Introduction
There were no classes in seminary on how to break up fights in the church lobby. Consequently, after I closed our Wednesday night AWANA program in prayer and headed to the foyer to greet parents, I was stunned to find two men in each other’s faces ready to brawl.

Panic-stricken, a rush of images and phrases slammed into my brain, pelting me with ideas about what a competent leader would say and do at that moment, but my body didn’t move. I froze.

As my vision came back into focus, I summoned the strength to walk toward the two men. When I came into their view, the yelling stopped and they parted ways. I breathed a sigh of relief.

While my presence stopped one fight from ensuing that evening, another one—and dare I say a more sinister one—erupted inside me: “A real leader would have known what to do in that moment,” whispered my inner critic. I desperately wanted to succeed as a new pastor, but I feared I was trending toward mediocrity at breakneck speed.

Competing Visions of Effective Leadership
No amount of book learning or formal training can prepare a pastor for every eventuality—and certainly not for grown men fighting at a children’s ministry event. Nevertheless, the scenario above unearthed a core fear that I brought with me into ministry: the fear of incompetence. Or perhaps even more shameful, the fear of appearing incompetent.

The Marine Corps taught me that competent leaders make decisions, provide clear direction, and get things done. This vision of leadership presented me with a dilemma: As a young pastor, I routinely didn’t know what to do and constantly second-guessed myself, and though the direction I was taking the church lined up with Scripture, it didn’t provide immediately observable results. I preached sermons. I crafted a mission statement. I planned and executed outreach events. None of this brought more people or more money to the church, however—the two things the church needed to stay afloat.

As a result, I lived in fear. I radiated stress and anxiety. I panted through my ministerial tasks “like a man balancing a sword inside his body.”[1] Feelings of inadequacy assaulted me on the inside and I dreaded the thought of appearing inept before the congregation. I was trapped. I needed help.

Words of Scripture, Wise Counsel
God sent help through the words of Scripture and the wise counsel offered by trusted friends. I’d like to share what I learned (and am still learning) in hopes that it will soothe other restless souls.

I’m learning to speak honestly about my feelings of incompetence with others. For years I resisted acknowledging my vulnerabilities and limitations before others because I feared their rejection. The last several years, however, I’ve been learning to honestly share my feelings with colleagues and church members and ask them to pray for me.

I’ve also learned that while secular culture prizes decisive leaders who “get things done” and “make things happen,” the kingdom of God treasures leaders who boast in their weaknesses (2 Cor. 12:9–10) and honestly acknowledge their need to operate at a slower pace in order to attend to God—to pray, to fast, to seek wise counsel (Prov. 11:14; Eph.6:18; 1 Thess. 5:17). Biblically speaking, a wise person is one who knows that “lesser goods sometimes need to be sacrificed for the sake of greater ones.”[2] In God’s economy, honesty and prayer take priority over speed and worldly construals of efficiency.

I’m learning to acknowledge my humanity and embrace humility. I’m ashamed to admit that uttering the phrase, “I don’t know” used to bother me. Can you believe that? I assumed (wrongly) that competent leaders always knew what to do. As an embodied, finite, in-the-process-of-being-sanctified sinner, however, I’ll never have all the answers.

And even if, or when, I sense God’s peace regarding a particular course of action, I can’t ensure that everyone will agree with my decision, or that it will result in visible fruit. It may fail spectacularly. It might end up being a foolish decision, or it might turn out to be the right decision and people may call me a fool anyway. I don’t know and I’m not in control—and both are a gift. They force me to reckon with my humanity.

My humanity compels me to assume a posture of humility: I collapse into the strong arms of my Savior. There I sit. There I belong. There I wait. And I keep waiting:

Wait for the LORD;
be strong, and let your heart take courage;
wait for the LORD! (Psalm 27:14)

What I find as a result of waiting is heart-stirring and soul-enriching: His inherent brightness illuminates the hidden crevices in my heart where my fear of man lurks. He sees it and pulls me close. His boundless wisdom exposes the paucity of my personal resources and my lack of spiritual stamina. He eyes it and strengthens my inner resolve.

Henri Nouwen (1932–1996) rightly observed that it takes a lot of humiliation for just a little humility.[3] If that’s true, then the fear of humiliation loses its grip on me. Because conformity to Christ is my chief desire and highest good, I embrace humiliating failure, learn from it, and strive (by God’s grace) to do better.

Here’s the liberating truth: I don’t need to be competent: “Competence is not where God’s power lies. Frailty is.”[4]

Conclusion
Drawn to the scent of performance at a young age, I pursued excellence in sports to garner human applause. This mentality carried over into college and seminary where I craved (and received) approval from my professors.

When those pellets of affirmation disappeared, my inner world unraveled. The numbing anonymity of serving a small church in a small town exposed my idolatries. A steady barrage of criticism punctured my pride. The monotonous misery of continual defeat exposed the true landscape of my soul: It was just as much a vast, sprawling emptiness as the midwestern plains where I lived and ministered.

And yet the God of praiseworthy wonders turned my valley of trouble into a gateway of hope (Hos. 2:14–15), bringing me to a place of settled joy. The unexpected jewel of our trials is that they wean us off of our self-resourced attempts at doing life and ministry and amplify our aches for our heavenly country.

So, dear friends, and to whoever else may read this: Learn from my mistakes. Talk to others honestly about your feelings of incompetence. Prayerfully pursue and cultivate humility. And remember that you are a human being—a precious daughter and treasured Son of the King of Kings.

Maranatha! Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Your people wait for you.

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[1] Paraphrase of Mary Oliver’s poem, “August,” in Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver (NY: Penguin Books, 2017), 272.

[2] J. De Waal Dryden, A Hermeneutic of Wisdom: Recovering the Formative Agency of Scripture (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2018), xxi.

[3] Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey (New York: Image Books, 1990), 25–26.

[4] Dane C. Ortlund, Ministry in the New Realm: A Theology of 2 Corinthians (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2023), 137.