The Disciple and the Pastor

A realization I can’t ignore

There is a quiet realization forming in me.

Not loud enough to declare.
Not sharp enough to resolve.
But steady enough that I can no longer ignore it.

After eight weeks of formation,
I am beginning to see something I hadn’t named before.

A pastor, in many places today,
begins to look like the CEO of a local nonprofit—
accountable to a board, often called a council.

They guide people.
They manage systems.
They steward change when it comes.

They hold space for others to be formed.

But I am not always sure
they are being formed themselves.

That feels like a hard thing to say.

Not because it is judgment—
but because it reveals a tension I don’t yet know how to hold.

Where leadership began

In the stories of Jesus—especially in Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles—
leadership does not replace discipleship.

It emerges from it.

No one graduates from being a disciple.
No one outgrows the path.

They simply walk it longer—
sometimes ahead, sometimes alongside—
but always still on it.

What the role has become

And yet, somewhere along the way,
the role seems to have shifted.

What begins as a call to follow
becomes a role to perform.

What begins as formation
becomes function.

And I find myself wondering—

Can someone carry the weight of systems,
budgets, expectations, and accountability to a board…
and still remain a disciple in any real sense?

When it becomes personal

This is no longer just an observation.
It is part of my discernment.

And maybe that is why it feels heavier than I expected.

Because I have already lived through something
that asked whether I would survive at all.

I survived a pontine glioma.

And now, a different question is in front of me—

Will I survive the discernment?

Not only in body—
but in truth.

The quieter form of survival

And maybe this is what I am only now beginning to understand—

Survival does not end when the crisis passes.

Sometimes, it becomes a quieter question.
A daily one.

To stay.
To show up.
To choose life again.

Because there are days
when existence itself feels like a threshold.

Not because something is wrong—
but because everything is real.

And on those days,
being is not automatic.

It is chosen.

The rhythm I return to

Spīrō · Redeō · Memorō

I breathe.
I return.
I remember.

Not as philosophy.
As practice.

Breath—because I am still here.
Return—because I drift.
Remember—because I forget.

And somewhere within that rhythm,
I am not the only one moving.

There is something that meets me there.

Not ahead of me.
Not behind me.

But within the very act of returning.

The Reviver.

Not as an idea.
Not as something to explain.

But as presence—

And the closest I have come to understanding it
is something I did not expect.

I have had moments in my life
where water did not feel safe—
where large bodies of it
carried the edge of not returning.

And yet, what came to me was this—

Communion did not feel like light.

It felt like the deepest part of the ocean.

Dark.

No visibility.
No sense of direction.
No control.

And still—

a knowing.

Not that I could see.
Not that I could navigate.

But that I was held.

That even there,
in the depth where I could not orient myself,

I was not alone.

And maybe that is what communion is.

Not clarity.
Not certainty.

But being held
without needing either.

A presence
that does not remove the depth—
but meets you within it.

That meets breath with breath,
return with grace,
memory with life.

Not asking me to prove anything.
Not asking me to become anything more.

Only to remain.

The question beneath the question

So the question beneath the question becomes—

Not simply:

What am I called to?

But:

How do I continue to choose to be?

And can that choice remain intact
no matter what role I step into?

What I cannot lose

If I am called into ministry,
what am I being called into?

A role?
A structure?
A system that needs to be led?

Or a life that must be lived—
in front of others,
with others,
but never ahead of the path itself?

I am beginning to sense that the question is not:

“Am I called to be a pastor?”

But something quieter.

Where can I remain a disciple
while serving others?

Because I am not afraid of leadership.
But I am wary of anything that asks me to trade

formation for function,
presence for performance,
the path for the position.

Staying with it

So I am not rushing this.

I am staying with the tension.

Because maybe discernment is not about choosing quickly.

Maybe it is about learning to recognize
what must not be lost
no matter what is chosen.

I do not want to lead
if I am no longer being formed.

I do not want to guide
if I am no longer following.

I do not want to become a pastor
who has forgotten how to be a disciple.

So I will keep walking.

Not ahead.
Not behind.

But on the path.

Breathing.
Returning.
Remembering.