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“But I strictly discipline my body and make it my slave, so that, after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified.”
1 Corinthians 9:27
I’ve read those words many times, but lately they’ve been sitting heavier on me.
We have watched too many pastors and Christian leaders fall through sexual sin, money, anger, pride, addiction, dishonesty, abuse, or compromises that probably seemed small at first.
And every time another story breaks, something in me aches. Not just because a ministry has been damaged or people have been hurt, but because a pastor has fallen. One who stood in a pulpit, opened the Bible, prayed with people, counseled them, baptized them, visited them in hospitals, stood beside grieving families, and told them about the grace of God.
Now, the pastor's name is attached to shame. The pastor's family is wounded. The pastor's church is confused. And people who trusted the pastor are angry, disappointed, and sometimes devastated in their faith.
How does that happen?
How does a pastor get there?
How does a pastor who once loved Jesus end up hiding things?
How does somebody who warned others about sin begin making peace with it in their own life?
How does someone who knows the Scriptures become so blind to what is happening in their own heart?
I don’t know.
I don’t know all the details of anybody else’s story, but I do know this: I never want to believe it couldn’t happen to me.
And that’s where it gets uncomfortable for me. The moment I start believing I am above falling may be the moment I become most vulnerable to it.
You see, I’ve been doing this a long time. Long enough to know that preaching doesn’t make you holy. A title doesn’t make you healthy. And a microphone doesn’t make you mature.
Being trusted by people doesn’t mean you are trustworthy in every area of your life. And being used by God publicly is no substitute for being right with God privately.
I learned a long time ago that I can preach a sermon that helps somebody else while my own soul is growing cold. And if I’m not careful, I can learn how to perform the Christian life without actually living close to Christ.
That’s what strikes me most about Paul’s words: “After I have preached to others…”
Paul understood that he could spend his life preaching to everyone else and fail to deal honestly with himself.
So can I.
I know how easy it is to point out somebody else’s sin while excusing my own.
I know how easy it is to speak strongly about holiness and then make private allowances for myself.
I know how easy it is to become more concerned about how I appear than who I really am.
And I know that I can get so busy doing God’s work that I neglect what God wants to do in me.
Most people don’t wake up one morning intending to destroy their life, their family, or their ministry. It usually starts smaller than that.
An appetite we keep feeding.
A secret we protect.
A little dishonesty.
A private conversation we know is not wise.
A relationship we keep calling innocent even though our hearts are becoming attached.
Eventually, what we thought we controlled begins controlling us.
Then one day we realize we have walked farther than we ever intended to go.
That is why I am broken by the brokenness of pastors.
Not because pastors are supposed to be perfect. We are not. Pastors are sinners saved by grace, just like everybody else. We need the Gospel just as much as the people sitting in the pews. We need forgiveness, correction, accountability, and friends who love us enough to tell us the truth.
But the damage is deep when a pastor falls.
A spouse may wonder what was real.
Children may carry questions they should never have had to carry.
Church members may feel betrayed.
Young believers may struggle to understand how someone who taught them about Jesus could live such a double life.
There is no joy in that. There should be no smugness in it. There should be no quick, self-righteous response that says, “I would never do that.”
We should grieve. And we should also fall on our knees and say, “Lord, keep me.” Because apart from the grace of God, I am not as strong as I think I am.
Neither are you.
So when I hear about another pastor who has fallen, I don’t want my first response to be, “How could they?”
I want my first response to be, “Lord, keep me.”
Keep my heart tender.
Keep my life honest.
Keep me close to Jesus when ministry is going well and when it is not.
Put people around me who can ask me hard questions.
Give me friends who are not impressed by my title.
Help me listen when somebody tells me I am drifting.
Help me love my family well, not just serve the church well.
Help me be the same man at home that people think I am in public.
Help me repent quickly when I’m wrong.
Help me stop defending what You are trying to expose.
And never let me confuse being good at ministry with being right with You.
I’ve preached a lot of sermons, and I hope I have more left in me. I hope God allows me to keep opening His Word, serving His people, walking with those who are hurting, and pointing people to Jesus. But I don’t want to spend my life helping other people get to heaven while slowly losing my own soul.
I don’t want to be admired in public and unknown at home.
I don’t want to be celebrated for my gifts while neglecting my character.
I don’t want to build a ministry that outlives my integrity.
I don’t want my family to have to explain one day that I was available to everybody except them.
I want to finish well and finish faithfully by loving Jesus when the applause is gone.
I want to still love my wife and family when ministry is difficult.
I want to remain teachable, quick to repent, humble enough to admit when I am wrong, and committed to walking in the light.
And after I have preached to others, I want to know that I never stopped letting the Gospel preach to me.
I need the Gospel before I preach it. I need grace before I offer it. I need forgiveness before I announce it.
I need Jesus, not just for the people I serve, but for me.
Especially for me.
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