Why Slowing Down Exposed What Was Still Unhealed

While I do see urgency—not complacency—in Scripture, as I reflect back, this often felt less like holy urgency and more like paranoia.

I have been formed by a very specific way of doing church. I don’t say this with any cynicism. I simply state it as a reality as someone who has been in ministry for twenty years.

When we started praying and dreaming about planting again, we had a lot of ideas, convictions, and vision for what this new church plant could be. For years, we had been changing how we relate to God and what it actually means to follow Jesus.

In our first church plant, I was young, ambitious, had information, and genuinely wanted to see the world changed for the gospel. All good things, to be sure. What I was severely lacking, however, was emotional maturity, the capacity to process the complexities of ministry, and an understanding of how to take a vision document and actually work it out with real people. I also largely related to God as His worker.

“The fields are ready for harvest, but the workers are few…”

Although I intellectually knew that God loved me for me and that I was His son, the way I lived told a different story. God was the boss. I was the employee. And my job description was to plant this church and reach as many people as possible. I remember hearing other pastors joke that they would Sabbath when they got to heaven.

I loved that vision.

In my mind, there was no higher calling and no greater mission than reaching people far from God. I was motivated, inspired, ready to sacrifice, and willing to give everything I had to this mission.

So that’s what I did.

I prayed hard and worked even harder. I was always looking for opportunities to talk to people about Jesus—and, in particular, about our church. As I reflect back now, that almost felt like a conflict of interest at times. I’ve never been a territorial person. I’ve always scoffed at the idea that one church is better than the one down the street, or that a church somehow “owns” the people who attend it.

And yet, I really wanted people to meet Jesus.
And I really wanted our church plant to grow.

Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive—but they can compete with each other.

When our plant wasn’t growing as fast as I thought it should, I worked harder. I tried to prepare better sermons, be “bolder” in conversations, and cast and re-cast the vision. In my mind, urgency was required.

If this person dies today without knowing Jesus, what happens?
If Jesus comes back today, what happens?

While I do see urgency—not complacency—in Scripture, as I reflect back, this often felt less like holy urgency and more like paranoia. When you mix that with a belief that your church should be growing faster, it becomes incredibly difficult to be patient and present with the people right in front of you.

It didn’t help that I came from a larger church—one that was consistently growing numerically. Why weren’t we seeing the same results?

My insecurities drove so much of what we did.

Relating to God through an employer/employee framework can somewhat function—as long as things are going up and to the right. I’m doing a “good job,” therefore God must be pleased with me. But what happens when you don’t think you’re doing a good enough job? When the results don’t come back the way you’re convinced they should?

You can probably guess.

It’s painful.

Feeling like a failure.
An imposter.
A loser.

I remembered the stories in Scripture—the disciples wanting to stop following Jesus, how so many of His followers walked away, how the early church and churches throughout history faced persecution and didn’t always see growth, miracles, or visible success.

And yet, I couldn’t get my imagination off the 3,000 people saved at Pentecost.

That was the story I wanted.
And I wanted it quickly.

Discouragement eventually turned into frustration—frustration with myself, with the people in our church plant, and with God. In my mind, we had been called to this. We had sacrificed for it. And it felt like God didn’t care about the mission as much as I did.

I know how that sounds. But that was where I was.

Fast forward many years.

We have reoriented our lives around Jesus. We’ve gone to therapy. We’ve slowed our lives down. We live in deep community. And we’ve experienced real transformation. And now, we’re planting again—with a very different vision than we had back in 2013.

We still want people to meet Jesus. We still want people to participate in community. But hopefully, we’re more mature than we once were.

This time around, we are intentionally choosing to stay small. As I’ve written before, we are committed to the Dunbar principle of staying below 150. All of this feels really good. And this planting experience has been significantly different than the first one. I feel far less pressure, hurry, and insecurity.

Less—but it’s not all gone.

This is where I think remembering and naming how we’ve been formed becomes incredibly important.

Being formed in large churches, attending conferences where all the headline speakers are mega-church pastors, and reading books written almost exclusively by leaders of large churches—it becomes easy to believe that this is the only model that works.

To be clear, I’m not anti–mega-church.
I am anti–believing that there is only one faithful expression of church.

For us, we have intentionally architected our church around formation, community, and slowing down—to heal, to open ourselves to the Spirit, and to grow together slowly.

And it’s happening.

Yet one Sunday night, right before going up to teach, I was flooded with old emotions. I knew some families were sick. I knew others were out of town. I knew it was going to be a “small” Sunday.

I immediately began repeating our vision in my head:
We’re designed to be small.
We tell people the corporate gathering isn’t the most important thing.
We want people in community—even if that means missing Sundays because of limitations, boundaries, or season of life.

But what was happening in my body was a strong counter-message:
You’re still a failure.
Nobody is coming.
What if a new person walked in and saw how few people were here?

I was frustrated with myself on multiple levels.

I genuinely thought I had matured past these thoughts. I believed I had untethered my identity from performance. I thought I was experiencing God more as Father than boss.

And yet—here I was again.

The same thoughts.
The same feelings.
Over a decade later.

I made it through the night. The thoughts affected me, but I was able to name them. They didn’t take up the same space they once did. For that, I was grateful. Afterward, I spent time journaling and reflecting on the experience—which, by the way, still happens from time to time, even though I wish it didn’t.

I also realized there are important lessons here—especially for church planters trying to cultivate different expressions of church. Those planting with a different scoreboard in mind.

I hear it in the voices of those I journey with as a coach and friend. They have a beautiful vision for a slowed-down expression of church. But because of how many of us have been formed, when it actually goes slow, discouragement and frustration creep in quickly.

So I want to offer a few observations from this experience, in hopes they serve those in the work right now.

1. How I’ve been formed is incredibly powerful

My hope—and honestly my expectation—was that in this new expression of church, I would be immune to old metrics and insecurities. That hasn’t been the case. And that’s okay. The more I experience God as Father and live deeply in community, the more those neural pathways are slowly being reshaped. But they still linger. I’m still in process—and so are you. This takes time.

2. Don’t discount spiritual warfare

Jesus was tempted in Matthew 4 with lies that still echo today:
You are what you do.
You are what you have.
You are what others think of you.

I want the shortcut. The fast lane. The easy pass. I want God to do deep healing in others—but when it’s happening in me, it’s much harder. The enemy’s voice sounds like: Be more impressive. Move faster. Do more. Look at all the churches doing better than you. I’m learning to recognize those as lies—not the voice of a loving Father who says, “This is my beloved son.”

3. The Western church’s scoreboard is still mostly numbers and noise

While some things are changing, we still reward and platform size, speed, and visibility. That means we must be intentional about the inputs we allow. Be gentle with yourself. Trust that you have sealed orders from the Spirit. Your journey is not meant to look like everyone else’s.

4. Be honest with your team and community

I felt embarrassed by these thoughts. I didn’t want to burden others with my junk. But I’ve learned that many of us—especially those formed in traditional evangelical systems—are carrying similar tensions. We’re all trying to live into something different together.

5. Keep the long game in view

Formation is slow. For our churches. And for us. Rather than shaming ourselves, we are invited again and again into the grace of God—through Scripture, prayer, silence, Sabbath, community, and the Spirit’s presence. Keep showing up. Let these new experiences reshape your imagination.

6. Practice Sabbath

Sabbath reminds us that we are not in control. That God wants to be with us not because of what we do for Him, but because He loves us. And it gently returns the church to where it belongs—in God’s hands. One of my favorite books on this subject is Subversive Sabbath by my friend A. J. Swoboda.