I Finally Wrote My Resignation Letter

After putting it off for months, I finally got around to writing up my letter of resignation. Well, to be honest, I haven’t got it down on paper yet, but I’ve got it clear and sorted in my mind. I know what the opening sentence will say, I know how I’ll graciously phrase my failures and weave just enough scripture throughout to make it appear steeped in Biblical wisdom. I know how I’ll close it, with personal remarks to those I’ve served alongside, and with emotional platitudes for the opportunities I’ve been granted.

Of course, most of it would be a lie. Most of it would be simply a thin veneer to hide the heartache. Most of it, though claiming to be ‘God’s timing’, would be a masterful statement of victory by the enemy.

This morning I was going to write my resignation. This afternoon I had an overdue deep sleep. Tonight I’m rehearsing the gospel anew and tearing lies out by the roots.

Without exaggeration, I think that this past year may be the most difficult period of ministry I’ve faced. Don’t misunderstand me when I say, ‘ministry’, I don’t only mean my vocational hours as the lead teaching pastor at Raymond Terrace Community Church. I mean ministry. I mean the life and gifts, the passion and purpose, the uncounted minutes and unseen labour—the sum of the efforts of my life spent in service of King Jesus. And when I say, ‘difficult’, I don’t just mean challenging. I mean, discouraging, disheartening, and disappointing.

I think I entered ministry too early. Puffed up by praise, I charged forward on the toxic confidence of a vapour made of 90% gifting and 10% character. I was 18 and ready to change the world. I knew what was wrong with the church, what was wrong with other Christians, and what was wrong with, well, pretty much everything. Now here I am 25 years later. I’m 43 years old, and I’m not sure what I know anymore.

This year I’ve experienced the fruit of my own poor leadership decisions. This year I’ve lost friends. This year I’ve seen people I love walk away. This year I’ve had my motives questioned and my character attacked. This year I’ve wept as I see the empty seat where my son once sat each Sunday as we gather with the church—he loved the world too much. I’ve watched dear friends weeping, and mixed my tears with theirs, as they battle against childhood cancer that attacked their son. I’ve stood beside the graves of dear saints and friends. I’ve had to confront sin in the flock that has deep and painful roots.

This year, after years of writing to a handful of faithful readers, my writing was suddenly noticed by others with a much larger influence that I have. All of a sudden I was published and read by more people in one week than had ever read my work in all my years of writing. But even this revealed my sinful tendencies and pride-filled heart. Rather than rejoice in the opportunity to glory in the gospel, I frantically followed my website statistics multiple times a day with my spirit rising and falling in unison with the peaks and troughs of my daily reader counts. What a wretched man I am.

Throw into the mix a history of depression and mental health battles, a wife with chronic pain from a degenerative genetic condition, and foster care to two children with significant developmental delays, and, well, I decided I needed to write my resignation letter. I couldn’t do this anymore.

So as my son was in another medical appointment with another specialist dealing with another issue, I sat numbly on a fake leather lounge and planned what I would write. It only took half an hour. I’d hand it to my team this coming Sunday. I’d give them the remainder of this year to make adjustments, and next year, well, I don’t know, I didn’t want to think about it. I was just so tired. Tired of waking in the night. Tired of emails. Tired of issues. Tired of being tired.

I drove my son to school following his appointment, turned around and somehow made it home. I stumbled down the hallway, mumbled something to my wife, curled up in bed, and slept—the last thing I remember thinking was that I should get up and write that letter that was still starkly clear in my mind. Then nothing.

Let me share something I’ve learnt in 25 years of ministry. Sleep is a precious gift of grace. Yes, I needed much more than just a nap, and yes, my sleep didn’t magically erase the challenges still to be faced. But sleep may be one of the most underestimated weapons we have against the schemes of the devil. With my mind clouded and foggy with fatigue, it was ripe for the lies of Satan to blend with the realities of my present suffering. Suffering in the hand of Satan seems a curse, but suffering in the hand of my Father is an instrument of his sanctifying mercy. So as I wake from my slumber, as I rise again from the dead, I remember the gospel anew. I remember that my present sufferings can not be compared to the glory that will be revealed, and that my merciful shepherd never slumbers or rests—and my rest, while refreshing to my mortal body, was also a declaration that I can feast in the presence of my enemies because my great shepherd stands watch over me.

Dear friend, if you are weary today, rest. Yes, run to Jesus who promises light burdens and easy yokes, but rest—go and sleep in peace. Let Jesus minister to you as your breathing deepens and your heart slows. Let Jesus refresh your mind and invigorate your might. Sleep. Turn off your screens. Log out of Netflix. Sleep.

Then when you awake, bend your mind and affections to the truth of the gospel. Remind yourself of grace. Worship again the God of your salvation. Then tear up the letter of resignation. Delete the file. Empty the trash.

The job isn’t done.