me a better pastor because I become human again. No longer protected by the armour of my pulpit or office desk, people can relate to me.

Choosing to move off the sinking island poses a challenge to many pastors. There is a perception that vulnerability, invitation, and transparency are detrimental to “pastoral authority.” If I suddenly allow congregants to see the real me, they can have power over me. Such an excuse implies two troubling things: First, that pastoral authority is subject to my ability to have control over others. And second, that pastoral authority is about power. Neither of these implications presents a Biblical portrait of shepherding. If our pastoral ministry has devolved into containment of our authority and power, then perhaps we need go back to Jesus for guidance.

Pray with Me

It is fair to say that Christian pastors should model themselves after Jesus. Jesus can certainly be enigmatic, but there are a few occasions where he is explicitly revealing; where he bluntly relays an important principal of shepherding. One such example is found in Matthew 26:37-38:

“Jesus took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”

The Garden of Gethsemane is a haunting scene. It is a scene that is earthy, grim, and tragic. Once again, God is walking with humanity in a garden, and once again, He is filled with sorrow and suffering on their account. For Jesus, it is a moment of extreme vulnerability. The plot is in motion, the cogs of time will not slow, and what is, must be. In this heart-wrenching hour, Jesus reveals a deep personal truth to his disciples: he is overcome by sorrow. Jesus brings his sheep into the fold of his heart, to understand his pain, and to seek their comforting support. It is the image of a pastor who needs as much support from his congregation as they need from him.

Jesus destroys the self-made island approach to ministry. It turns out that shepherds need the love, support, and comfort of their sheep. In the end, we are called to pastor with a kind of vulnerability that reflects Jesus in the garden. Jesus, in acting vulnerable, was not concerned with his image, or his authority. He knew that these things were rooted in God the Father, and that he came to conquer death by giving up control and power to the Father. So why are we so frightened by inviting our congregants and other pastors into our lives? If this is how Jesus operated, should we not consider doing the same?

This is not an invitation for pastors to air dirty laundry to everyone. In fact, if we examine the text above, we note that Jesus revealed his heart to only a few close disciples. We must discern who we can be vulnerable to, but this also requires making an effort to build trusting relationships with our congregation, not simply keeping them all at arms-length. It also requires us to build trusting relationships with other pastors. In either case, we are called to be vulnerable with those whom we lead. Even secular studies have revealed that vulnerable leadership produces greater admiration and loyalty among followers. It is those who refuse the vulnerability of Gethsemane that end up losing respect, losing loyalty, and ultimately becoming sinking islands in a sea of change.

Maybe vulnerability can be as simple as asking someone, “pray with me.”