As I was leaving an urban church I pastored, the congregation asked me to share things they should improve for whoever came after me. I recited a line from the title track of Prince’s iconic 1984 album and film Purple Rain: “You say you want a leader, but you can’t seem to make up your mind.”

They wanted a young, Black, and gifted pastor. And that’s fine—they just wouldn’t stop acting like they were the church’s de facto resident theologians. None of them were pastors, as I was, nor did they have roots in the community, as I did.

This happens all the time. We think twice about endlessly challenging our cardiologist, plumber, personal trainer, or mechanic. For these careers, we have a healthy recognition that there are levels to this. These professionals have credentialed aptitudes deserving a degree of deference.

Not so with pastors.

Good ones are sometimes given hell, while the bad ones stroll down Easy Street. It makes for a wacky life.

“Ministers and their families are relationally disposable,” many have said. They are expected to invest without much in return, only to be potentially discarded or maligned at a moment’s notice, with little to no recourse.

You don’t choose this vocation. It chooses you—really, God chooses you for it. And if God doesn’t call, then you’re wise to leave it alone.

So that we don’t get off on the wrong foot, know that I am under construction by the Holy Ghost. The pastorate’s forward-facing work is emotionally and spiritually draining. 

I have to pray, fix my face, and woosah a lot. On many days, I’d rather mind my business writing or be at home watching reruns of Martin and The Jamie Foxx Show.

But there are relational fires to douse and sermons to study for. There are worship services to plan amidst e-mails to compose. The work is relentless and, if I’m honest, quite thankless on bad days.

Tom Tumblin, an Asbury Theological Seminary professor, once commented: “An unreflective leader is an accident waiting to happen.” I remind myself daily to reject the belief that my labor is in vain or that I’m God’s gift to the pastorate. God supports me at times and moves despite me.

Ministry has been rewarding yet unthinkably elaborate. Accepting that tension is a process.

Getting Good at Packing

In the first installment of the Equalizer film franchise, Robert McCall, played by Denzel Washington, says, “Gotta be who you are in this world, no matter what.” Albeit in submission to the Spirit’s formation, he’s right.

So far, the Lord seems content to make me a sojourner. I’m hopeful that won’t always be the case, but for now it is what it is.

For the sake of ministry, I’ve lived in Maryland, Texas, Pennsylvania, Georgia, West Virginia, the District of Columbia and Michigan—including four pandemic years in Canada. I was also born in Japan, due to my father’s military service, where we lived until I was nearly ready to start elementary school, when we then landed back in the United States. My wife, a fellow military brat, has also lived in Missouri, South Carolina, Hawaii and Germany.

That’s 10 states and three countries between us. Outside of missionaries and military chaplains, we rarely meet pastoral personnel with that kind of mileage.

Just as being conflict-averse is problematic, so is avoiding risk—essentially walking by sight rather than by faith. It’s a common misstep among clergy. 

We don’t all need to continuously move, of course. Still, if the comfort of familiarity and the illusion of safety become our best buds, we’re never making the gospel-centered impact we think we are.

There are times when ministers chase a false utopia or run from confronting their own demons, I agree, but it’s equally misguided to assume that frequent moves denote immaturity, while longer tenures convey depth and divine favor.

Sameness as An Idol

As a seminary student, I was often disheartened by the cloistered sensibilities of some classmates. If asked, they’d insist they were dedicated to an upside-down, countercultural embrace of the Missio Dei. Yet, there was a palpable homogeneity and an almost blind, arrogant allegiance to their theological tribes that they were unwilling to face.

They’d talk a good game about being spiritual kinfolk in Christ, but few actually studied, served, or deeply connected with anyone outside their denominational (or non-denominational) home. Now, I’m all for studying among the like-minded to clarify and strengthen one’s convictions, but if you can only thrive as a big fish in a small pond, you may not be as skilled as you think.

I never set out to be a ministry misfit in these ways; it just happened. Being a solo pastor, university chaplain, young adult pastor, and now a professor across theological lines, while holding firm to my own distinctives, hasn’t been easy but it has been worth it.

It has made me not only conversant, but attentive, concerned, gracious and devoted to the conviction that in Christ, we are better together than apart (1 Corinthians 12:12–27; Romans 12:4–5). And that’s not a convenient slogan to gain likes or get a job.

As a biblically conservative-moderate Baptist, I’ve benefited from serving in United Methodist and Reformed (“frozen chosen”) settings, as well as preaching in Vineyard, Burmese (with a translator), and Mennonite congregations, to name a few. It seems to me that iron cannot be sharpened very well if its counterpart is a clone, devoid of the necessary constructive friction (Proverbs 27:17) for the task. 

My goal is to represent my tradition well, without allowing it to overshadow the incomparable Christ and his inclusive exclusivity as declared in scripture. Everyone is welcome, so long as they receive the biblical invitation that Christ—not culture—offers.

Racial Reconciliation Gone Wrong

There is an exorbitant cost to biblical racial reconciliation that Christians rarely discuss. Countless individuals paved the way, including mentors of mine such as James E. Massey (a lifetime trustee of Christianity Today) and Emmanuel McCall.

I once interviewed for a lead pastor role at a financially secure, predominantly white church in the Deep South. The congregation deemed itself multiethnic and, in some circles, was considered a national leader in racial reconciliation and multiracial ministry.

One evening, all the elders and their wives gathered for a meal. My wife and I noticed, however, that we were the only Black couple.

Mind you, this was in a city with one of the nation’s largest majority-Black populations. More to the point, every elder and their spouse was white, except for two Black elders who were (if you’re tracking with me) married to white women.

Although not surprising, it was disappointing. This isn’t a critique of interracial marriage; rather, an acknowledgment that the scaffolding of whiteness—entrenched power dynamics and dominance—remains a substantial stain that many Christians and church leaders refuse to address.

It’s always easy to wax poetic about race in terms of aspirations or ideals. It’s another matter to configure an environment that does not default to a white culture, treating it like the best meal of all time instead of merely one of many faithful expressions on the smorgasbord of Christian witness.

To wade into the turbulent waters of American Christianity as a Black couple is often more perilous than doing so as a couple composed of one Black and one white spouse. To borrow the slogan of Chicago’s Trinity United Church of Christ, a couple like my wife and I that is “unashamedly Black and unapologetically Christian” epitomizes a peculiar kind of threat.

Shea butter is a staple in the Ellis household. Being African American, my wife and I are individuals with our own stories. Yet we’re also linked by the crucible of shared racial formation.

A former special educator who leads her own online life-coaching business for women, my wife holds two master’s degrees, has a huge heart, and brings a wealth of extroverted energy and wisdom. But although it shows up differently in each of us, we’re both no-nonsense nurturers. We reject being passive, gullible, or over-assimilated pushovers because not only would it be a liability in our lives, but an affront to God.

Even in this modern era, in all but a few of my ministry roles to date, I’ve been the first African American to hold the position. As Brian Johnson shared in a 2021 Christianity Today article (“What Would Booker T. Washington Do?”) by Liam Adams: “For African Americans to be in positions of authority, such as administration, you have to check every single box…And even then, you are still given an opportunity where you need to work a miracle.”

I’ve served in predominantly white, African American and multiracial settings across a wide range of socioeconomic, theological and political contexts in churches and Christian colleges and universities. As a child of the ’80s growing up on a large military base, with plenty of “hood-adjacent” experiences, I cut my teeth on Mr. T, A Different World, the popular wrestler, Junkyard Dawg, Jim Vance on Channel 4 WNBC, Jet and Right On! magazines, and the highly percussive Go-Go music for which the DMV (DC-Maryland-Virginia) region is known.

Trust me, all music is played loud in my ride, from Tito Puente, EPMD, Shania Twain, HARDY, Bounty Killer, the Mississippi Mass Choir to Lalah Hathaway.

When it comes to race specifically, it breaks my heart to see how often we hand a microphone to people with no receipts (meaning “verified credibility”) to justify why anyone should be listening to them. Only the Lord knows why we do this, but I suspect, at minimum, it’s because we’re both thirsty and reckless.

Tethered to God

I don’t want discomfort any more than anyone else. I enjoy being around people who look like me, sound like me, and share similar values. Yet, as time goes on, my appetite for mindlessly fostering and protecting sameness loses its appeal.

Given African American history alongside other aspects of my identity, certain core affinities remain. But still, I also want to extend myself to others, which requires a willingness to be an oddball for Christ.

Another aspect of my story is that my wife and I don’t have children. We didn’t plan it that way, but as children didn’t arrive through conventional means, we never felt led to pursue alternative options.

Just as some people in ministry are single, some do not have children. It’s life, and God is good through it all. However, this added variable makes us stand out when I am a candidate at churches.

I was raised in a hardworking, irreligious, middle-class family. My parents, who have been married for more than 50 years, came from a tiny seaside town in New England and from the public housing projects of Harlem. 

Their backgrounds are as different as differences can go. Long before becoming a Christian at age 20, I was baptized into those waters of cosmopolitan exposure and understanding.

My pastoral service—the choices I’ve made and those that were made for me—has, despite the hardships, helped keep me tethered to Christ. Whether it is my cross to bear or something less dramatic, I was called to it for God’s glory and my good. 

It keeps me at Jesus’ feet. It isn’t easy, but nothing notable in life has ever been accomplished without love and discipline amid trouble.

Earlier in my career, I pouted, petitioned, and shook my fists at God, asking why I couldn’t have the scripted, comparatively safe assignments of some colleagues. In the 2002 film Friday After Next, a character named Money Mike says, “This ain’t for play. I don’t do this for fun.” While Money Mike’s work and mine are worlds apart, I feel the sentiment in my bones. 

This is my given assignment. I do it to honor God and provide for my family, not to try to get everyone to be my friend. This ain’t middle school, or at least it shouldn’t be.

My job is to live out the spirit and letter of God’s Word among all types of fruit. God does the sorting. 

We should disentangle ourselves from the unhealthy romanticism that suggests pastoral ministry, or Christian living more broadly, always yields a high return on investment, that the sacrifices, slights, and hypocrisies we endure will make sense. The real question is this: If the work Christ calls me to remains full of heartbreak and impropriety, will I stay faithful to him, jump ship, or become what I hate to make me feel better in the short term?