On burying friends, and other hidden joys
I wasn’t with him when he let out his last breath. But as the familiar buzz of my phone interrupted my usual morning routine, I reached for it knowing what waited on the screen.
I knew there would be arrangements that now had to be made, distant people to be contacted, alterations made to this week’s service that would allow space for people to process sorrow. I knew that the planned sermon would need to be reviewed and adjusted to accommodate grief, but a grief unique to those who hold a living hope.
Even before I reached for my phone, I knew what the day would require. I knew, but my chest still tightened as I read the brief message that sat coldly on my screen—Dan passed away during the night.
My friend had died.
There is a hidden joy that only long ministries discover. Eventually you stop burying church members and begin burying your friends.
In the hours that followed that message, mingled among the tapestry of grief and organisation, ancient words whispered into my soul.
“Shepherd the flock of God that is among you.”
That single phrase implies presence. Among you carries with it the weight of years, of shared lives, of tears, laughter, names, stories, and scars. Among you means shared hospital rooms. Among you means ordinary Tuesdays. Among you means watching children become parents. Among you means burying friends.
Granted, among you doesn’t directly equate to staying, and there are good and valid reasons why pastors should sometimes leave one place and begin ministering in another—faithful transitions of ministry can be a genuine expression of grace. But linger for a while on Peter’s exhortation. Isn’t it an invitation to dream—to consider what becomes possible when shepherds remain long enough for love to deepen?
After twenty years of pastoral ministry in one place, here are four hidden joys I’m only now just beginning to discover.
You bury friends
I suspect I once would have found the idea repulsive—a morbid moment to be shunned rather than embraced. But instead, these moments have become a tender grace, where the grief itself becomes evidence that ministry has become something more than professional. Burying my friend reminds me that over time I stopped shepherding a church and I began shepherding a people. Instead of a sorrow to flee from, I sometimes wonder at the privilege of walking my friends toward their reward, and even as I think it, it dawns on me that they too are holding me, walking me, and together we are slowly walking towards the same Saviour.
You watch grace ripen
Last Sunday I sat under the ministry of a young man who once sat on my living room floor laughing at cartoons beside my children. My wife would make them snacks, and then we’d send them out to play in the backyard. I’ve watched children grow into men and women who now minister among their peers, boldly stepping into proclaiming their own faith, opening their own homes to the generation now following behind them. Long ministry allows you to witness sanctification at God’s preferred pace, where the gospel is no longer measured in months but decades.
People know your weaknesses—and stay anyway
This same young man who preached his first sermon has sat under hundreds of mine—many of which I’d rather forget. Shepherding among people means that they see you at your best, and your worst. They’ve seen my mistakes, my awkward seasons, and despite what public reputation I carry—these people are embarrassingly aware of my limitations. But they love me anyway.
When I started in ministry I dreamed of all the things I would change, the difference I’d make, the mark I’d leave on the kingdom. When I was a young pastor, I arrived hoping to build a great church. Instead, this church has built me.
Shared memories become part of your preaching
Long ministry gives a preacher something that no commentary can provide; shared history. When I stand before my people on Sunday, I see the faces of those who I’ve sat with in waiting rooms, or beside a hospital bed. I’ve rejoiced with first-time parents as I held new life in my arms, I’ve seen hot tears of grief and felt the heaving sobs of parents burying their baby. I’ve seen prodigals walk away, and prodigals return. I’ve seen covenants made and covenants broken.
Through it all I’ve seen God’s faithfulness become tangible in ordinary life. God’s presence has moved from a doctrine we affirm to a reality we’ve experienced together. A long ministry means you no longer illustrate sermons with anonymous stories. You preach to people whose stories you’ve lived.
1 Peter 5:1–4 So I exhort the elders among you, as a fellow elder and a witness of the sufferings of Christ, as well as a partaker in the glory that is going to be revealed: shepherd the flock of God that is among you, exercising oversight, not under compulsion, but willingly, as God would have you; not for shameful gain, but eagerly; not domineering over those in your charge, but being examples to the flock. And when the chief Shepherd appears, you will receive the unfading crown of glory.
We hear much today about pastoral longevity in terms of numbers and trends. Those conversations matter. But perhaps a better question is not simply, “How long should a pastor stay?” But rather, “What joys might we never discover if we leave before love has had time to mature?” Faithful shepherds receive an unfading crown—not because they accumulated decades, but because they faithfully loved the flock among them. Perhaps that is why Peter’s eyes remain fixed on the Chief Shepherd. Every act of faithful shepherding is only ever preparation for the day we stand together before him.
Somewhere along the journey, without quite noticing when it happened, the people entrusted to your care become your people. And one day, with tears in your eyes, you realise you are not simply burying another church member, you are saying goodbye to a friend. It is a sorrow that only time can give—and one of the hidden joys of staying.
