A New Song for Life

Early in my pastoral ministry, I was called “Mr Nice Guy.” It is true that from early childhood, I had been groomed to be interminably nice. I would be safe if I modelled perfect behaviour. I guess as I grew I wore a little of this mantle, like a veil of self-protection; besides, it meant I could please most people. Who ever gets offended by someone who's perennially nice? However, I received a personal challenge followed by a Holy Spirit nudge, and that all changed. My learnings in this journey were quite dramatic. If you are looking for a nice, easy path towards retirement, I suggest you don't choose pastoring. It's not all tea and scones as we visit old ladies and sit on their comfortable sofas. To pastor any local church requires a close, personal intimate walk with God, leaning into Him so as to hear His voice, then responding out of that. People will get to see the “fire in our belly.” But know that a prophet isn't always “honoured in His home town” (Mark 6:4)....

I took to preaching like a duck to water. At age 7, I was conducting the funeral services for our goldfish. On arriving home from school, I would burst in the door eager to know if another one had died, giving me another shot at leading at the graveside, matchbox all prepared. (Regrettably, our family had a penchant for killing its goldfish, more than likely from overfeeding. I'm sure every time my dad made it to the pet shop to purchase one or two replacements, the fish began furiously mouthing “not me, take him”). Growing up in a church where lay preaching was strongly encouraged, I began speaking regularly from the age of 14. I believed the art of good preaching was to pack in as much material as I could. One of my early messages was on honouring the Lord's Day and I know I didn't step down till after 50 minutes. The congregation was very patient with me. At the age of 35, I was employed as a fulltime teaching elder (open brethren were very cautious in those days abo...

From early days in my preaching and teaching, I loved language. The English vocabulary is so rich. I could never for the life of me understand how some people could not progress beyond the obvious swear word, or more latterly that by the use of God's name so regularly sprinkled in their sentences, somehow imagine they have managed to get their meaning across with greater force. While still in Auckland, a close friend complimented me on the effort I put into my messages, but raised the question if I had considered sharing my heart's message in simpler language. Another friend has called me a “wordsmith,” and I enjoyed the thought – yes! that's what I want to be, a dealer in words, yet this raised for me again the question: am I connecting with the ordinary person on the street? Defence counsel need to have a connection with the jury, or the case is lost. I think I became aware of this also in my secular work, with the odd client asking the dictionary meaning of a word t...

I preached my first message at the age of 14 years. As I went through my teenage years I had increasing opportunities to speak, as can happen in the open brethren setting. For me being raised in this environment was an incredible heritage of teaching, love of God’s Word, respect for the Lord’s Table and opportunity to grow and develop my gift in preaching and teaching. Initially, these opportunities presented themselves more in the evening gospel service where I learned to cut my teeth in public preaching. By its very nature, this preaching was evangelistic. I modelled myself on a strong evangelistic preacher well known in Auckland at the time, and internationally, and devoured any tapes I could find. The preacher I esteemed so highly gave a no holds barred kind of preaching. He made very clear the essential biblical truths of judgment and hell, and God blessed his ministry with a lot of fruit. I honour him for his faithful preaching of the gospel. Various churches around Auckland ...

I went through a period of considerable self-doubt when we were into the third year of our church plant in the area of Shirley in Christchurch. The church had begun with a spring in its step but may have peaked too soon. After a year or so, it had already doubled in size. For some very legitimate reasons (job transfer, key couple called to mission, couple returning to their denominational roots, a family close to burnout, other families moving on after the demoralising impact of several church crises), we began to deplete seriously in numbers. I remember reaching a point where Sunday mornings, I would hover around the entrance, eyes stretching over the car park, almost frantic to see some familiar faces coming my way, hungry to share the Word of God but crumbling inside as to whether a critical mass would even show for worship. It never occurred to me that here was my opportunity – to simply adapt, to swap my plans for celebration to intimacy (gather seats around in a circle). There...