Some years ago, I went with a few of my friends down to Knoxville to hear a joint lecture by Will Willimon and Stanley Hauerwas, two theology professors from Duke. They were both opinionated and sarcastic … which I think is rather off-putting in clergy types.

Actually, as you might imagine, I loved their irreverence.

The gathering was small enough that we were able to go up afterward and introduce ourselves to Willimon and Hauerwas. Very exciting stuff. They were gracious as we explained how much we enjoyed their lecture. Hauerwas quickly moved on to talk to somebody else, but Willimon said, “Yeah, it is fun to do these things with Stanley. Except, I always feel a little like I should apologize for him. Stanley’s like a theological insurrectionist. We do these lightning raids, he stirs up trouble, and then we take off.”

We laughed, thinking that Willimon had just described the kind of thing each of us would love to get paid to do.

I thought the whole encounter was coming to a close, but Willimon was just getting warmed up. He said, “We were at a place one time, and this young Methodist minister came up to us after a presentation—sort of like this one. He was in tears. He said, ‘I don’t know what to do. A few years back, I took my first placement down in North Carolina, and everything seemed to be going fine. But the KKK had demonstrations, and I stood up in the pulpit and said, “We’re Christians. We have to speak up when confronted by injustice—especially, the kind of blatant hatred spewed by these white supremacists.”

‘Well,’ the young minister said, ‘there were people in the congregation who thought I was being too political, and they started making noise. And the next thing I knew, my District Superintendent told me that they were going to move me to a new congregation—one where there wasn’t so much controversy.

‘It was difficult, but I figured the next place had to be an improvement. And it was … for a little while until there were some racial tensions in the schools. Once again, I found myself in the pulpit preaching about how Christians need to speak up on behalf of the oppressed and the marginalized. Afterward, one of the leaders of the church came to me and said, “Son, we don’t talk about that kind of stuff in church.”

‘And I said, ‘I’m not sure what gospel you’re reading, but the one I follow says I can’t keep quiet in the face of this kind of intolerance.

‘And I no sooner got home than I had a call from my District Superintendent telling me they would find me another, more suitable congregation. So, we moved to the place I’m at now. And everything has been going just fine … until recently. ‘We’ve had a group in town trying to run off the migrant workers, saying they’re ruining our economy and public life.

And, of course, I can’t keep my mouth shut. I stood up in church last Sunday and said that we’re Christians. Treating immigrants like that; that’s not who we are. And sure enough, I got pulled aside after Wednesday night services by someone who wanted me to know that people were getting upset with me taking up for the Mexicans.’

Willimon said, “He looked at Stanley and me, and he said, ‘I can feel the trouble starting all over again. It’s the same thing. Only this time, my wife said that she likes this town, and the kids are happy in school, and she’s not moving again. I feel so alone. What do I do?”

Willimon said, “I felt awful for this young guy. I almost started crying myself. Stanley just looked at him and said, ‘God’s a mean son of a gun. I hope no one ever told you this was going to be easy.’ Then Hauerwas just turned around and walked away.” Willimon said, “I could have killed him.”

And I remember thinking, “Man, that seems pretty cold! Not very pastoral at all. The poor guy was looking for a little compassion, and Hauerwas just let him have it. What a jerk.”

But a few years later, I was having problems at a congregation myself. I’d taken a very unpopular position, and I was catching all kinds of grief for it. There were special elders meetings, special board meetings, and special executive committee meetings. I was scared I was going to lose my job over it. I had little kids and a wife who loved where we lived. I felt so lonely in that moment. You see the irony.

And I thought back to what Hauerwas said to that poor young Methodist minister, about “Hope no one ever told you this was going to be easy.” And I thought, you know, sometimes that is actually one of the most pastoral things a minister can hear.

Why is that?

The temptation is to believe that you should win everyone's approval if you’re doing the right thing for all the right reasons. How can anybody be mad at you? You’re just trying to do the right thing?

But that’s not how it works. Sometimes doing the right thing can get you fired. Ask Jesus; sometimes, doing the right thing can get you killed. To folks who claim that Jesus makes everything better, I want to say: “Have you ever actually met this Jesus? I don’t know about you, but every time I bump into him, he’s stomping around in steel-toed boots, busting up furniture and smashing the good dishes.”

Following Jesus can introduce troubles into your life that you would never have known if you’d just stayed home and took a nap.