WEEK 2 I was a bruised and beaten down pastor. I was dealing with levels of criticism and rejection that I'd never thought I would get in ministry. And all I wanted to do was run. I couldn't preach another sermon. I couldn't face another meeting. I couldn't face ministry. I was done. I was broken. And I had found a Christian school in Southern California who needed a principal, and I had an education background and I thought, “Well, that's great - Jesus and the beach - doesn't get better than that!” I was ready to go. I went to my elders and I said, “I'm done. I can't do this anymore. I want to resign.” And they said, “Paul, we don't want you to resign.” I said, “I can't do this. I can't face anymore. I'm done, I'm beaten, I'm broken. I can't do this.” They saw my discouragement and they said, “Okay Paul. We're sad that we're here, but next Sunday we will stand with you as you announce your resignation.” It was a very emotional service. For many people in the congregation, I was the only pastor that they had ever had. People were shocked and tearful, and I stood at the front and I had conversation after conversation until I was completely emotionally spent. As is often the case of the pastor in a young church, I was the pastor and the custodian and ten other things. I was the last person out of the building that Sunday and I locked the door and was standing there on the porch and there in front of me was the oldest man in our congregation. He said, “Paul, can I talk with you?” What I wanted to say was, “Bob, I don't want to talk to anybody right now.” But I thought I should respect this man and I said, “Okay Bob, you can talk.” And he said to me, “Look Paul, we know you're immature.” I thought, “Well, that's a good start.” And then he said these incredible words to me. He said, “Paul, where's the church going to get mature pastors if immature pastors run? We love you. We haven't asked you to leave. Don't go.” I immediately began to weep. And I walked home - our house was close - and Luella was already home with our children. And I came in the door weeping. She said, “Paul, what's the matter?” And I blurted out, “I can't leave. God just nailed my shoes to the porch of that church. I can't go.” I told her what Bob had said to me. I called my elders that afternoon and I said, “Okay, I'm an idiot. I panicked. I want to un-resign.” The person on the phone said, “Well, this isn't typical, but we would love for you to do that.” And the next Sunday, I got up and confessed my fear and I said, “I want to stay.” I thought about that conversation many times. Because if there hadn't been that conversation with one tender-hearted man, no one would have ever heard of Paul Tripp. No books would have ever been written. This wonderful life of ministry that God has given me would not have happened. It took the words of a tender- hearted man to rescue me - to stop me. Listen, I am concerned that you can go to men's conference after men's conference after men's conference after men's conference and never hear anyone talk about the transformative power of a tender-hearted man. The normal definition of a man, the normal definition of masculinity, the normal definition of what makes change happen doesn't typically include tenderness. But its tenderness that God used to radically alter the course of my life. My life was transformed by two or three sentences, propelled by God, of a tender-hearted man. A man
Transcript: Week 2
MEN OF FAITH
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