Influence Isn’t
Authority

Picture a pastor on a Saturday night. The sermon is finished. It took most of the week. The passage has been studied in the original language, the commentaries have been read, and the outline is clear. The illustrations are good. The application is practical. Every sentence is true.

On Sunday morning, the sermon is preached well. Afterward, people shake the pastor’s hand at the door. “Good word, Pastor.” “Thank you for that.” “I really needed that today.” And by Sunday afternoon, the pastor knows something that no one else said out loud. Nothing moved. No one was confronted in a way they could not shake off. No bondage was broken. The people heard a good sermon, and they went home the same.

You may have preached that sermon. Most pastors have. And if you have, you know that the problem was not accuracy. The problem was something harder to name. The crowds who listened to Jesus had a name for it. They called it authority.

Astonished

Matthew 5 through 7 records what we call the Sermon on the Mount. It is the longest block of Jesus’ teaching in the Gospels. When He finished, Matthew does not tell us that the crowds agreed with Him, or that they found Him insightful, or that they enjoyed the message. He tells us they were astonished.

Then he tells us why. It was not because Jesus was more eloquent. It was not because His content was more interesting. It was because He taught as one who had authority, and not as their scribes.

That is a remarkable comparison. The crowds did not compare Jesus to false teachers or corrupt priests. They compared Him to the most respected Bible teachers they knew. And they could tell the difference immediately.

These were ordinary people. Most had no formal training. They could not have explained the difference in theological terms. But they could feel it. Something in the way Jesus spoke carried a weight that the teaching they heard every Sabbath did not.

They compared Jesus to the most respected Bible teachers they knew, and they could feel the difference.

Who the scribes were

It is easy to hear the word “scribes” and think of villains. Jesus did confront many of them sharply, and Matthew 23 records some of His strongest words against religious hypocrisy. But it would be a mistake to picture every scribe as a hypocrite.

The scribes were the experts in God’s Law. They copied the Scriptures with painstaking care. They studied, interpreted, and taught. Much of their teaching leaned on the traditions and rulings of respected teachers who had come before them. They were serious about God’s Word, and many of them were sincere.

Mark tells of one scribe who asked Jesus which commandment was most important. When the scribe answered wisely, Jesus told him: “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” (Mark 12:34) That is not how you speak to a villain. That is how you speak to a well-meaning man.

In other words, the scribes were, in many ways, the pastors of their day. They were trained. They were orthodox. They were devout. They gave their lives to studying and teaching the Scriptures. And still the people could tell that something was missing.

That should unsettle every one of us. The gap the crowds noticed was not between good teachers and bad teachers. It was between good teachers and Jesus.

Where the difference came from

Some of Jesus’ contemporaries were puzzled by His authority, precisely because He lacked the credentials they expected: “The Jews therefore marveled, saying, ‘How is it that this man has learning, when he has never studied?’ So Jesus answered them, ‘My teaching is not mine, but his who sent me.’” (John 7:15–16)

Jesus did not claim authority because of His training. He claimed it because of where His teaching came from. He spoke what He received from the Father. His words were not borrowed from a tradition. They came out of a relationship.

We can hear it throughout the Sermon on the Mount. Again and again, Jesus says, “You have heard that it was said… But I say to you.” He did not simply summarize what others had taught. He spoke as one who knew the mind of the One who gave the Law.

Of course, no pastor can say “But I say to you” the way Jesus did. He is the Son of God, and we are not. But the source of His authority is instructive. It did not flow from credentials, study, or position. It flowed from His life with the Father. We will return to this in Chapter 13, because that same source is still open to those who follow Him.

Let me be clear: none of this is an argument against study. Jesus knew the Scriptures deeply, and pastors are called to handle God’s Word with care. The problem with the scribes was not that they studied. The problem was that study was all they had.

A man in the synagogue

Mark’s Gospel adds something Matthew does not. Early in Jesus’ ministry, He entered the synagogue in Capernaum on the Sabbath and began to teach:

It is the same observation. But Mark does not stop there. In the very next verse, the scene changes: “And immediately there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit. And he cried out, ‘What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are—the Holy One of God.’” (Mark 1:23–24)

Consider where this man was. He was not in a pagan temple or a dark alley. He was in the synagogue, on the Sabbath, in the place where the Scriptures were read and taught.

Mark does not tell us how long he had been attending. But it is worth asking a hard question: how many Sabbaths had that man sat under faithful teaching without anything in him being disturbed? The Scriptures were read. The Law was explained. And the spirit in that man stayed quiet.

Then Jesus began to teach, and the spirit could not stay quiet any longer. “But Jesus rebuked him, saying, ‘Be silent, and come out of him!’ And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying out with a loud voice, came out of him. And they were all amazed, so that they questioned among themselves, saying, ‘What is this? A new teaching with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.’” (Mark 1:25–27)

Notice what the crowd connected. They did not see two separate things, a powerful sermon and then a deliverance. They saw one thing: “A new teaching with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits.” The authority in His teaching and the authority over the unseen realm were the same authority.

That is the heart of this book. Spiritual authority is not a pulpit style. It is not confidence, volume, or presence. It is the weight a person carries in the unseen realm, and it shows up everywhere: in the pulpit, in the prayer room, in the counseling office, and in the hospital room.

People can still feel it

After Jesus ascended, the same difference appeared in His followers. When Peter and John stood before the religious leaders in Jerusalem, those leaders noticed something they could not explain: “Now when they saw the boldness of Peter and John, and perceived that they were uneducated, common men, they were astonished. And they recognized that they had been with Jesus.” (Acts 4:13)

The same word appears again: astonished. Peter and John had none of the training the scribes had. But the authority that had astonished the crowds in Galilee was now visible in them. And the explanation was simple. They had been with Jesus.

This is good news. The authority Jesus carried was not locked away in His unique identity. Something of it could be seen in ordinary people who had spent their lives with Him.

It is also a sober reminder. People can still feel the difference. Your congregation may not have the language for it. They may be kind at the door. But on some level, they know whether they are hearing someone who has studied about God or someone who has been with Him. And so does the enemy.

The scribe in every pastor

I did not write this chapter to condemn you. I wrote it because I recognize the scribe in myself. For years, I was sincere, orthodox, and hardworking. I believed the right things and taught them faithfully. And in some of the situations that mattered most, I did not carry the authority my people needed.

The scribe in a pastor rarely looks like hypocrisy. It looks like faithfulness without power. It sounds like sermons that are right but do not move anything. It feels like praying the same prayer for the same person year after year. It shows up when a pastor knows a great deal about God but has not heard from Him in a long time.

If you recognize any of that in yourself, you are in good company. Most sincere pastors do, if they are honest. The question is not whether the scribe is in us. The question is whether we will settle for it.

Jesus did not leave the scribes where they were. He told one of them he was not far from the kingdom. He invited Nicodemus, a respected teacher of Israel, into a conversation about being born again. The distance between the scribe and the one who teaches with authority is real, but it can be crossed.

Before we can talk about how, we need to be clear about what we are actually looking for. Many pastors have mistaken other things for spiritual authority, and some have been badly hurt by those mistakes. In the next chapter, we will look at what spiritual authority is, and just as importantly, what it is not.

Ask a room full of church people who has spiritual authority in their church, and you will get very different answers.

Some will point to the senior pastor, because of the title. Some will point to the most gifted preacher or the person whose prayers seem to get answered. Others will name the most capable leader, the one who always knows what to do. Some will name the most magnetic personality in the building. Others will simply point to whoever has the most followers.

Each of those answers points to something real. None of them, by itself, is spiritual authority. That matters, because a pastor can have every one of those things and still lack what the crowds sensed in Jesus. If we don’t know what we are looking for, we will keep mistaking substitutes for the real thing. And some of those substitutes have done real damage in the church.

Two words

The New Testament uses two Greek words that help us here. They often appear together, but they mean different things. The first is exousia, usually translated “authority.” It means the right to act, a delegated permission granted by someone higher. The second is dunamis, usually translated “power.” It means strength, ability, the capacity to get something done.

Luke uses both words when Jesus sends out the Twelve: “And he called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases.” (Luke 9:1) Jesus gave them dunamis and exousia: the ability to accomplish the work, and the right to do it in His name.

An old illustration helps. Picture a police officer standing in an intersection, raising a hand to stop a loaded truck. The officer does not have the physical power to stop that truck. But the driver stops anyway. Why? Because the officer carries authority. The badge represents a government standing behind the one who wears it.

Jesus made the same distinction when the seventy-two returned from their mission: “Behold, I have given you authority to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing shall hurt you.” (Luke 10:19)

Notice the words. Jesus gave them exousia over all the dunamis of the enemy. The enemy has real power. But authority outranks power, because authority has heaven standing behind it.

Five things mistaken for authority

Before we look at what spiritual authority is, it helps to name what it is not. Here are five things pastors most often mistake for it. None of them is bad. Each can serve God’s purposes. But each can exist without spiritual authority.

Here is the uncomfortable truth these five examples reveal. It is possible to build a successful ministry almost entirely on substitutes. Many well-meaning pastors have.

A soldier who understood

So what is spiritual authority? The clearest answer in the Gospels comes not from a religious leader, but from a Roman soldier. A centurion came to Jesus in Capernaum because his servant was paralyzed and suffering terribly. Jesus offered to come and heal him. The centurion’s reply stopped Jesus in His tracks:

Matthew tells us that Jesus marveled. He said He had not found such faith in all of Israel. What did this soldier understand that so many religious people missed? Look closely at his words. He did not say, “I am a man with authority.” He said, “I am a man under authority.”

A centurion’s commands carried weight not because of his personal strength, but because Rome stood behind him. The moment he stepped out from under Rome’s authority, his orders would mean nothing. His authority over others depended entirely on his submission to those above him.

And the centurion recognized the same pattern in Jesus. Jesus did not need to travel to his house. He only needed to speak, because Jesus was under the authority of the Father, and heaven stood behind His word.

Jesus Himself described His ministry this way: “I can do nothing on my own. As I hear, I judge, and my judgment is just, because I seek not my own will but the will of him who sent me.” (John 5:30)

The Son of God, who would later say that all authority in heaven and on earth had been given to Him (Matthew 28:18), lived in complete submission to the Father. His authority did not come from asserting Himself. It came from yielding Himself.

A working definition

With all of that in view, here is the definition this book will use:

Spiritual authority is the delegated right, given by Christ, to act in His name against the works of darkness and on behalf of His people. It is exercised by those who live under His authority, and it carries weight in the unseen realm because heaven stands behind it.

A few things are worth noticing in that definition. Spiritual authority is given, not earned. It belongs to Christ, not to us. It is aimed first at darkness, not at people. And it is exercised by those who are themselves under authority.

That last phrase is where this book lives. If authority flows to those who are under authority, then every place in a pastor’s life that has not yet come under Christ’s rule is a place where authority leaks out.

What spiritual authority is not

Now we need to say something important, because the phrase “spiritual authority” has a painful history.

Many believers have been hurt by leaders who used spiritual language to demand control. They were told that questioning a pastor was rebellion against God. They were told to submit to leaders who were plainly wrong. Some were manipulated, silenced, or spiritually abused. If that is part of your story, I am deeply sorry. What was done to you was not the authority of Christ.

One well-known book on this subject is Spiritual Authority by Watchman Nee. Nee was a faithful servant of Christ who suffered imprisonment for his faith, and many have been blessed by his writing. But many readers have been concerned that teaching from that book has been used to require submission to leaders even when those leaders are wrong. Whatever one concludes about Nee’s intent, this book is asking a different question.

This is not a book about authority over people. It is a book about the authority a pastor carries because they themselves live under God.

Jesus drew the line clearly: “You know that those who are considered rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them. But it shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all.” (Mark 10:42–44)

Scripture does call church leaders to real oversight, and it calls believers to honor leaders who keep watch over their souls (Hebrews 13:17). But even that oversight must look like Jesus. Peter, who had once been corrected by Jesus for this very thing, later wrote to elders: “Shepherd the flock of God that is among you, exercising oversight, not under compulsion, but willingly, as God would have you; not for shameful gain, but eagerly; not domineering over those in your charge, but being examples to the flock.” (1 Peter 5:2–3)

Here is a simple test. The substitutes for authority tend to demand. Real spiritual authority tends to serve. A leader grasping for control needs people to submit. A leader walking in Christ’s authority is secure enough to be questioned, corrected, and held accountable.

In fact, the pastor who insists on authority over people is often the one who lacks authority over darkness.

Do not rejoice in this

One last caution belongs here. When the seventy-two came back from their mission, they were thrilled: “Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name!” (Luke 10:17). Jesus affirmed what had happened. Then He redirected them: “Nevertheless, do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” (Luke 10:20)

Spiritual authority is a gift to be stewarded, not a trophy to be displayed. It is never the source of a pastor’s identity. The moment it becomes a measure of our worth, we have started to build on a substitute again.

This book is not an invitation to become impressive. It is an invitation to come under.

The hard questions ahead

If authority flows from being under authority, some hard questions follow. Can a person use the name of Jesus without living under His authority? What about people in Scripture who seemed to exercise spiritual power while their lives were far from God? Does this mean God’s power depends on our performance?

Those are honest questions, and a book like this has to face them. In the next chapter, we will meet seven men who used exactly the right name and discovered it was not enough.

Names and identifying details in this chapter have been changed to protect the people involved. What has not been changed is what was happening in me.

Praying and praying and praying

So I prayed. Then I prayed again. Then I prayed some more. Both men came back, and they kept coming back. The cycle became painfully familiar: a season of resolve, then a relapse, then shame, then another appointment and another confession. Each time I prayed with conviction. Each time I commanded whatever held them to let go. Each time I sent them out with hope. Nothing held.

I want to be precise, because this book depends on honesty. There was never a single meaningful breakthrough with either man. Not one. At least not while they were under my pastoral care.

Over time, something shifted in me too. I began to feel a quiet dread before those appointments. My prayers started to sound like a performance I was repeating rather than a battle I was winning. And I began asking questions I did not say out loud. Were they sincere? Was I doing something wrong? Why wasn’t God answering?

The explanations I reached for

Pastors are good at explanations. We have to be. People bring us pain that doesn’t resolve, and we need some way to hold it. So I reached for the explanations that were available to me.

Maybe they didn’t want freedom badly enough. Maybe this was the kind of thing Jesus described when His disciples could not drive out a spirit and He told them: “This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer.” (Mark 9:29)

Maybe freedom would be a long process. Maybe not every story resolves on the timeline a pastor hopes for.

None of those explanations is foolish, and some of them were probably true. Both men made their own choices, and I cannot answer for those choices. Real, long-term discipleship and genuine accountability, walking closely with them over years, would likely have mattered more than the appointments I offered. I don’t know how their stories continued after they left my care. I pray that God met them.

But I eventually noticed something about every explanation I reached for. Each one pointed away from me.

What their courage deserved

It is worth pausing on what Daniel and Thomas actually did. Scripture tells us: “Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.” (James 5:16)

Many believers never do the first half of that verse. The shame is too heavy, and the risk feels too great. Those two men did it. They walked into their pastor’s office and said the thing they were most afraid to say. They took the hardest step of their healing.

Their courage deserved a pastor who could meet them with authority. What they got was a sincere man who prayed hard. That is not nothing. But it was not what they needed, and it was not all that God intended to give them.

If you have served in pastoral ministry for any length of time, you have your own version of this story. The person across from you may have been fighting pornography, alcohol, rage, gambling, or a marriage coming slowly apart. You prayed, and you meant every word. And nothing changed.

I am not asking you to take the blame for every unanswered prayer in your ministry. I am asking you to do what took me far too long to do: to look honestly at the one variable you can actually examine, which is you.

The verse I had read wrong

I knew Galatians 6:1 well. I had taught it. When Paul told the spiritual to restore a fallen brother and to keep watch on themselves, lest they too be tempted, I read it as a warning about the other person’s sin. Be careful, I thought, that you don’t get drawn into what they are doing.

I had never once been tempted in the direction Daniel and Thomas were struggling. So I assumed I was safe. In my mind, that verse had nothing to say to me. But Paul was saying more than that. The one who restores must be spiritual, and he must watch himself. The condition of the restorer matters to the restoration. No one can lift someone out of a pit while still standing in soft ground.

Here is what I had to admit. I did not share those men’s temptation, but I was not free in the same territory. I was not committing adultery. I was not living a double life. But there was ground in my own thought life, in the area of sexual purity, that I had never fully surrendered and never fully conquered. I will tell that part of the story in Chapter 7.

For now, it is enough to say this: I was trying to take ground in their lives that the enemy still held in mine.

Back at the lake

More than thirty years have passed. I now know at least one of the reasons those prayers never broke through. It is a principle I wish someone had taught me when I was young:

I only have authority over that which I have conquered. When I picture that season now, I see a young pastor parked by the lake, praying earnestly for his church and his city. A short distance away is the lot where two of his own people keep returning. He is sincere. He is faithful. He is well-meaning. And he is praying from ground he has not yet taken.

In the next chapter, we will look at why this principle is true, and why it does not mean what you might fear it means. Authority belongs to Christ, and He gives it freely. But how fully we walk in that authority depends on how much we have allowed Him to conquer in us.

It was the last night before the cross. Jesus had washed His disciples’ feet, shared the Passover meal, and told them that one of them would betray Him. Judas had already gone out into the night. In a few hours, Jesus would be arrested, beaten, and condemned.

And in the middle of His final words to His friends, Jesus said something astonishing. The ruler of this world was coming. The hour of darkness was near. And yet, Jesus said, “He has no claim on me.”

Older translations render that phrase in a way many of us first learned it: “He has nothing in Me.” Think about what it would mean to say that honestly. The enemy is coming against you with everything he has, and when he searches your heart for something to grab hold of, he finds nothing. No hidden resentment. No secret agreement with sin. No private place he can call his own.

Only one person has ever been able to say that perfectly. But the sentence tells us something important about how the enemy works, and about why some pastors stand firm in spiritual conflict while others, just as sincere, find themselves strangely powerless.

A place for the devil

Paul gave the church in Ephesus a warning that sounds almost ordinary: “Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil.” (Ephesians 4:26–27)

The Greek word translated “opportunity” is topos. It means a place, a spot, a piece of ground. Some translations render it “foothold.” Notice what Paul is warning about. It is not murder. It is not open rebellion against God. It is anger that is left unresolved overnight. A small thing. A private thing. The kind of thing no one else would ever see.

And yet Paul says that small, private thing can become a place the devil is given to stand. That is how the enemy usually works in the lives of sincere believers. He rarely begins by taking over a life. He looks for a place. An unresolved grudge. A secret habit. A private fantasy. A small area where we have quietly decided that God’s rule does not quite apply.

Most pastors are not controlled by the enemy. Most would never live a double life. But many have given him a place.

The wilderness before the synagogue

In Chapter 1, we saw Jesus teach with authority in the synagogue at Capernaum and command an unclean spirit to come out. Luke records that same scene. But Luke also shows us what came before it.

Luke 4 begins this way: “And Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness for forty days, being tempted by the devil.” (Luke 4:1–2)

Before Jesus cast out a single demon, He faced the devil alone in the wilderness. The enemy searched Him for a place. He offered bread to a starving man, kingdoms to a humble servant, and a spectacular shortcut to a Messiah headed for the cross. Each time, Jesus answered with the Word of God. Each time, the enemy found nothing.

Then Luke writes two sentences that belong side by side: “And when the devil had ended every temptation, he departed from him until an opportune time. And Jesus returned in the power of the Spirit to Galilee.” (Luke 4:13–14)

Jesus went into the wilderness full of the Spirit. He came out in the power of the Spirit. In between, He overcame the enemy in private. Only after that does Luke take us to the synagogue in Capernaum, where the people are amazed at His authority and the unclean spirits obey Him (Luke 4:31–36). The public authority followed the private victory.

Notice also that the devil left “until an opportune time.” The enemy is patient. He does not stop looking for a place just because he failed once. That is why a pastor’s past victories are not enough to protect their present ministry.

Binding the strong man

Jesus explained the order of spiritual conflict with a simple picture: “Or how can someone enter a strong man’s house and plunder his goods, unless he first binds the strong man? Then indeed he may plunder his house.” (Matthew 12:29)

You cannot take what the enemy holds until the enemy has been overcome. Jesus bound the strong man first, and then He set captives free.

When pastors try to plunder the enemy’s house in someone else’s life while the same enemy is still comfortable in a room of their own, they are attempting the work in the wrong order. They may pray with passion. They may use all the right words. But they are trying to take from the enemy what they have not yet taken back from him themselves.

The tent at Ai

The Old Testament gives us a painful illustration of how private ground affects public battles. Israel had just seen the walls of Jericho fall. It was one of the greatest victories in their history. Their next target was Ai, a small town that should have been easy to take. Joshua sent only a few thousand men.

They were routed. Israel fled from Ai, men died, and the hearts of the people melted. Joshua fell on his face before the Lord, asking why God had let this happen. God’s answer was direct: “There are devoted things in your midst, O Israel. You cannot stand before your enemies until you take away the devoted things from among you.” (Joshua 7:13)

A man named Achan had taken forbidden treasure from Jericho and hidden it in the ground beneath his tent. No one knew. The rest of the camp could not see it. But the hidden thing in one tent meant that Israel could not stand in battle.

Notice three things. The victory at Jericho did not protect them at Ai. The problem was hidden, not public. And the defeat came against a small enemy, not a great one. Pastors know this pattern. A ministry can have a great history of victory and still falter against a small, stubborn problem. And sometimes the reason is buried in the ground beneath a tent that no one else can see.

What is hidden in the tent will show up on the battlefield.

The lion and the bear

Scripture also gives us the hopeful side of this principle. When David volunteered to face Goliath, King Saul told him he was only a boy. David’s answer is worth noticing. He did not describe his confidence or his skill. He described his history: “The LORD who delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.” (1 Samuel 17:37)

No crowd had watched David fight the lion or the bear. Those battles happened in the fields, alone, while he watched his father’s sheep. But those private victories gave him the confidence to face a public giant.

That is the principle at the heart of this book, seen from the other side. Ground conquered in private becomes authority in public.

I only have authority over that which I have conquered

By now you have heard me say it several times. Let me explain carefully what I mean, and what I do not. I do not mean sinless perfection. John tells us that if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves (1 John 1:8). No pastor has fully arrived.

I do not mean never being tempted. Jesus was tempted in every way, yet without sin (Hebrews 4:15). Temptation is not a foothold. It is the enemy looking for one. And I do not mean that we conquer anything in our own strength. We will come back to that in a moment.

What I mean is this. There is a difference between an area of your life where you are honestly fighting alongside Christ and an area you have quietly handed over to the enemy. There is a difference between a struggle you bring into the light and a sin you keep buried beneath the tent. The first is the ordinary battle of every believer. The second is a place given to the devil.

When I speak of conquered ground, I mean ground that has been surrendered to Christ’s rule, brought into the light, and no longer held in private agreement with the enemy. It may still be contested. The enemy may still come back at an opportune time. But he no longer has a claim there.

And the areas where he still has a claim in me are exactly the areas where I lack authority to drive him out of others.

How ground is conquered

If this principle made victory depend on our own strength, it would crush every honest pastor. Thankfully, Scripture tells us how the saints overcome the enemy: “And they have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, for they loved not their lives even unto death.” (Revelation 12:11)

We will look at the practical side of this in Chapter 8. For now, it is enough to know that conquering ground is not a performance. It is a surrender.

A foothold in a faithful pastor

When I think back to the confessions I described in Chapter 4, this is what I see. I was not living a double life. I was not hiding an affair. By any outward measure, I was a faithful young pastor.

But there was a place. It was small and private, and I did not think of it as serious. I will tell you more about it in Chapter 7. The enemy did not need more than that. He did not need to control my life. He only needed a place to stand, and from that place, he could resist my prayers for men who were fighting in the same territory.

In the next chapter, we will look more closely at what that kind of foothold costs a pastor, and why Jesus said we must deal with the log in our own eye before we can see clearly enough to help anyone else.

When Daniel and Thomas sat in my office, I told them what I knew to tell them. I reminded them of God’s forgiveness. I urged them to stay away from that parking lot. I prayed for them, and I meant every word.

What I could not give them was a path I had walked myself.

Looking back, I know exactly what those men needed to learn. They needed to understand the moment of decision, the split second when temptation becomes choice. They needed to learn how to guard their eyes and stop at a glance. They needed to take seriously Jesus’ words that lust in the heart is already adultery. They needed someone to show them, practically and personally, how a follower of Jesus takes back ground in the thought life before it ever reaches a parking lot.

I could not teach them those things, because I had not yet learned them. In the last chapter, we saw that a foothold gives the enemy a place to stand. In this chapter, I want to be specific about what that foothold costs a pastor. Jesus described it with a picture that is almost humorous, until you realize He is talking about you.

A log in the eye

Most people know Jesus’ words about the speck and the log. Many people use them as a reason never to confront anyone about anything. But read the passage carefully: “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.” (Matthew 7:3–5)

Jesus does not say, “Never help your brother with his speck.” He says, “First take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out.” The goal is helping. The problem is the order.

Jesus assumes that His followers will help one another with sin. He simply insists that the helper deal with their own condition first. Otherwise, the help will not help.

Luke places the same teaching in a revealing context. Just before the log and the speck, Jesus says: “Can a blind man lead a blind man? Will they not both fall into a pit? A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone when he is fully trained will be like his teacher.” (Luke 6:39–40)

That is a sobering sentence for every pastor. The people we train will become like us. We cannot lead them beyond where we have gone. If there is a log in our eye, we will not only fail to see clearly. We will reproduce our blind spots in the people we disciple. Unconquered ground costs a pastor in at least three ways.

The first cost: clear sight

A log in the eye distorts everything a person looks at. Jesus says the person with the log cannot see clearly. Their perception is compromised, and often they don’t even know it.

In ministry, that distortion can go in two directions. Sometimes a pastor becomes harsh toward the very sins they tolerate privately, as if condemning it in others could quiet their own conscience. More often, a pastor becomes vague and soft, unable to name what is actually happening because naming it would expose something in themselves.

There is a subtler cost too. When a pastor has made private peace with sin in some area, they learn to explain it away. They minimize it. They call it a weakness rather than a stronghold. And the same excuses they use for themselves quietly shape how they see others.

I cannot say for certain what I would have seen as a young pastor if my own eye had been clear. But I have often wondered how many times I drove past that lakefront parking lot without discerning anything at all. I had prayed within sight of it for a long time. It took two confessions for me to see what was happening there.

A log in the eye does not only hide your sin. It blurs your sight of everyone else’s.

The second cost: credibility to train

Paul wrote something to the Roman church that every preacher should read slowly: “You then who teach others, do you not teach yourself? While you preach against stealing, do you steal? You who say that one must not commit adultery, do you commit adultery?” (Romans 2:21–22)

When I first read that passage as a young pastor, I felt safe. I was not committing adultery. I would have told you that question had nothing to do with me.

But Jesus had already defined adultery more deeply than I wanted to admit. In the Sermon on the Mount, He said that anyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery in their heart (Matthew 5:28). By Jesus’ definition, Paul’s question was not nearly as far from me as I assumed.

The New Testament pattern of discipleship depends on credibility. Paul told the Philippians: “What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.” (Philippians 4:9)

Notice the words “seen in me.” Paul did not only give information. He offered his life as an example. He could say, “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ” (1 Corinthians 11:1), because what he taught was visible in how he lived.

That is the difference between information and formation. A pastor with unconquered ground can still give information. They can explain what the Bible says about lust, anger, greed, or fear. But they cannot give formation. They cannot say, “Here is how I fight this battle, and here is what I have learned in it.”

People can tell the difference. The men in my office did not need another explanation of what the Bible says about sexual sin. They already knew. They needed someone who could say, “I know this battle, I have learned how to win in it, and I will show you how.”

I could not say that. Worse, some part of me knew I could not say it, and so I stayed general. I stayed in the safe language of prayer and forgiveness, because the specific language of guarding the eyes and the moment of decision would have pointed straight back at me.

The third cost: boldness

Scripture connects a clear conscience with courage: “The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion.” (Proverbs 28:1) A pastor with hidden ground often loses boldness without realizing it. They avoid certain subjects in the pulpit. They soften hard conversations. They find themselves reaching for gentleness at exactly the moment when love requires directness. They tell themselves they are being gracious, but often they are simply protecting themselves.

The life of King David gives us a painful example. Before his sin with Bathsheba, David was known for boldness. Afterward, the prophet Nathan had to confront him with the words, “You are the man!” (2 Samuel 12:7). David repented, and God forgave him. But the consequences echoed through his family.

Years later, David’s son Amnon sexually assaulted his half-sister Tamar. Scripture tells us that when David heard about it, he was very angry (2 Samuel 13:21). But the text records no action. No confrontation. No justice for his daughter. His silence helped set the stage for Absalom’s revenge and, eventually, rebellion.

Scripture does not tell us why David did nothing. But it is hard not to wonder whether a father who had once taken another man’s wife found it difficult to confront his son’s sexual sin. Whatever the reason, the king who once ran toward Goliath could not bring himself to face a problem in his own house.

I suspect something like that was at work in me. When I sat with those two men, I leaned heavily on prayer. Prayer mattered. But I did not press into the harder, practical conversations about what they were doing with their eyes and their thoughts long before they got in their cars. Some of that was inexperience. Some of it, I now believe, was the quiet loss of boldness that comes from unconquered ground.

First, then

If this chapter has stirred conviction in you, please hear the hope in Jesus’ words. He did not say, “You have a log, so you can never help anyone.” He said, “First take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly.”

First, then. The log can be removed. The sight can be cleared. The credibility can be rebuilt. The boldness can return. Paul gave Timothy a charge that holds both halves together: “Keep a close watch on yourself and on the teaching. Persist in this, for by so doing you will save both yourself and your hearers.” (1 Timothy 4:16)

Notice the order again. Watch yourself, and watch the teaching. Paul did not separate the pastor’s life from the pastor’s ministry. And he promised that faithfulness in both would bring salvation to both the pastor and the people.

The pastor who deals honestly with their own log does not become useless. They become more useful than ever. Some of the most powerful ministers I have known are people who once struggled in exactly the areas where they now help others. Their authority does not come from never having fought the battle. It comes from having fought it with Christ and won.

I have described footholds and logs in general terms long enough. In the next chapter, I will tell you plainly about mine.

Why it felt small

Looking back, I can see how easy it was to keep this in a category marked “not serious.” It was not constant, so it was easy to believe it was under control. It never led to any action, so it was easy to believe no line had been crossed. It was so common among men that it felt almost normal. And compared to the confessions I heard in my office, it seemed very small.

That last comparison may be the most dangerous of all. When Daniel and Thomas told me what they were doing, part of me measured my own heart against their behavior and felt relieved. I was not doing anything like that. But I was measuring by the wrong standard.

Jesus’ standard

Jesus did not leave room for the categories I had built. In the Sermon on the Mount, He took the commandment against adultery, one that most religious people of His day believed they were keeping, and moved it from the body to the heart. The one who looks with lustful intent has already committed adultery there.

Then He said something even more startling: “If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell.” (Matthew 5:29)

Jesus was not commanding self-mutilation. He was using the strongest language possible to show how seriously we must treat what we allow our eyes to do. What I had filed under “not serious,” Jesus treated as a matter worth any cost to address.

By His standard, the difference between me and the men in my office was not as great as I had assumed. We were not fighting the same temptation. But we were standing in the same territory.

What I did not understand

Here is the part I most want you to hear, because it is the lesson that took me the longest to learn. I did not understand that purity affects perception. I thought of my thought life as a private moral matter between me and God. I did not realize it was also shaping what I could see. And because authority depends so heavily on spiritual sight, what I allowed my eyes to linger on was quietly weakening my authority.

Jesus connected purity and sight directly: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” (Matthew 5:8) And a little later in the same sermon: “The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” (Matthew 6:22–23)

Paul makes the same connection in his letter to Titus, describing people whose minds and consciences have become defiled (Titus 1:15). Impurity does not stay contained. It clouds the mind. It dulls the conscience. It dims the light by which we see.

Think back to the young pastor praying at the lakefront, within sight of a place he could not discern. I cannot tell you that my thought life was the only reason I did not perceive what was happening there. But I am now convinced it was part of it. What I allowed my physical eyes to do affected what my spiritual eyes could see.

And a pastor who cannot see clearly cannot minister with authority. Discernment comes before deliverance. Perception comes before authority.

Seasonal ground is still ground

For years I took comfort in the fact that my struggle was not constant. Surely, I thought, a problem that comes and goes is not a stronghold. But remember what Luke tells us after Jesus overcame temptation in the wilderness. The devil departed from Him “until an opportune time” (Luke 4:13). The enemy is patient. He does not need a place in us every day. He only needs a place he can return to when the season is right.

Ground that is given up seasonally has not been conquered. It has only been left temporarily unused. And the enemy knows exactly where it is.

Why no one talks about this

If this kind of interior compromise is as common as I believe, why do so few pastors talk about it? Some of it is shame. It is humiliating to admit that the person who preaches purity struggles with impure thoughts. Some of it is fear. Pastors wonder, often with good reason, whether honesty might cost them their position or their reputation.

Some of it is isolation. Many pastors have no one in their lives who asks them hard questions about their inner world. They are the ones others confess to. Few people think to ask the pastor how they are really doing.

And some of it is that church culture tends to focus on actions. We have clear responses to affairs and pornography. We have very little language for a pastor whose outward life is clean but whose eyes are unguarded.

I should add that this is not only a struggle for men, and not only a struggle with lust. The details look different for different people. For some pastors, it is fantasy or an emotional attachment that has quietly crossed a line. For others, the unguarded interior life is filled with resentment, envy, or bitterness that never reaches their words or actions. The principle is the same. What we allow to live in the heart shapes what we can see, and what we can see shapes the authority we carry.

So faithful pastors keep preaching, praying, and counseling, while carrying ground they have never surrendered. Everything looks fine from the outside. And they wonder why their prayers do not seem to break through.

Search me

I want to be careful to end this chapter where the gospel ends, not where shame ends.

God did not reveal these things to me so that I would live under condemnation. He revealed them so that I could be free, and so that I could eventually help others become free. John’s promise was true for me, and it is true for you: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)

If this chapter has uncovered something in you, do not bury it again. Do not reach for the comparisons I used. Do not tell yourself that it is seasonal, private, or small. Bring it into the light before God, and if possible, before a trusted and mature believer who can walk with you. And pray the prayer David prayed:

It took me years to learn how to guard my eyes. It took me years to understand what happens in the split second after a first glance, and how to win the battle there instead of losing it later. In the next chapter, I will share what I learned about that moment of decision.

Names and identifying details in this chapter have been changed to protect the people involved.

What was really happening

Looking back now, I believe Ray was, in effect, using the language of spiritual bondage to draw financial support from others. I cannot see into his heart, and I don’t know how aware he was of what he was doing. But the outcome was real.

His requests functioned as manipulation. They drew on the compassion of sincere people who wanted to help a brother under attack. And our ministry time, which was meant to be a place where God met real needs, became in those moments something closer to a performance. People prayed earnestly over a problem that was not what it appeared to be. It was, frankly, fake ministry time.

I want to be careful with that phrase. God was not fake, and the people praying were not fake. Their love was genuine. But when a spiritual response is repeatedly applied to a situation that calls for something else, the ministry itself becomes hollow. Nothing changes, because the real problem is never addressed.

And there is a quieter cost. When a group prays for the same need week after week with no result, people begin to learn something. Some learn that prayer does not really work. Others learn that spiritual language can be used to get what you want. Neither lesson is one a pastor should allow a group to learn.

A different kind of failure

In Part Two, I described a failure rooted in unconquered ground. My prayers for Daniel and Thomas lacked authority in part because of what I had not surrendered in my own thought life. This failure was different. I do not believe it came from hidden sin. It came from a lack of maturity and a lack of training.

I was young. I carried the title of housegroup pastor, and I cared about the people in my group. But I had not yet developed the discernment to recognize what I was dealing with, or the confidence to respond to it wisely. I saw a pattern and did not know what to do with it, so I did nothing.

The writer of Hebrews describes exactly what I was missing: “But solid food is for the mature, for those who have their powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil.” (Hebrews 5:14)

Notice that discernment is trained. It grows with maturity and constant practice. Nobody starts with it fully formed. That is a comfort to me when I look back at that young leader. It is also a challenge, because it means discernment does not simply show up with a ministry title. It has to be developed on purpose.

Proverbs puts the problem more bluntly: “The simple believes everything, but the prudent gives thought to his steps.” (Proverbs 14:15) In that season, I was simple in exactly this way. I allowed a request to keep defining the ministry, even though what I knew should have made me stop and think.

A request about money

Jesus once received a request that was also about money. A man in the crowd called out to Him: “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” (Luke 12:13)

On the surface, that sounds like a reasonable request for help. But Jesus did not simply answer the request as it was presented. He declined to act as the man’s judge, and then He spoke to what was actually going on: “Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.” (Luke 12:15)

Jesus heard the request, but He ministered to the real need. He saw past the words to the heart. That is what discernment does. It does not dismiss people’s requests. It does not become cynical. But it also does not assume that the way a need is presented is always the truth about the need.

Love with discernment

I think many well-meaning pastors fall into the same trap I did. We want to be loving. We want to honor people’s vulnerability. We don’t want to quench the Spirit or seem suspicious of someone asking for prayer. So we keep responding to the request exactly as it is presented.

But love without discernment is not the kind of love Paul prayed for: “And it is my prayer that your love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent.” (Philippians 1:9–10)

Paul did not pray for less love. He prayed that love would grow in knowledge and discernment. Real love wants the real problem addressed. And sometimes the most loving thing a pastor can do is gently decline to keep ministering to the wrong thing.

If I had been more mature, I would have taken Ray aside and had a private conversation. Not a confrontation in front of the group, and not an accusation. Just an honest, caring conversation about what was really going on, and perhaps some practical help with budgeting. We will look at that kind of conversation in Chapter 11.

Why this is about authority

You might wonder why a story about a small group and a budget belongs in a book about spiritual authority. Here is why. Look at the outcome of both stories in this book. With Daniel and Thomas, I prayed and prayed, and nothing broke through. With Ray, the group prayed and prayed, and nothing changed. Different causes. The same result: ministry that never touched the real problem.

Spiritual authority is not only the ability to confront darkness. It includes the wisdom to know what you are actually facing. A pastor who casts out a spirit that is not there has not exercised authority. They have simply missed the need.

That leads to an important question, and it cuts in two directions. How does a pastor tell a spiritual problem from a practical one? And how do we avoid the opposite mistake, treating real spiritual battles as if they were merely practical? That is where we turn in the next chapter.

As Jesus left Jericho with a large crowd, a blind beggar named Bartimaeus sat by the road. When he heard that Jesus was passing by, he began to shout for mercy. People told him to be quiet. He shouted louder.

Jesus stopped and called him over. Bartimaeus threw off his cloak, jumped up, and came to Jesus. Then Jesus asked a question that seems almost unnecessary: “And Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ And the blind man said to him, ‘Rabbi, let me recover my sight.’” (Mark 10:51)

The man was blind. He was begging by the road. Everyone in the crowd could see what he needed. So why did Jesus ask? There are several good answers. The question honored Bartimaeus as a person rather than treating him as a problem. It invited him to express his faith. And it let him name his own need rather than having it assumed for him.

But there is a lesson in it for pastors too. The Son of God, who knew what was in every heart, still asked before He ministered. If Jesus asked, how much more should we?

Two ditches

In the last chapter, I described how our housegroup prayed week after week against a spirit of poverty for a man who needed a budget and an honest conversation. That was one kind of mistake. But there is an equal and opposite mistake, and many pastors fall into it just as easily.

Think of discernment as a road with a ditch on either side. Both are sincere. Both miss the real need.

The first ditch: spiritualizing practical problems

Some pastors, especially in churches that believe God still heals and delivers, can begin to see a spiritual cause behind every difficulty. Money trouble becomes a spirit of poverty. Conflict becomes a spirit of division. Exhaustion becomes spiritual attack. Every problem gets a prayer, and every prayer targets something unseen.

Sometimes that is exactly right. But often, the real problem is much more ordinary. Scripture is full of practical wisdom that has nothing to do with deliverance. Proverbs tells us: “The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty.” (Proverbs 21:5)

Some financial problems are caused by hasty decisions, not demonic oppression. Paul was even more direct with believers in Thessalonica who had stopped working: “For even when we were with you, we would give you this command: If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat. For we hear that some among you walk in idleness, not busy at work, but busybodies. Now such persons we command and encourage in the Lord Jesus Christ to do their work quietly and to earn their own living.” (2 Thessalonians 3:10–12)

Paul did not pray against a spirit of idleness. He told them to go to work. One of my favorite examples is Elijah. After his great victory on Mount Carmel, he fled for his life, sat under a tree in the wilderness, and asked God to let him die. If ever a situation looked like spiritual attack, this was it.

But look at how God responded first: “And he lay down and slept under a broom tree. And behold, an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Arise and eat.’” (1 Kings 19:5) God let His exhausted prophet sleep. Then He fed him. Then He let him sleep again and fed him again. Only after that did God speak to Elijah about his calling. Sometimes the most spiritual ministry a person can receive is rest, food, and practical care.

A serious caution

This first ditch can do real harm. I have heard of believers who were told their depression was a demon, or that their need for medication showed a lack of faith. Some stopped treatment they needed. Some carried shame for years.

Please hear me clearly. Praying for people who are sick or struggling is right and good. But no pastor should ever discourage someone from seeking medical or mental health care. God works through doctors, counselors, and medicine. Discernment includes knowing when a person needs a professional, and humbly encouraging them to get that help.

The second ditch: dismissing spiritual realities

On the other side of the road is a very different mistake. Some pastors have become so practical, so professional, or so wary of excess that they no longer take the spiritual realm seriously at all. Every problem has a natural explanation. Every struggle needs a program, a class, or a referral.

But Paul reminds us: “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” (Ephesians 6:12)

Luke tells of a woman who had been bent over for eighteen years, unable to straighten herself. By every outward sign, this was a physical condition. Yet Jesus described her as a daughter of Abraham “whom Satan bound for eighteen years” (Luke 13:16). Behind a long-standing physical problem, Jesus discerned a spiritual one.

In Philippi, a slave girl followed Paul and his companions, shouting what sounded like true statements about them. Luke tells us she kept doing this for many days before Paul recognized what was driving her and commanded the spirit to come out (Acts 16:16–18). Even the apostle Paul needed time to discern it. But when he did, he acted.

A pastor in the second ditch would have told the woman to try physical therapy and asked the slave girl to stop interrupting. They would have been reasonable. And they would have missed what God wanted to do.

Scripture distinguishes, and Scripture connects

One of the most helpful things about the Gospels is that they refuse to collapse everything into one category. Matthew describes the crowds who came to Jesus this way: “And they brought him all the sick, those afflicted with various diseases and pains, those oppressed by demons, those having seizures, and paralytics, and he healed them.” (Matthew 4:24)

Notice that Matthew lists illness, demonic oppression, seizures, and paralysis as different things. Not every disease was a demon. Not every seizure was spiritual. And yet, a few chapters later, Matthew tells of a boy whose seizures were connected to a demon, and Jesus drove it out (Matthew 17:15–18). The same symptom could have different causes.

Scripture distinguishes, and Scripture connects. That is exactly why discernment matters. The pastor who assumes every problem is spiritual will be wrong often. So will the pastor who assumes none are. Even Jesus’ disciples struggled with this. When they saw a man blind from birth, they asked, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered that neither had sinned (John 9:2–3). They had put the problem in the wrong category entirely.

Most problems have layers

In real ministry, the answer is often not either/or. Many problems have several layers at once.

Think again about the stories in this book. Daniel and Thomas needed prayer and deliverance. But as I shared in Chapter 6, they also needed practical discipleship about their eyes, their thoughts, and the moment of decision. Ray needed an honest conversation and help with budgeting. It is possible that there were also matters of the heart underneath his requests that God wanted to address.

A struggling marriage may involve poor communication, past wounds, financial stress, and real spiritual opposition, all at the same time. Addiction may involve physical dependence, emotional pain, relational patterns, and spiritual bondage. A good shepherd does not grab the first category that comes to mind. They look at the whole person.

Discernment asks before it ministers

So how does a pastor stay out of both ditches? It begins where Jesus began with Bartimaeus. It asks. Proverbs puts it plainly: “If one gives an answer before he hears, it is his folly and shame.” (Proverbs 18:13)

And a few chapters later: “The purpose in a man’s heart is like deep water, but a man of understanding will draw it out.” (Proverbs 20:5) Drawing out what is in someone’s heart takes questions, patience, and genuine listening. Before praying for someone with a recurring struggle, a discerning pastor might ask questions like these:

None of those questions is unspiritual. In fact, asking them is one of the ways the Holy Spirit gives us understanding. While we listen to the person, we are also listening to Him. That is what Paul meant when he wrote, “Do not quench the Spirit… but test everything; hold fast what is good.” He put both halves together. Stay open to the Spirit. And test everything.

Accuracy is part of authority

It would be easy to think that discernment is a lesser gift than authority, a matter of wisdom rather than power. But the two cannot be separated. Authority aimed at the wrong target accomplishes nothing. A pastor who commands a spirit of poverty to leave a man who needs a budget has not exercised authority. A pastor who refers a spiritually oppressed person to yet another program has not exercised it either. Both have missed the need.

Real spiritual authority includes the ability to see what is actually there. It knows when to pray, when to counsel, when to refer, and when to do all three. For me, as a young leader, the hardest part was not knowing what Ray needed. On some level, I already knew. The hardest part was acting on it. In the next chapter, we will look at the conversation I should have had, and why so many pastors avoid it.

I have often imagined a different version of those housegroup evenings. In this version, after the group has gone home one night, or over lunch later that week, I ask Ray if we can talk. We sit down somewhere quiet. I tell him I care about him, and that I have noticed he often asks for prayer about a spirit of poverty. Then, instead of assuming what is going on, I ask him to tell me more.

I don’t know exactly where that conversation would have gone. But I imagine it might have sounded something like this:

That conversation never happened. Instead, the group kept praying, week after week, over a problem that prayer alone was never going to solve. This chapter is about that conversation, the one I did not have, and the one many pastors are avoiding right now.

Why ministry time was the wrong place

Part of my mistake was letting the group setting carry something it was never designed to carry.

Public ministry time is a wonderful thing. But it has limits. A group cannot ask the kind of detailed, personal questions a financial struggle requires. A group cannot sit down with a budget. And when the same request is made publicly week after week, the setting itself can reinforce the pattern. The request gets attention, sympathy, and prayer, but never the honest conversation that might actually change something.

Jesus gave His followers a pattern for addressing problems between believers: “If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have gained your brother.” (Matthew 18:15)

Jesus was speaking specifically about sin between believers, and I am not suggesting that Ray’s situation was the same as a personal offense. But the principle behind His words applies widely. Start privately. Between you and him alone. Give the person the dignity of a conversation before anything else.

Private conversations protect people. They allow honesty without embarrassment. And they give a pastor the chance to understand what a public setting will never reveal.

Why pastors avoid the conversation

If private conversations are so valuable, why do so many pastors avoid them? Some fear offending the person, or losing them from the church. Some fear being wrong, or appearing judgmental and unspiritual. Some simply do not know how to begin, because no one ever trained them. For many, it is just easier to pray. Prayer feels safe. It honors the person’s request, it looks spiritual, and it avoids the risk of a hard conversation.

There is also a quieter reason in churches like mine. In a culture that treasures the supernatural, practical help can feel like a lesser kind of ministry. Talking about a budget can seem unspiritual next to praying against a spirit of poverty.

For me, as a young housegroup leader, the reasons came down to immaturity and a lack of training. I saw the pattern. I did not know what to do with it. And so I let the easier thing continue.

If that describes you, the good news is that wisdom can be asked for: “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.” (James 1:5)

Notice the phrase “without reproach.” God does not scold us for lacking wisdom. He simply gives it when we ask.

Faithful wounds

Proverbs contains a surprising statement about friendship: “Faithful are the wounds of a friend; profuse are the kisses of an enemy.” A friend who tells you a hard truth may wound you, but they do it because they are faithful to you. Someone who only flatters you, or who never tells you what you need to hear, may seem kind in the moment. But their kindness does you no good.

I was not Ray’s enemy. But in one sense, my silence functioned like those profuse kisses. It was pleasant. It avoided discomfort. And it left him exactly where he was. Proverbs also promises that honesty tends to be honored in the long run: “Whoever rebukes a man will afterward find more favor than he who flatters with his tongue.” (Proverbs 28:23)

Not always immediately. Sometimes a hard conversation strains a relationship for a season. But over time, people usually come to value the ones who loved them enough to tell the truth.

Jesus talked about money

One of the most tender moments in the Gospels is also one of the hardest conversations Jesus ever had. A rich young man came to Him asking what he must do to inherit eternal life. He had kept the commandments since his youth. Then Mark writes: “And Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said to him, ‘You lack one thing: go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.’” (Mark 10:21)

Jesus looked at him. Jesus loved him. And then Jesus talked to him about money. He did not pray a general blessing over the man and send him on his way. He did not avoid the subject because it might offend. He named the one thing standing between that young man and the life he was seeking. The man went away sad, and Jesus let him go. But the conversation was love.

Jesus spoke about money more often than many of us are comfortable admitting. He understood that how people handle possessions reveals and shapes their hearts. A pastor who avoids the subject is not being more spiritual than Jesus. They are being less honest than Jesus.

What makes a private conversation work

A private conversation is not the same as a confrontation. Done well, it looks much more like Jesus with the rich young man than like a pastor delivering a verdict. Paul describes the spirit it requires: “Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ.” (Ephesians 4:15)

Truth and love together. And notice the result Paul expects: that we grow up. Honest, loving conversations are one of the primary ways God matures His people, including the pastors who have them. Paul also told Timothy that the Lord’s servant must be “kind to everyone, able to teach, patiently enduring evil, correcting his opponents with gentleness” (2 Timothy 2:24–25). Kindness, patience, and gentleness are not optional in these moments. They are what make the truth possible to receive.

From those passages and from my own mistakes, a few practical principles have emerged.

Quiet authority

We tend to associate spiritual authority with public moments: a powerful sermon, a dramatic deliverance, a room full of people being touched by God. Those moments are real.

But some of the most significant expressions of authority in Scripture happened privately. Nathan did not confront David in front of the royal court. He came to the king and told him a story. Jesus did not restore Peter in front of a crowd. He sat with him beside a charcoal fire on the shore and asked him three times, “Do you love me?” (John 21:15–17).

There is a kind of authority that does not need an audience. It sits across a table, looks someone in the eye with love, and tells the truth. Looking back, I believe the conversation I avoided would have done more for Ray than every prayer our group prayed over him. It also would have protected our ministry time and modeled for the whole group what it looks like to love someone honestly.

For me, immaturity and a lack of training kept that conversation from happening. But there is another force that keeps many leaders, especially in growing ministries, from having conversations like that one. It has to do with who we are really trying to please, and that is where we turn next.

Luke describes a moment in Jesus’ ministry that every pastor would recognize as success: “But now even more the report about him went abroad, and great crowds gathered to hear him and to be healed of their infirmities.” (Luke 5:15)

The word was spreading. The crowds were growing. People were being healed. By almost any measure, this was the moment to do more: more meetings, more teaching, more ministry. Then Luke adds one more sentence: “But he would withdraw to desolate places and pray.” (Luke 5:16)

The phrasing suggests a habit, not a single event. As the demands on Jesus increased, He kept pulling away to be alone with the Father. The busier His ministry became, the more deliberately He protected His time in the secret place.

For most of us, it works the other way. The busier ministry becomes, the less time we spend with God. And we wonder why our authority seems to shrink as our responsibilities grow.

Where both pillars come from

This book has been built on two pillars. Conquered ground is the surrender of our private lives to Christ’s rule. Discernment is the ability to see what is actually happening and respond with wisdom. It would be easy to treat both as achievements. Try harder to be pure. Study harder to be wise. But that approach will fail, and it will leave sincere pastors exhausted and discouraged.

Jesus gave us a very different picture: “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.” (John 15:4)

A branch does not produce grapes by straining. It produces grapes by staying connected to the vine. The fruit is the natural result of the connection. Conquered ground and discernment are both fruit. Purity grows as we abide in the One who is pure. As we saw in Chapter 8, we become like what we behold. And discernment grows as we learn to see what the Father is doing. Neither pillar can stand for long apart from the vine.

Jesus said it as plainly as words allow: “Apart from me you can do nothing.” Not less. Nothing.

With Him before sent out

In Chapter 1, I promised that we would return to the source of Jesus’ authority. His authority did not come from training, credentials, or position. It came from His life with the Father. He described that life this way: “Truly, truly, I say to you, the Son can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father does, that the Son does likewise.” (John 5:19)

And Jesus called His disciples into the same pattern. Before He chose the Twelve, Luke tells us: “In these days he went out to the mountain to pray, and all night he continued in prayer to God. And when day came, he called his disciples and chose from them twelve, whom he named apostles.” (Luke 6:12–13)

Mark adds a detail about why Jesus chose them: “And he appointed twelve (whom he also named apostles) so that they might be with him and he might send them out to preach and have authority to cast out demons.” (Mark 3:14–15)

Look at the order. First, that they might be with Him. Then, that He might send them out. Then, authority. Being with Jesus came before being sent by Jesus. And the authority came to those who had first been with Him. That is exactly what the religious leaders noticed years later, when they saw the boldness of Peter and John and recognized “that they had been with Jesus” (Acts 4:13). With Him, then sent. That order has never changed.

Speaking from God, not only about God

In Chapter 1, we saw that the scribes taught about God with great accuracy, while Jesus taught with authority. Jesus explained the difference: “For I have not spoken on my own authority, but the Father who sent me has himself given me a commandment—what to say and what to speak.” (John 12:49)

Jesus spoke what He received. Isaiah describes the Servant of the Lord in words that fit Jesus perfectly, and that describe what every pastor needs: “The Lord GOD has given me the tongue of those who are taught, that I may know how to sustain with a word him who is weary. Morning by morning he awakens; he awakens my ear to hear as those who are taught.” (Isaiah 50:4)

Before the Servant had a word for the weary, his ear was awakened morning by morning. Listening came before speaking. There is an Old Testament story that captures what happens when leaders lose this. In the days of the priest Eli, Scripture says, “The word of the LORD was rare in those days” (1 Samuel 3:1). Eli was not a pagan. He served at the house of God. But the word of the Lord had grown rare.

Then God spoke to a young boy named Samuel, who did not yet recognize His voice. Eli, to his credit, told Samuel how to respond. And Samuel said the words that changed the spiritual life of a nation: “Speak, for your servant hears” (1 Samuel 3:10).

Many pastors spend a great deal of time speaking to God and very little time listening. We bring our lists, our sermons, and our concerns. But the authority Jesus carried came from hearing. Peter would later tell leaders in the church, “Whoever speaks, as one who speaks oracles of God” (1 Peter 4:11). You cannot speak the words of God if you have not first heard them.

Martha’s ministry

I suspect most pastors identify more with Martha than with Mary.

When Jesus visited their home, Martha was busy with the work of serving Him, while her sister Mary sat at His feet and listened. Martha was frustrated, and she asked Jesus to tell Mary to help. His answer is one of the gentlest rebukes in Scripture: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:41–42)

Martha was not doing anything sinful. She was serving Jesus. That is exactly what makes her story so relevant for pastors. Our danger is rarely that we stop working for Jesus. Our danger is that working for Jesus crowds out time with Jesus.

It is also worth saying that prayer and abiding are not always the same thing. It is possible to pray a great deal about your ministry and spend very little time simply being with the One you serve. It is possible to fill every quiet moment with requests and never stop to listen. Abiding includes asking. But at its heart, abiding is staying close.

Authority in prayer

Jesus connected abiding directly to the effectiveness of prayer: “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.” (John 15:7)

This is not a blank check. It is a description of what happens when a person is so connected to Christ, and so shaped by His words, that their desires begin to reflect His. People who abide pray differently. They pray what they have heard. And prayers that begin in the heart of God carry the authority of heaven.

When the apostles faced growing demands in the early church, they made a decision that protected this connection: “But we will devote ourselves to prayer and to the ministry of the word” (Acts 6:4). They delegated important work so that they would not lose what mattered most.

The secret place

Jesus taught His followers where this kind of life is formed:

The secret place is where ground is conquered. It is where the log is removed from our eye. It is where we learn the moment of decision, where what we meditate on begins to get through, and where our ears are awakened to hear. It is where we receive the Father’s approval before we step into a room full of people. Every pillar of this book is formed there.

Practicing abiding

I want to be careful not to turn abiding into another program to master. It is a relationship, not a formula. But relationships need time and attention, and a few simple practices can help protect them.

Sent from the vine

If you have read this far, you may feel the weight of everything this book has asked of you: conquer ground, remove the log, guard your eyes, grow in discernment, have the hard conversation, resist the room.

Here is the good news. You were never meant to do any of it apart from the vine. Every one of those things is fruit, and fruit grows from connection. So before you do anything else with this book, go back to the beginning of the pattern Jesus set. Be with Him. Let Him conquer what He wants to conquer. Let Him show you what He is doing. Then go where He sends you.

In the final chapter, we will look at what ministry looks like for a pastor who has done that, and how the ground God conquers in us becomes ground we can stand on for others.