He writes the plan and prints the page. He reminds the team and unlocks the building. He fires up the furnace and shovels the drive. He thanks the volunteers and tests the coffee. He opens the doors and greets the elderly. He shakes the hands and kisses the babies. He passes the plates and announces the events. He inspires the saints and encourages the brokenhearted. He breaks down the tables and locks the doors. He’s an Executive Pastor.
Don’t call him an associate pastor; he’s still going to be here in five years. Don’t call him a business manager; he’s a prayerful shepherd and overseer of a flock. Don’t call him a senior pastor; he’s secure in himself and has nothing to prove. He’s an Executive Pastor.
He rolls down the street in his battle-tested 17-year old Toyota SUV, sunglasses on, flannel sleeve out the window, toothpick in teeth. Is that an old school lumberjack or a visionary organizational architect? Yes. He’s an Executive Pastor.
He needs no office, no smartphone; the city is his office, his flip phone never drops a call. He’s a throwback to a different era, a soldier in civilian’s clothes and a theologian in boots. He’s an Executive Pastor.
Go on and prepare your notes, write your books and run your conferences. Get your doctorates, take your sabbaticals and sleep in til 7am. Things over at the church are covered. We’ve got our guy there. He’s an Executive Pastor.