Master 230: Two conversations on people-management

On Sunday, 13 February, I had a conversation with my pastor. Six days later, on Saturday, 19 February, I had a second conversation with him. The reason I had the second conversation was to pick up the pieces of the first conversation. And a lot of picking up of pieces was definitely needed. That first conversation had begun well enough, but by the end of it I was a mess. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, my brain had long since frozen up, words that wanted to come out were being strangled in my throat, I had a strong impulse to run away but my legs and feet felt like lead, and one of the foremost thoughts in my mind was of what must be going through my pastor's head as he watches this all happening across a small table in Starbucks.

Fortunately, on that night, my pastor let me off the hook by suggesting that I might need to process my thoughts with other people. He suggested that we come together, again, at a later time. That was the 'out' I needed, so I took it. But even as we parted, I tried to assure him of two things: first, that I was confident that God would work even this mess to good purpose, and second, that we would meet about this again. And we did meet again--six days later. And my goal at that second meeting was to (1) say what I failed to say at the first meeting, (2) explain what happened at the first meeting, and (3) lay a foundation for moving forward.

This is how that second conversation went:

(I) I began by explaining to my pastor how our conversation would proceed. Yes, that's right. I told him the conversation would move as if through a series of concentric circles. We would begin with very wide circles, quite some distance from the main point, and then move, by degrees, closer and closer to the center until we finally settled in to talking about the main point.

Why did I approach such conversations like this? he asked. For a number of reasons, very likely. Probably, in part, because I'm uncomfortable with the main point and want to hold off talking about it as long as I can. Possibly as a 'subtle' and 'unconscious' attempt to water-down the force of the main point--by 'padding' it with lots and lots of context. And partly because this is just how my mind works: I see lots and lots of connections between ideas, and I think it's important and useful to view them with their various associated connections and contexts.

(II) One of the first circles had to do with the tears that I shed and the strong emotions that overwhelmed me the previous week. Why had that happened? I wanted to explain: Where certain topics are concerned, and in certain kinds of situations, I am particularly susceptible to tears and being deeply emotionally affected. Sometimes that's frustrating and embarrassing, but for the most part I have actually come to see it as a real blessing.

I remember a couple years back, at this same church, that I was meeting with a few parishioners and explaining to them a plan that was developing for moving the church in a new direction. And one of the ladies there became extremely agitated and emotional. She expressed to me the deep sense of frustration that she felt toward some of the ways leadership and planning were being conducted at that church. On that particular evening, she was struck by a strong sense that the leadership of the church was really not listening or being sensitive to the people within the congregation. And we hadn't gone far in that conversation before I began, also, to be affected emotionally and to shed tears. Why? Because through her sharing, I caught a glimpse of the deep hurt and pain that she carried with her. And it was awful. And I saw and I felt her woundedness--got just a little sense of her pain--, and, besides that, I saw myself on that night as part of the cause of that hurt and pain in her.

Of course, once I started to become emotional, she realized how forcefully she had been unloading on me and immediately apologized. And of course, I accepted her apology. But there was also a sense in which I felt apologizing was totally unnecessary, because as difficult and as painful as that moment had been, it drew us closer. The expression of raw truth that I witnessed that evening provided me with deeper insight into her heart than I might otherwise have had, and I wouldn't have traded that for anything. And it struck me that the strengthening and deepening of relationship that took place that evening might not have come about had I not reacted in the way that I did. If I had not felt that lady's pain so deeply, if I had been more thick-skinned, if I could have maintained a more equanimous composure, we might not have had that moment of deep connecting. So as awkward and as uncomfortable as it can be for me to be as sensitive and deep-feeling as I sometimes can be, I think it's a good thing. Because when it really counts, the truth of who I am and my deepest feelings come through, even in spite of myself, and that forces me to be honest and transparent. And, of course, I want to be honest and transparent.

And I think that's what happened at that first meeting with my pastor. Who I was and what I felt at that very deep place came breaking through. And as painful as it was, as much as I wanted to maintain control, I was forced by my own frailties to engage with pastor as I really was. And one of the exciting things to realize, by the end of the second conversation, was that who I was was pretty cool. But more on that later.

(III) So that's a little on what it's like to be as deeply affected as I sometimes am and can be, but why was I so deeply affected at that first meeting? Well, let's start by talking about why I originally asked to have the meeting. Prior to that first meeting, I had been feeling increasingly unsettled about my position in and the condition of my church. (Sometimes I think my proclivities for such feelings must be rooted in some deep spiritual pathology. Ha! Whatever that means.) Anyhow, I had been feeling unsettled. Why was I feeling unsettled? Well, because I had concerns about the church and reservations about how certain things were being done. (And, just so we're clear, I still do.) And the most sensible thing to do when you've got concerns of that sort, I suppose, is to talk to someone in leadership about them.

Of course it's not always clear that that's the most sensible thing to do. And if it is obviously the most sensible thing to do, that doesn't stop an awful lot of people from not doing it. I suspect a lot of people recognize, unfortunately, that churches are often not among the most functional of communities. Of course everyone has their opinions and their preferences--what they like, what they don't like, and what they'd like to change. But those preferences can become the source of very deep-seated divisions within the community of faith. Walls and barriers spring up between different leaders, between leaders and pastors, and between pastors and their congregations.

Now a lot of people might be willing to grant that in an ideal world, pastors and leaders and congregants would be able to talk about these things. In addition, in such a world, there would be such a sense of love and unity of purpose that we could hope that even critical comments would be received graciously. People wouldn't feel threatened by negative feedback. Every person could know with certainty that the other members of the team genuinely cared about him or her. A lot of people would grant that, in an ideal world, that's how things could be.

But most of us don't live in that ideal world. We live in a world where people are threatened by criticism, where they do respond viciously and vindictively. Even suggestions that are made with the best intentions and in the most loving spirit can sound and feel incredibly cruel. And how many of us can really be certain that our own motivations are so pure as that anyway. Surely this is a very sad state of affairs in which we find ourselves.

And so there was a kind of second-order reason operating behind my initial desire to speak with my pastor. I not only wanted to talk with him because I had concerns. I wanted to talk to him because it seemed that we ought to talk about such concerns. We ought to resist this tendency that makes us fearful of conflict, that causes us to dodge the real issue, that causes us to keep silent when we really ought to speak. We ought to strive for openness, honesty, and integrity in all things. And that's what I was aiming at. I wanted to work toward greater openness. I wanted to resist this fear-driven mentality. But I think I didn't realize just how deeply those tendencies were entrenched in me, and I definitely didn't know, at the time, how best to deal with them.

(IV) I often am reminded of the story of Abraham. (Rest assured, even if it seems like an abrupt subject change, it's all connected. Maybe you've realized, by now, that I'm leading you (reader) through the concentric circles.) Recall, for a moment, the story of Abraham and Hagar. God had promised a son and innumerable descendants to Abraham. But at the time, Abraham had no children and his wife, Elizabeth was barren. So in Genesis 16, we are told, "Now Sarai, Abram's wife had borne him no children, and she had an Egyptian maid whose name was Hagar. So Sarai said to Abram, "Now behold, the LORD has prevented me from bearing children. Please go in to my maid; perhaps I shall obtain children through her." And Abram listened to the voice of Sarai." (vv. 1-2)

Now it's very often the case that Abram's actions here are treated as an instance and example of incredible lack of faith in God. But is that quite right? Was it so obvious that Abram should not have tried to go about things in this way? I don't think so. It's not until chapter 17 that God mentions Sarah specifically in connection with his promise to Abraham. So what was going on with Abraham and Hagar? Abraham was trying to figure out God's will. He was bumbling along, like so many of us are, and he thought this might be the way to go and it wasn't. Oops. And yet, what an 'oops'. Abraham's 'oops' has had incredible and far-reaching consequences. And here I'm not making any determinate claims about the relationship of Ishmael's descendants to God's plans and purposes, but it's possible to trace an awful lot of the present-day conflict between the Israelis and Arabs to Abraham's bumbling about and trying to figure out God's will.

It would be nice if, while we are learning how to follow God's will, God insulated us and protected us against doing things that might have real negative effects on the world and people around us. If only he put us in carefully shielded rooms where the world couldn't hurt us and we couldn't hurt the world, while we figured out how to walk with God. But that's not how God works. His schoolroom is the real world. Our successes are real successes, and our failures are real failures. And those failures affect real people in real ways and carry real consequences. It's a sobering thought--one that we should take very seriously.

And what's true of life in the real world is also true of life in the church. In the church, we're learning how to walk with God and be related to one another. And sometimes, I think, we need to be reminded that the people we affect, the one's we bless and hurt, are real people. That's part of what struck me at that first meeting. That's the main thing that stopped me from saying the things that I was planning to say: the thought of what real effect it would have on my pastor.

(V) As I began to raise my concerns about the current state of the church to my pastor, during that first meeting, I became (I thought) painfully cognizant of what I took to be the fact that I was laying a number of heavy burdens on his shoulder. Do you realize how much pressure pastors are under, in general? There is an enormous weight of expectations that is laid on the shepherds and ministers in our churches. They are the brunt of an awful lot of feelings, they carry the weight of people's various individual concerns and cares, and they are tasked with one of the most difficult jobs in the world--guiding people (who are often unwilling or variously recalcitrant) into a deeper walk with God. When things don't go well they are blamed. When things do go well, they're often overlooked. And as attractive as the thought might be to some of having a captive audience on a weekly, it really isn't glamorous at all.

And as I began to lay my complaints before my pastor, during that first conversation, the thought struck me: what am I doing? And who am I to lay these burdens on one who must already be so exhausted? How are these words going to affect him?--I don't know.

At one point I tried to make things better by reminding myself and preparing to remind him of all of the good things that are happening at the church--of the good ministry that is being done, of my deep respect and appreciation for my pastor, of the good things that are happening. But that felt even more wrong--like I was buttering him up with complements only as a prelude to dropping an even heavier and harsher hammer on his head. How could I do that? I couldn't. But having broached the subject, how could I stop short of the conclusion? How could I leave him with lingering questions about what I was going to and preparing to say. So I froze up, and only my pastor's graciousness kept us from staying there all night.

During those minutes of frenzied reflection--back and forth, back and forth--, I kept on looking into my pastor's eyes. The one side of me said that it was necessary that I move forward with the conversation. Pain was just part of doing good ministry and we should not fear it. But I also knew that I couldn't, in good conscious, move forward if that involved treating my pastor as just another cog in the machinery of ministry. If I was going to make critical comments about the church or about him, I must look into his eyes, engage with him as a person, human being, and brother in Christ. But the looming uncertainty was too much for me to handle at that point.

I knew that I wanted to be a force for promoting growth, healing, and progress in our church. I knew that that would have to begin with my own relationship with the shepherd of my congregation. But how to do that--I didn't know.

So I explained to my pastor that this is what had happened at that first meeting. This is what stopped me. But now you, reader, might be wondering: what has changed between the first and second meeting. It's all well and good to understand the roadblocks that kept that first conversation from moving forward, but why would I think that the second could go any better? Had anything changed?

(VI) Having gotten this far, I shifted to yet another topic. I indicated to my pastor that things would be so much easier if I could just read his mind. Have you ever had that thought? Life would be so much easier if I could read other people's minds. Because then I could know what they were thinking, how they were reacting, and how they would react to different things that I could or might say. I could know what words would hurt them, what words would motivate them, what words would heal them. I could have all the benefits of knowing all about them without any of the risks involved in really getting to know them. Wouldn't that be great?

I told my pastor, things would be so much easier if I could read your mind, because then I could craft my words in ways that would be effective without worrying that I would damage or harm or break you.

(VII) At this point my pastor crystalized all the issues in the discussion. He asked me a very simple and perceptive question that went something like this: "Luis do you think that there are things you could say to me that would either destroy me or else destroy our relationship?" And the answer, I was forced to acknowledge, was, "Yes." Either because I thought my words were that powerful (rather a hubristic thought) or because I thought my pastor was that frail (rather a disparaging and disdainful one), I thought that my words could either destroy him or else destroy our relationship. And for fear of those consequences, I was tempted or driven to hold back, to say less than I really meant, to avoid real conflict or confrontation, to not really address the issues that were deepest in my own heart.

At this point, it was my pastor's turn to assure me that he was not so frail, and that our relationship was not so frail. He assured me that he understood that I loved and cared about him, he understood that my desire was for his good growth and development. He assured me that he cared for me and was confident of God's calling on my life. He assured me that his own sense of self-worth and of God's calling on his life did not hang on what people thought of his church and of him personally. He had learned a long time ago that if he was depending on people's opinions and approval for his sense of self-worth and purpose, then he would have been out of the ministry a long time ago. And he assured me that he would be honest and open with me--that he would tell me if my words hurt him, that he would not hide or harbor either pain or bitterness against me, and so that I could feel free to speak my mind and heart (to share about my concerns and even criticisms) with openness, honesty, and integrity.

Now to those who are just accustomed to speaking openly and frankly, who would characterize themselves as either bluntly or brutally honest, this journey that I described might seem laborious in the extreme and almost certainly unnecessary. But I think that it may be helpful for an awful lot of people to think about what I experienced. Even if they'd rather not think about it in direct connection with the rather extended presentation that I've given of it here, the issues that I addressed in the course of those six days and that were clarified at that second meeting, are issues that I suspect many people need to think about in some way.

(VIII) Most of us have had the experience of dealing with people who don't receive criticism well. You make a critical comment and the person takes it personally or in the wrong way. Many people's sense of self-worth is closely tied to what others think of them, and for that reason, any negative feedback automatically becomes a personal attack. Most of us would agree that things would go a lot better if we were all a little less sensitive, but even if we're not sensitive other people often are.

This tendency in people often drives us to be less than ingenuous. We stop telling people what we really think. We go to extra lengths to avoid hurting people's feelings. We manage our words and our conduct with a view to making things go as smoothly and possible--and the result often is that problems don't get adequately addressed, mistakes aren't really addressed, bad policies aren't corrected, bad things aren't prevented, because we hold back from doing what's really necessary, because we're afraid of the bad consequences that might issue from our negative feedback.

Of course some sensitivity is appropriate. If a person has demonstrated that they possess particularly thin skin, it's appropriate to be particularly circumspect around them. But for many of us, I suspect, this careful way of living has just become the default. We avoid conflict, not because our experience has taught us to be careful of this person, but because we've gotten to the point that we're just careful around everyone. Even when people tell us that we can be frank and honest with them, we don't believe them, we doubt their integrity, and we don't treat them even as they want us to treat them.

I've occasionally been in situations where it's been appropriate for me to tell people that they should feel free to be honest with me. And yet I find myself worrying that they won't really take me up on that--that they won't be honest and frank with me. How many organizations suffer because the people in that organization don't really trust one another in this way? How many friendships and even marriages suffer because the people involved are not able to let go and just be real with one another? Instead they settle for managing one another and the consequence is that they don't really engage.

This is the irony. In the extreme cases (and even in the mundane cases) these tendencies to manage each other come from a legitimate desire not to be hurt by people. We don't want to be the object of people's hostility and resentment. But when this way of managing people becomes the default, this means of avoiding pain actually becomes a hindrance to building real connections and relationships with people. If I could read my pastor's mind, then my relationship with him would actually lack any real degree of closeness or confidence, because all my actions would be calculated, all my words would be pre-planned.

Now some of what I've said here might strike some as caricatured or disproportionate in its presentation. But I think if you'll reflect, you'll see how these tendencies do manifest themselves in people's lives, even in simpler or less extreme ways. Think about it.

(IX) As a method for dealing with certain people, this kind of management is quite appropriate. But as a default method of operation for life in general, it's really terrible. It's exhausting to manage people. It's exhausting to tip-toe around problems and constantly have to calculate what one says and does. After I had this exchange with pastor, I became aware of this incredible sense of relief. It was amazing to set that burden aside, in a very conscious and deliberate way, and just be at ease. During that conversation, I kept having to remind myself that I could trust my pastor, and to trust my pastor, in this special way. But each time I reminded myself, I was able to settle a little more comfortably into that pattern. And what a relief it was. To be able to speak freely and without fear, to shed that burden of anxiety and worry about what the other person is thinking. Wouldn't it be great if you could do that at your work, with your neighbors, in your church, with your spouse?

(X) For some people this comes naturally. For others not. Some people are naturally comfortable in their own skin. They have a strong sense of self and are happy to live from that self and consistent with their own character. But others find it harder to get away from the nagging awareness of people's expectations and opinions. Some people find it much more natural to make their conduct match what other people think--or what they think other people think. But ultimately that's a really heavy burden to carry.

It's much better to be yourself,
to live free,
to take people at their word,
to not be second-guessing everyone all the time.

And in the course of being yourself, you might discover something: that you're the kind of person whose words are healing, whose criticism people will be able to receive graciously, whose life and conduct lift people up (even in the midst of difficulties). I'm wondering if those things might be true of me. It's the sort of thing you'd never discover if you insisted on managing people, on keeping them at arms-length. It's the kind of thing you'd discover only if you chose to live free.

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God is in this place,
And that reality, seen and understood by the grace of God in Christ Jesus through the work of the Holy Spirit, makes all the difference in the world.