Christians like to think they love a poor pastor.
A humble one.
A guy who rotates between two suits like some kind of ascetic cartoon character, whose net worth hovers around zero because, in their minds, that’s what Jesus would want. A modern, live-action reenactment of Matthew 10:9-10, the part where Jesus sends out the 70 on a vagabond mission (who, by the way, are “the least of these, My brethren”—and let’s just pause here for a second). The least of these are not, contextually speaking—if context still means anything—some malnourished kid in Africa, nor the desperate illegal who, irony of ironies, is fleeing the very brand of Communism or Sadistic Socialism they enthusiastically voted for back home. No. The least of these in Matthew always refers to persecuted, itinerant Christian ministers—the kind who get tossed in jail, stiffed on paychecks, and forgotten like old milk in the back of the fridge. Stop and think about it for a second: Jesus isn’t saying that He’s the pedophile in prison that needs a visit. And just in case anyone was still confused, the phrase “My brethren” should be the giveaway. But, alas, reading comprehension is a lost art.
Christians like to think they love their pastor actually owning Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. When I was a kid in Canada, we used to hold these annual church fundraisers where we'd stick the Lead Pastor—and his entire staff—into a dunk tank for sport. People would gleefully throw down their hard-earned cash just for the privilege of submerging the guy on purpose. Some of them were way too eager.
At nine years old, I thought this was normal. Now, as an adult, I am mortified.
We have these bizarre, self-righteous notions of humility, particularly in Canada. This idea that “no man is better than the next guy.” A national pastime of collective mediocrity. Canadians and Australians both inherited this from their penal colony roots—the side effect of coming from a British class system that is still very much alive. But here’s the twist: The outcome isn’t equality. It’s disrespect. And that was Chesterton’s case for the class system: when a cabby was tipped, he would call the generous customer a gentleman. The English enjoyed looking up—or rather—holding their betters to a higher standard of public life. That was the trade-off: you keep the power, but you better be nice to us. Meanwhile in Australia, Aussies don’t tip for three reasons: they’re cheap, they don’t want the worker to be seen as below them, and they don’t want the worker to be seen as above them. When Australians catch a cab or Uber, they will sit in the front seat with the driver so as to willfully communicate with the driver, “I’m not better than you.” American or UK cabbies would reply, “Please get away from me and remain in your station—that’s how you can be kind to me.”
Americans, for all their faults, have heroes—both local and national. Canada? If you want to be a National Hero, you have to look absolutely miserable while being the best. And, crucially, you cannot give off even a whiff of financial success. This is why Canadians worship Wayne Gretzky. Because despite his superhuman talent, he never stopped acting like a small-town farm kid. His dad was still back in Brantford, shoveling snow on the family farm, while he was out in L.A. playing Superman on skates. "He's one of us," they thought.
And it was all a con for suckers.
Here’s what I think a Lead Pastor should actually make—and why you should want them to: