We Can’t Quit Now

There is no retirement in ministry.

Working to heal broken lives is necessarily tiring, but experience not only makes us better at caring for people, but teaches us the value and wonder of desiring God alone.

Read time: 3:05

Ever so often, I open Google Earth and explore some remote place, perhaps Illinois, Iowa, or Patagonia, imagining living there until the end of my days. It invokes a feeling of longing, not unlike John’s island in The Pilgrim’s Regress. Judy and I would live on homegrown produce, eggs, and goat milk. We would enjoy peaceful sunsets. Nearby, but not too close, would be crusty, gossipy-but-kindhearted neighbors. I consider how long my shy-yet-extroverted ADHD brain would enjoy it, then turn my mind back to the din and dinginess of our beloved Bangkok.

That imagined longevity of contentment grows with age. I am just past sixty-five and one-half years. Many of my peers have retired, and I understand the pull. Caring for something relatively predictable and cooperative, like chickens or spinach, has definite appeal.

But our chosen strategy, or our felt call from God, of building leaders from poor, traumatized, minimally-educated adults put us in it for the long haul. Not only is healing and growth a slow and bumpy process, but there has also been so much to learn. “We can’t quit now,” I said to Judy. “We’re just starting to figure this out.”

But experience is double-edged. We understand better how to help folks, but are also far more realistic, not only about the time and effort many people need but also the limits of what we can accomplish. I imagine a sequel to the Good Samaritan parable:

Ten weeks later, the Samaritan is traveling on the same road and comes upon the very same man lying bruised and bleeding. Just as the Samaritan is gingerly lifting the poor man onto his donkey, the priest and Levite arrive. “Yeah, we’ve helped him a few times,” the priest comments, “And tried to tell him to stop coming here with another bag of silver. He just won’t listen.”

Of course, this discouraging perspective is a minor annoyance compared to the opposition that must have smashed Paul’s early idealism, at least temporarily. I often review Philippians for perspective tweaks. He mentions “chains” four times in chapter one. How does one sleep attached to those? He’s locked up while bad apples are getting away with misguided forms of evangelism. Then there’s this: “I have no one else like [Timothy]…. For everyone looks out for their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ.” (2:20-21) And that’s right after his earnest plea to do just the opposite: “not looking to your own interests….” (2:4) I’m sure Paul was well past cynicism at that point, but he must have spent some lonely, painful days, prayerfully wondering how everyone could seem so selfish. For all of Paul’s spiritual gianthood, I imagine this reality must have crossed his mind when he wrote, “To die is gain.”

One could easily read Acts and Paul’s letters and conclude, “For me to live is to work for Christ.” But Paul had once worked for God, and look where it got him.

To be clear, I’m also past cynicism. But life does dig away at youthful idealism and throws realism in our faces with a mocking, “Yes, that was an impossible dream. At least you tried, but maybe it is better to fade away after all.”

Perhaps there was some get-me-out-of-here desperation, but I think Paul would have us take more notice of the first clause of that succinct sentence, “For me to live is Christ…” [emphasis added].

One could easily read Acts and Paul’s letters and conclude, “For me to live is to work for Christ.” But Paul had once worked for God, and look where it got him.

I imagine him sitting in chains and remembering the respect he once commanded as an influential, violent activist. But now, to him, that young man at the top of his game had been a dead man (Eph 2:1), and the success and comfort? Filthy garbage (Phil 3:8). Christ was the only life for him, no matter how much the chains chafed and how often he was misunderstood.

That goal of single-mindedness is what I hear God whispering. Our natural self-centeredness easily turns Jesus into a means for the benefits he provides, including success in ministry. We become conditional in our trust. This trap has caught me repeatedly, and God has persistently brought the correcting medicine of discouragement.

This medicine will lead us away from God or toward him. Taken enough, discouragement can produce another realism–the ultimate one, if you will–that God is faithful. All those verses, hymns, songs, testimonies, and memories are right. He alone is worth desiring.

So no, I do not think our call is ending, but rather, I see a warm and joyful invite from Jesus to find new rest, strength, and wisdom in him as we keep going. Judy and I are sharing this together these days and immensely enjoying it. We can’t quit now. We’re just starting to figure it out.