Last week, I preached on Mark 9, where the man prayed to Jesus, “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!” The whole event is linked to the previous, which is the Mount of Transfiguration and the words of God the Father saying, “This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him!” Sure enough, we walk down the mountain with the disciples and find that the other nine can’t cast out a demon.

They hadn’t done anything differently than they did three chapters earlier on their mission journey, except (apparently) turn their hearts inward and get cocky that they had the power within themselves. So Jesus (who tellingly does not pray to cast out the demon, says, “This kind can only come out by prayer”), reminds the disciples and us that the only metric for “success” in ministry is to remain faithful to your task, and to keep your hearts bent towards the only one who has real power—Jesus.

The immediate application for my people was obvious: our church is doing very well, which means we’re right on the brink of getting cocky. We are, by God’s grace, enjoying a boom of enrollment in our school (the highest in at least a generation), a well-above-average worship attendance (including many of these new student families), and (perhaps most importantly) everyone in the church seems to be getting along well with one another. So it would behoove us to be reminded once in a while that which I told them explicitly: don’t get cocky. God can make us “successful,” but just as easily he could humble us into yet another run-of-the-mill “dying” congregation. At best, that pronouncement reveals the thoughts of a pastor who has seen too much failure to get too excited; at worst, that’s the pessimism of a life-long Lion’s fan and conservative American voter. Either way, excitement should be doused in humility.

The point I want to make here extends from that exegetical application. See, there’s a crick in my neck that can only be described as institutional whiplash, and once again I find myself balking at almost literally anything that smacks of a large-scale “renewal,” “change,” “reformation,” or any other buzzword like “raising up,” “frontier,” or my least favorite, “loving on,” which sounds oddly sexual to me.

Here’s what I mean: I see and hear people circle the wagons and wring their hands in one approach to ministry; I see and hear people wring their hands and call for excitement and innovation in the other. I see and hear pretty much everyone talking about “decline,” and “shortages,” and “strategic plans” synod-wide, and Every. Single. Time I consider my own ministry context and think, “Does not apply.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in with support for whatever you want to do. Institutional plans with specific goals and parameters can be great. Grassroots organizations with specific goals and parameters can be great. I pray for great success for, say, LCC in Casper, and I pray for great success for, say, the sweat-inducing street ministries in drug-addled urban centers. Over the years I’ve been asked to join official groups of ministers who sleep in their collars and do that weird tee-pee thing with their hands, and I’ve been asked to join official groups of ministers who traded in their Books of Concord for a Max Lucado devotional and a tambourine. In any and all cases, I refuse to consent to any shibboleth, symbolic or otherwise, besides the swoopy LCMS cross (blue, purple, green, or whatever, I couldn’t care less). And I am not your enemy if I don’t.

Put simply, I joined an LCMS congregation when I was 20 years old because I read the Book of Concord and said, “Whoops, they’re right and I’m wrong. I guess I’m a Lutheran now.” I made sacred vows at my ordination to the inspired and infallible Word of God, the ecumenical creeds, and the Lutheran confessions. I did not make vows to take sides on approaches to ministry or strategic plans. My only allegiance is to Christ and the Word of God, as further explicated in the Book of Concord. As long as she does the same, I’m a member of the LCMS. But you can’t make me add or subtract to that even with a gun to my head.

Let the reader understand. Whenever I hear presentations or writings about reclaiming orthodoxy, I look at my church and say, “Ok … so is the fact that we have weekly communion and my elders are reading the Augsburg Confession good enough for you?” It usually isn’t, because I don’t own a chasuble or do that weird tee-pee thing with my hands. And whenever I hear presentations or writings about innovation and creativity, I look at my church and say, “Ok … so is our group of people walking with some women with unexpected pregnancies so they don’t commit abortion good enough for you?” It usually isn’t, because I don’t have a top-down mandate of small-group conventicles or allow laypeople to preach.

In either and any case, whenever I hear of a large-scale plan or movement, all I can see is the group of nine apostles before the demon-possessed boy in the text: they try and try and try tactic after tactic after tactic until they begin to look like the Baal priests dancing around Elijah’s altar wailing and cutting themselves. There’s no fire, and that’s your own blood on the ground. Hey, maybe if we get more people on our “side” we can cast out this demon! Good luck.

Or, you can be one of the three: walking down the mountain with Jesus and thinking, “I have no idea what’s going on. But I sure am glad to be a part of it.”

Next week I’ll be meeting with an adult to catechize him towards his baptism. It would be easy for me to get cocky. But the reality is, I didn’t do anything. He simply heard the Word of God for him and the Spirit did the rest. I’m just glad to be a part of it, a servant merely doing his duty.

The LCMS is a great institution, but its only real purpose is to give a tangible presence of mutual accountability and support for doctrinal unity and ministry. Far too many people pit the institution against its members and vice versa. “We need change to save our church,” on either “side” almost always leads to the question, “Why couldn’t we cast out the demon?”

In conclusion, if the grass is greener on the other side, water your own lawn. I’ll gladly help you if I can—heck, I’ll even supply the sprinkler. But if you want to tell me what to do here, I’d rather turn off the lights and hide under the window until I can whisper, “Are they gone yet?” I don’t tell my neighbor how to raise his children; I just support and encourage him, as I expect his support and encouragement in return.

So let’s all just get over ourselves and be faithful to our tasks. Ministry comes in infinitesimal shapes and sizes, but they all have this as common goals: to preach the truth of the gospel, to administer the sacraments rightly, to be witnesses of Christ outside these walls, and to look to Jesus alone to save. This kind can only come out by prayer.