Ordinary Time 2026: Year A — I Timothy 4:16 — The Gift & the Person

(This sermon was first preached at the 8th Street Church in Oklahoma City, OK USA. It is a sending sermon for the Children’s Pastor, Rev. Hope Keimig prior to her sabbatical. It also references a child baptism happening on this Sunday).

"Pay close attention to yourself and to your teaching; continue in these things, for in doing this you will save both yourself and your hearers." (NRSV)

There is something strange about this verse.

If Paul is writing to a young pastor, you would expect him to begin somewhere else.

Pay close attention to your preaching.

Your theology.

Your leadership.

To the mission.

Pay close attention to the church.

But that is not where Paul begins.

He begins with Timothy and says, "Pay close attention to yourself."

The self.

The person.

The human being underneath the calling.

I wonder if Paul begins there because he understands something that churches—and pastors—often forget. A calling and an identity are not the same thing. There is a difference between the Gift and the Person.

Timothy is called to be a pastor.

But Timothy is not a pastor.

Timothy is Timothy. A beloved child of God who happens to be called into pastoral ministry.

And that distinction matters.

Because when a calling becomes an identity, over time, eventually the person underneath the persona begins to disappear.

And that, I think, is what this morning is about.

—-

As many of you know, this week we are sending Pastor Hope on sabbatical.

Now when churches talk about sabbaticals, there is a chance that what is happening will be misunderstood.

People assume a sabbatical is about rest.

Or taking a break.

Or rewarding someone for years of hard work.

Those things may be part of it, but I do not think they are the deepest reason churches grant sabbaticals.

Just like the Lord’s Supper, or baptism, sabbatical is an act of remembrance.

The gift of a sabbatical is when a congregation makes a bold theological statement to one of its pastors: Remember, before you are useful, you are beloved.

Before you are productive, you are beloved.

Before you are responsible for our children and families, you are beloved.

Before you are Pastor Hope, you are a dynamic, incredibly complex, and wonderful person named Hope.

And because you are beloved, your humanity matters.

We want to remember, and we want you to remember that before you ever became Pastor Hope, you were a beloved child of God – and you still are.

And we send you because we are fully aware that the title we give you, and the call we place on your life, and the work we ask you to do on our behalf, has the power to erase the other title that defines you.

Person Hope.

The reason I think giving a sabbatical, and our board giving a sabbatical, matters is because one of the great temptations of the church is to love what a pastor does more than who a pastor is.

We do not mean to.

In fact, we often call it appreciation.

We call it affirmation.

We call it gratitude.

We call it encouragement.

But over time, if we are not careful, we begin relating to pastors primarily through their usefulness.

And when usefulness becomes the primary relationship, personhood begins to disappear.

This is not because churches are cruel.

It is because churches are needy.

People arrive carrying grief.

Fear.

Questions.

Loss.

Shame.

Confusion.

People need prayer.

They need wisdom.

They need comfort.

They need help.

And pastors, because they care deeply, often respond by giving more and more of themselves.

That is beautiful.

It is also incredibly dangerous.

Because eventually the role can become totalizing.

Pastors are pastors in every setting before they are anything else.

Before they are sons or daughters,
Before they are spouses or friends,
Before they are grieving or uncertain or exhausted human beings…

They are pastors.

And after enough years, something begins to happen. Over time, the role slowly becomes totalizing, and before they realize it, or the congregation knows it, the identity of the pastor is limited to a robotic, dehumanized, caricature.

The pastor, in essence, becomes a partial person.

The role slowly expands until it occupies almost every room in the house.

The person underneath gets smaller and smaller.

And eventually many pastors wake up one day unable to answer a simple question:

Who am I apart from this role? They are misunderstood. Lonely. Isolated.

I think this is one reason so many pastors struggle.

Not because they are uniquely sinful.

But, because, regardless of what the expectations of them are, the truth is: they are uniquely weak.

I think this is why so many pastors quietly fall apart.

Some fall dramatically. Affairs. Addictions. Public scandals.

Others collapse more quietly.

Emotional detachment.

Depression.

Cynicism.

Compulsive behavior.

Numbness.

Sometimes what we call "workaholism."

But I am no longer convinced that most pastors are simply working too much. I wonder if something deeper is happening.

I wonder if many pastors have become so identified with the role that they no longer know who they are apart from it.

The role becomes totalizing.

The self slowly disappears.

The Gift becomes more important than the Person.

And when a human being loses access to their own humanity, something eventually leaks out sideways.

Anger.

Avoidance.

Greed.

Lust.

Resentment.

Despair.

Then one day the dam bursts, and everyone is shocked.

Everyone except the pastor.

Because deep down they have known for years that the person underneath the role was disappearing.

Which may be exactly why Paul says to Timothy, "Pay close attention to yourself."

Because God cares about Timothy, not merely Timothy's usefulness.

But because they are uniquely vulnerable to forgetting where the role ends and the self begins.

And when a human being loses access to their own humanity, something eventually leaks out.

The kinds of stories that make headlines and leave congregations asking, "How could this happen?"

Sometimes the answer is sin.

But sometimes there is something deeper going on.

Human beings were not created to live as symbols.

Human beings were not created to live as roles.

Human beings were not created to spend their entire lives performing an identity for everyone else's sake.

The church rarely notices that the pastor is on the edge of collapse until it is too late. Because the collapse usually began years earlier when the person underneath the role started disappearing.

Which may be exactly why Paul says what he says.

"Pay close attention to yourself."

Because if Timothy loses Timothy, eventually the ministry loses Timothy too.

Because if the person disappears even if the pastor remains, everyone loses.

God cares about Timothy, not merely Timothy's usefulness.

And perhaps that is something the church has not always understood.

We have often been very good at protecting ministries.

Very good at protecting programs.

Very good at protecting institutions.

But protecting people?

Especially the people who lead?

That has often been harder.

Which is why I am grateful for the culture we are trying to build here at 8th Street Church.

We are trying to become the kind of congregation that refuses to consume the people called to serve it.

The kind of congregation that refuses to reduce people to their usefulness.

The kind of congregation that refuses to mistake a calling for an identity.

That is why we give sabbaticals.

Not because Pastor Hope is burned out (though she is very tired).

Not because she has earned a reward.

Not because we need a good personnel policy.

We do it because we know what can happen when a role becomes larger than a person.

We do it because we love our pastors enough to protect the human beings underneath the calling.

We do it because we believe no calling—not even pastoral ministry—should cost a person their humanity.

And I think this is bigger than pastors.

Because most of us know what it feels like to become trapped inside an identity.

Some of us became our careers.

Some became our responsibilities.

Some became our successes.

Some became our failures.

Some became our wounds.

Some became the expectations other people placed upon us.

And over time we forgot who we were beneath all of it.

But the good news is that God is always trying to rescue us from identities that consume us. The gospel is always trying to return us to ourselves.

Think about Jesus.

One of the things that fascinates me is how often Jesus walks away.

Crowds gather. Jesus leaves.

Demands increase. Jesus withdraws.

People are looking for him. Jesus disappears into prayer.

At first it almost seems irresponsible.

There are people who need him.

There is ministry to do.

There is work to accomplish.

But Jesus understands something we often forget.

Before he is teacher.

Before he is healer.

Before he is miracle worker.

Before he is Messiah.

He is beloved.

At his baptism, before he performs a single miracle, before he preaches a single sermon, before he heals a single person, the voice from heaven declares:

"This is my beloved Son."

Beloved before useful.

Beloved before productive.

Beloved before successful.

Beloved before responsible.

Beloved. Son. Period.

This is what we are affirming and confirming in Max and Anna’s baptism. Don’t ever forget: you are beloved.

Theologically, that is what sabbath has always been about. It is about practicing our baptism. Remembering that we are not enslaved to anything. Remembering that we are fully human. Remembering that we are fully free.

Remembering who we are beneath what we do.

Remembering that our value is not determined by our usefulness.

Remembering that belovedness comes before responsibility.

And that is what a sabbatical is too.

Not an act of retreat.

Not an act of escape.

Not even primarily an act of rest.

An act of remembrance.

So today we send Pastor Hope on sabbatical.

Not away from us.

Back toward herself.

Back toward the beloved child of God beneath the role.

And in doing so, we remind ourselves of something we all need to hear.

Before you are your job.

Before you are your title.

Before you are your accomplishments.

Before you are your failures.

Before you are whatever role has consumed you.

You are beloved.

The person is greater than the gift. And no calling—not even pastoral ministry—should ever cost you your humanity.