One of my “alternative spiritual gifts,” as a friend has dubbed it, is the capacity to sit at a train station, airport or restaurant and, for some reason, immediately attract conversation. Of course, no matter how the conversation starts, people inevitably ask what I do for a living. And knowing this question will probably lead to a turning point in the conversation, I offer my standard answer: “I’m a professor. I teach preaching and practical theology at a seminary.” This revelation elicits a variety of responses, from “Oh wow! My cousin went to seminary!” to “Huh, that’s different” to “What the heck is that?” to stunned silence followed by a change of subject.
But one of the more interesting and provocative responses I have received in recent months is something along the lines of “Theology? Preaching? Like, ministers? It must be a hard time to be a minister. Why would anyone want to do that?”
Ministry in challenging times
I am grateful for the honesty of these strangers. After all, while their reactions can be unsettling, they are not wrong. It is an odd time to be a minister. Or perhaps, more accurately, it is an odd time to be in ministry — to live as people of faith in this world.
We live in a uniquely challenging time to serve God’s people in and beyond the church. We face so many demanding and traumatic realities within and alongside our congregations and communities. And the troubles seem to be tumbling one on top of the other: mass shootings, natural disasters, wars, genocides, extreme weather. All over the country and across the globe, our siblings in faith struggle under the oppression of poverty or everyday violence. We live in a society where political divisions run deep and tear at not just our communal structures, but at the very fabric of democracy. At the same time, our country, communities and churches are being called to reckon with our history of oppression and marginalization, as we take seriously the ongoing realities of racism and White supremacy, sexism, ableism, antisemitism, Islamophobia, and LGBTQIA+ discrimination. On top of all of that, we continue to be bombarded with public health crises from cancer to contaminated water to the ongoing impacts of COVID-19.
We fear for the future not just of the world but of the church, as membership numbers decline in many places. We are asked to reimagine what it means to be the church in this increasingly hungry yet lonely world. And this description doesn’t even acknowledge the daily burdens we and people in our communities carry: fighting to make ends meet, struggling to find meaningful employment, mourning the loss of loved ones, engaging the daily work of parenting or caring for aging loved ones, or facing the ongoing realities of loneliness, mental illness or medical diagnoses.
It is a difficult time to be people of faith, to believe in the good news when our news feeds seem to be filled with nothing but bad news.
It is a difficult time to be people of faith, to believe in the good news when our news feeds seem to be filled with nothing but bad news. Though we are supposed to be people of resurrection hope, sometimes we find it easier to succumb to pessimism, anger and despair. Though we know we are called to proclaim the promise of the Gospel in word and action, we may find ourselves overwhelmed and immobilized by the more cynical voices both within and around us.
So in these challenging and trauma-soaked times, we may be required to reimagine not just the work of proclamation and leadership, but the role of the proclaimer and leader. We need to consider not only how we respond but how we locate ourselves as those called upon to speak and act faithfully in a hurting and troubled world.
The superhero complex
Arguably, for far too long preachers and faith leaders have believed (or even been taught) that their job is to stand up and have all the answers, to fix what is broken. Proclaimers and faith leaders feel pressured to step into the role of superhero, to be immune from what is happening so they can save the day. And the more dire the circumstances or the more unsteady the community feels, the more tempting this role seems to become. Even the most democratic leaders, when confronting experiences of trauma or the pressure of communal disorientation, find themselves tempted to reach for the cape: to solve the problems, offer swift solutions and fix everything.
Arguably, for far too long preachers and faith leaders have believed (or even been taught) that their job is to stand up and have all the answers, to fix what is broken.
However, an honest evaluation of the ways trauma impacts our communities suggests that this superhero posture may not be helpful, possible or even faithful. Consider three arguments against it.
First, the superhero orientation can be unhelpful or even detrimental as it fails to acknowledge brokenness amid trauma and struggle. The superhero usually desires to push past the pain quickly to get back to “normal.” However, as I explored in my 2023 book Fractured Ground: Preaching in the Wake of Mass Trauma, one of the foundational signatures of trauma is its disorienting impact. Because we cannot integrate or make sense of the traumatic experience in relation to the stories we told or the values we held up to the point of the trauma, our sense of self, community, world and the Holy becomes disoriented and scrambled. We experience crises of both time (the capacity to put events in order or sense the movement of time) and coherence (the capacity to hold together, in a meaningful way, the pieces of our story). Because of these crises, traumatized individuals and communities sustain something I call “narrative fracture”: the breaking apart of people’s stories into pieces that no longer fit together in a logical or meaningful way. To be clear, the stories are not erased or obliterated. Instead, the experience is one of fracture, like the breaking of glass. The raw materials of a beautiful window no longer quite fit together.
And due to this disruptive and disorienting reality, we can find no quick solution or return to what once was. Instead, the work of trauma recovery is a process of first blessing the brokenness as holy in its current form, something not beyond the love and grace of God. Only then can traumatized people begin to sort through the fractured pieces and reimagine how they might come together in a new way. To be clear, those pieces will never again make the same window — they can’t.
The work of trauma recovery is a process of first blessing the brokenness as holy in its current form, something not beyond the love and grace of God.
But they might be assembled into new mosaics that serve as new foundational narratives and values to help people and communities reconnect with themselves, God and one another.
A second point is that even if the position of superhero were helpful, the position is not possible for most preachers and faith leaders. Indeed, to be a superhero implies that a leader can swing in from outside – beyond the struggle, mess and pain – to help. Yet most faith leaders and preachers are located within their context, and they experience the pain, hurts and hopes of the community alongside it. While faith leaders may wish or even imagine they can minister to their community from outside or beyond the trauma, that is, they likely experience that trauma alongside their communities. The temptation for many faith leaders and preachers is to push aside their own pain or woundedness out of genuine love for their community and their desire to serve. However, this avoidance is not truly possible. Nobody is immune to hurt and pain; beyond the communal experiences, all leaders also bring their own baggage and wounds with them.
Finally, beyond being unhelpful and largely impossible, the superhero position is not faithful. After all, we are called to serve and lead by a God who chooses sacrificial love over divine force. We are called to guide our communities in the footsteps of Christ, whose leadership took the shape of a cross. The superhero posture, while a natural inclination, can become problematic, even idolatrous, by placing faith leaders and preachers as saviors.
Given the limitations yet prevalence of this superhero posture, I offer two alternate models for ministry that might be more faithful and helpful in the wake of the trauma of crisis: the midwife and the residential prophet, specifically Habakkuk.
The midwife
The posture of the midwife may be fruitful for helping leaders think about leadership and proclamation, particularly amid trauma and disorientation. First, the task of a midwife is accompaniment. One temptation of the superhero is that they become convinced that their task is to come fix things for others. The reality is that while leaders can journey with and even help those individuals and communities experiencing pain and trauma, no person can do that work for them.
The midwife model pushes against this temptation. The midwife comes along for the journey of a pregnancy, labor and delivery. The midwife brings certain insight and wisdom to guide the birthing parent in responding to challenges along the way. The midwife can also discern when things are moving along well or when to bring in others for more support. However, even the most gifted and experienced midwife can’t birth a baby for a family. They can’t look at a birthing parent and say, “You look tired! Let me jump in the bed and take the next half hour of contractions!” The midwife can journey with, accompany, advise and even guide, but they cannot do the hard work for the birthing parent. Likewise, preachers and faith leaders might want to jump in and fix everything, but they cannot do so. But they can accompany, guide, advise and journey alongside those in their community.
Leaning into the image of the midwife may also help leaders to resist the urge to repair pain quickly or push past pain (often a signature of the superhero) and instead to remember the faithful work of ushering new life through pain. The reality of childbirth is that new life comes, but not without pain, risk or danger. No effective midwife papers over or ignores such pain and peril. Instead, they acknowledge the pain, even as they invite the parent to remember the importance of the work and the promise of new life on the other side. Similarly, faith leaders and proclaimers of the good news need not ignore pain or hurt. On the contrary, community leaders are invited to acknowledge pain and disorientation, to bless the broken spaces — trusting that God is present and at work in them, even when new life or hope seems far away or hard to reach.
Community leaders are invited to acknowledge pain and disorientation, to bless the broken spaces — trusting that God is present and at work in them, even when new life or hope seems far away or hard to reach.
While the midwife model can be a powerful posture for ministry – particularly amid trauma or communal crisis – I have encountered resistance to this image because it somehow feels weak or lacks a sense of leadership. This perception misunderstands this image and the role of the midwife. Though a midwife may not be able to birth the child for the parent, the midwife is strong and powerfully responsive. As Karen B. Montagno describes in the second edition (2009) of Injustice and the Care of Souls: Taking Oppression Seriously in Pastoral Care, “The function of the midwife is seemingly simple and practical. … In reality, it is quite challenging and complex. Trained in practical knowledge, collective wisdom, and experience, the midwife is a mentor who offers strategy to empower and bring about the birth. … There is attention to forces not seen, but at work.”
We have the biblical images of bold midwives in Shiphrah and Puah, described in Exodus 1. These midwives were not passive or meek; instead, they disobeyed imperial orders, lied to Pharaoh and risked their own lives to care for the enslaved Hebrew women and save their children. Shiphrah and Puah showed strength and responded thoughtfully, adeptly and even subversively by resisting the empire’s oppressive power so they could usher in new life. If we – as preachers, proclaimers and leaders – were to occupy the role of midwife, we might find ourselves strengthened for the work and able to lead in responsive ways alongside our communities.
If we – as preachers, proclaimers and leaders – were to occupy the role of midwife, we might find ourselves strengthened for the work and able to lead in responsive ways alongside our communities.
Habakkuk, the residential prophet
The residential prophet, such as Habakkuk, offers another model for traumatic proclamation. Often, when we think of the prophet images, we picture again, a superhero, someone who comes from outside, drops some knowledge (or condemnation) and heads back out (or gets kicked out) of town. However, Scripture depicts various kinds of prophets. And one of my favorites is Habakkuk.
Habakkuk is one of the more overlooked minor prophets, perhaps because he didn’t come swinging in with a word for the people. Instead, he experienced calamity alongside his people. Much of the book of Habakkuk is filled with him crying out to God with and on behalf of his community. Unlike most books of the minor prophets, Habakkuk begins not with a grand introduction that places him in a particular time, place or prophetic lineage. Instead, it begins with a brief naming of Habakkuk the prophet followed by Habakkuk crying out to God: “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you “Violence!” and you will not save? Why do you make me see wrongdoing and look at trouble? Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise. So the law becomes slack, and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous; therefore judgment comes forth perverted.” (1:2-4).
God’s response is passive, so Habakkuk cries out again in chapter 2, amid questions, wrestling and lament: “I will stand at my watchpost and station myself on the rampart; I will keep watch to see what he will say to me and what he will answer concerning my complaint” (2:1). Even while his complaint is still on his lips, Habakkuk chooses to climb to the top of the fortified city wall. To be clear, this rampart is not a way to escape; on the contrary, from that viewpoint, he could probably better survey the destruction, loss and grief around him.
And he doesn’t climb the rampart to give a grand speech, share a solution or offer platitudes. No, he climbs up on the rampart and waits. Even more, he anticipates. He anticipates that God is going to respond – that his complaint has not been ignored, that his community has not been forgotten and that his cries have been received, even if they seem to dissipate into the trauma-soaked air. He climbs the rampart with insistence and expectation: insisting that God is not yet done with the community and expecting that God will still answer the accusations and lament laid at God’s feet. And God does respond, promising, “For there is still a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end and does not lie. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay” (2:3).
While God’s promise is powerful, Habakkuk’s location and position may offer a helpful model to preachers and leaders. Habakkuk does not deny pain. He fully grieves and laments with and on behalf of his people. At the same time, the residential prophet leans toward the promise of what God will yet do. Habakkuk occupies the space between brokenness and hope, pain and promise, death and resurrection. He honors what is, even as he anticipates what God might do or say.
Similarly, proclaimers, leaders and people of faith may resist reaching for the superhero cape by locating themselves instead on the rampart: grounded in and lamenting with the pain of their communities while also leaning toward the promises of God.
Leaders serve because they care. Preachers proclaim because they want to transform communities. We follow Christ because we too need the hope of the resurrection. And let’s be honest: to sit in pain, trauma and disorientation is hard.
Not easy days
These are not easy days to be in ministry — to be the people of faith called to speak and serve with and among the hurting yet hungry people of God. The temptation, when we are placed in these spaces, may be to try to push past the pain, fix it and save the day. After all, leaders serve because they care. Preachers proclaim because they want to transform communities. We follow Christ because we too need the hope of the resurrection. And let’s be honest: to sit in pain, trauma and disorientation is hard. Walking the long road of recovery and resiliency can be tiring. Yet taking seriously the realities of trauma and the overwhelm of the present moment compels us to reimagine how we might faithfully position ourselves to respond to the needs of our communities. I pray that these images of a midwife and residential prophet might spark new imaginations for ministry that respond to the present and prepare us for whatever God may yet do.
Did you like this article? Outlook Social Media Producer Jesy Littlejohn sat down with author Kim Wagner for a deeper conversation about the topics presented here. You can watch it for free here.
