It’s simple: pastors are primarily teachers, and the goal of our teaching is the salvation of souls — a supernatural goal we can’t produce. This understanding leads us, naturally, to prayer. We ask God to do what only he can do, and this accompanies the task of preaching (and the whole of our work) with a heartfelt dependence on Jesus. And that’s where the power’s at.

For some, a single sentence has changed the trajectory of their ministry. For me, it was a paragraph from Richard Baxter’s classic book The Reformed Pastor.
Our whole work must be carried on under a deep sense of our own insufficiency, and of our entire dependence on Christ. We must go for light, and life, and strength to him who sends us on the work. And when we feel our own faith weak, and our hearts dull, and unsuitable to so great a work as we have to do, we must have recourse to him, and say, “Lord, wilt thou send me with such an unbelieving heart to persuade others to believe? Must I daily plead with sinners about everlasting life and everlasting death, and have no more belief or feeling of these weighty things myself? O, send me not naked and unprovided to the work; but as thou commandest me to do it, furnish me with a spirit suitable thereto.” Prayer must carry on our work as well as preaching; he preacheth not heartily to his people, that prayeth not earnestly for them. If we prevail not with God to give them faith and repentance we shall never prevail with them to believe and repent. (The Reformed Pastor, 105)
Richard Baxter has taught me at least three lessons that clarify the pastoral vocation and bring more of God’s power into the task of preaching. They’re summed up in the above passage, but I present them to pastors as a cascade, each point flowing from the one before it, starting with the fact that pastors are primarily teachers.
Pastors Are Primarily Teachers
Baxter (1615–1691), as the late J.I. Packer has described him, “usually called himself his people’s teacher, and teaching was to his mind the minister’s main task.” Baxter wrote his most famous book, The Reformed Pastor, to make this case, because he was convinced that unless pastors themselves understood their calling, there was little chance parishioners would. During Baxter’s day, and in ours, the question comes down to this: What are pastors for?
The New Testament makes it clear that pastors — the office of elder (presbyteros) or overseer (episkopos) — serve the church with official authority through teaching the apostolic gospel as handed down to us and preserved in the Bible. This is our chief task — a task that was widely understood in the early church and recovered during the Reformation, but that too often gets downplayed in our modern thinking.
To be sure, this downplaying is seen not so much in the church’s activity, but in the pastor’s own vocational clarity. When it comes to the church’s activity, most evangelical churches still feature the preaching moment as the high point of its weekly gatherings. Teaching has certainly not been abandoned, but I still doubt we appreciate its central place in how we conceive of our calling. I’m referring to the level of our basic self-understanding.
For example, imagine, pastor, that you meet a new neighbor and they ask you what you do for a living. You respond by saying, “I’m a pastor.” Now, doubtless, your neighbor has a category for that. They hear you say “pastor,” and they immediately picture something. At the bare minimum, especially if they’re secular, they hear you saying that you’re religious. Now what they think hardly matters, but what does matter, and what I’m most concerned about, is what you and I picture in our minds.
What are we thinking when we hear ourselves say, “I’m a pastor”? Do we think, as the New Testament would lead us, that we’re teachers? We should think that. Baxter would certainly say so.
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Schools that aim for prestige and “excellence” as the current American regime defines it are most likely to accommodate our culture’s presuppositions. Fewer “prestige” schools embrace a conservative Protestant social teaching that emphasizes marriage, recommends different roles for men and women, and shuns same-sex sex and same-sex marriage. Students interested in becoming doctors or lawyers might choose Baylor, SMU, or Wheaton. On the other hand, schools without signs of American decadence are less descript, their chief virtue being that they fail to promote vice.

The decline of Protestant higher education is manifest. At the time of their founding, most Protestant colleges and universities had a strong sense of mission, connected to preparing Christians for ministry, missions, and trades.
As James Tunstead Burtchaell documents in his meticulous Dying of the Light: The Disengagement of Colleges and Universities from their Christian Churches, school after school, in tradition after tradition, chose American respectability over fidelity to a distinctly Christian mission. This tome details how Congregationalists lost Dartmouth and Beloit; how the Presbyterians lost Lafayette and Davidson; how Baptists lost Wake Forest and Linfield; how Lutherans lost Gettysburg, St. Olaf, and Concordia; how Catholics lost Boston College and Saint Mary’s College of California; and how Evangelicals lost Azusa Pacific.
What emerges is a science of higher education apostasy. Schools worry about being perceived as “sectarian,” as it is defined at different times. University programs multiply, necessitating departmental hiring. Faculty become beholden to professional standards over school missions. The administration wants prestigious faculty and progressively sheds faithfulness and piety from job descriptions. Faculty statements of faith “devolve from active membership in the sponsoring church or denomination to nominal membership, to acceptance of the college’s own faith statement, to silent toleration of the ill-specified purposes of the institution.” Chapels, vestiges of old missions, become the only “sectarian” event on campus—and then they fade, becoming optional or inclusively non-sectarian. Once controversies swirl about chapel, their light is already dying out.
Soon Christian colleges begin speaking the language of intellectual freedom and diversity of opinion while they water down and then drop distinctively Christian mission statements. New monies from alumni and government replace old denominational money. Governance moves from the denomination to the alumni or to those who know the college president. Eventually, Protestant schools, as Burtchaell writes, end up “judging the church by the academy and the gospel by the culture.”
As American culture shifts, so do Christian colleges. While it was possible, earlier, to entertain the idea that American culture was not anti-Christian, that is no longer the case with the ideology of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI), which is presently conquering Christian universities. Universities are now “welcoming” but not faithful to the truth; they embrace “diversity” but not the Savior of the nations. Christian schools commonly defile themselves in conforming to transgender ideology, same-sex marriage, queer theory, and perpetual singleness.
Burtchaell’s Dying tells much the same story as George Marsden’s The Soul of the American University and as does James F. Keating’s “Who Killed the Catholic University?” Every school’s decline is different in the specifics, but every such story is also broadly the same. The mechanisms of prestige and government money absorb Christian universities into Americanism. Maintaining Christian distinctives requires a deep, abiding commitment to tradition and a jealous guarding of mission against imperial Americanism. Protestant higher education hardly specializes in these traits, and neither do Catholic schools.
A list of apostate universities is much longer than any list of holdouts. David Goodwin, President of the K-12 Association of Classical Christian Schools, which now boasts more than 500 schools, tells me that “the number one question he hears is ‘where should I send my graduate to college?’” Are there universities that Christian parents can still trust?
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Written by Grover E. Gunn |
Monday, November 14, 2022
Notice what Paul said, “Such were some of you, but you were washed.” The converted sinner must no longer identify with the sin that once enslaved him. He must be willing to say, “That is what I once was, but that is not what I now am. For the old me that once was has been crucified with Christ.”

In Genesis 35, God appeared to Jacob while he was living in Shechem. God then specifically commanded Jacob to return to Bethel and to erect an altar of worship there. Now that God had fulfilled His promise to take care of Jacob during his flight from home, Jacob needed to fulfill the vow that he had made there at Bethel decades earlier. Jacob’s time of halfway obedience was over, and now he obeyed God as the angels obey God in heaven. Jacob obeyed fully and without delay.
Jacob prepared his household for an encounter with God. Some in Jacob’s household may have possessed some idols that they had taken with them from Padan Aram. You might remember the household idols that Rachel had taken from her father Laban. Others in Jacob’s household probably possessed idols that they had recently plundered from the city of Shechem. Certain earrings were also idols.
There was nothing intrinsically evil about an earring shaped, for example, like a crescent moon. There was, however, an extrinsic problem with such jewelry in a culture where such a shape was associated with a moon god or goddess.
Jacob told his household to put away all such idols. Valuable as these objects might have been, everyone, without delay or resistance or complaint, turned such objects over to Jacob, who then buried them. The word here translated “hid” can refer to hiding for later retrieval, like a pirate’s burying treasure on an isolated island. The word can also refer to hiding something that needs to remain hidden, like Moses’ burying the Egyptian whom he had slain in his days as a prince in Egypt. In this context, the meaning is hiding something to remain hidden because what is being hidden is something forbidden.
In addition to putting away their idols, Jacob commanded everyone to put on new clothes. This is similar to how Israel prepared to meet God at Mount Sinai under Moses by washing their clothes. Both changing clothes and washing clothes can symbolize changing one’s character through a spiritual renewal. The Apostle Paul later used this symbolism when he commanded Christians to put off their sinful ways of living and to put on righteous ways of living. The Spirit of God must have been moving in Jacob’s household because they obeyed both his commands without questioning them.
This principle of burying idols and changing clothes continues to apply today. For example, if a man today seeks to be ordained as a minister or elder or deacon, then he needs to bury his idols and change his clothes. There are those who have engaged in homosexual acts in the past, who now claim to be converted and called to ordained service in the church. This is possible, even as the Apostle Paul made the transition from persecutor of the church to sacred apostle.
Yet some who make this claim today refuse to bury their idols and change their clothes. They say that their sinful desires are an aspect of their essential self that cannot be changed. They refer to themselves as gay Christians. Some continue to dress and groom in ways that culturally identify them as homosexuals. Some continue to participate in and celebrate certain identifying aspects of homosexual culture.
Our response to this must be an insistence that men bury their idols and change their clothes as a minimal requirement for being ordained as ministers or elders or deacons. Our response in new covenant terms must be the like the statement of the Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 6:9-11:
Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? … And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.
Notice what Paul said, “Such were some of you, but you were washed.” The converted sinner must no longer identify with the sin that once enslaved him. He must be willing to say, “That is what I once was, but that is not what I now am. For the old me that once was has been crucified with Christ.” How much more this should be true of those who seek to be ordained as officers in the church.
Dr. Grove Gunn is a Minister in the Presbyterian Church in America and is Pastor of the MacDonald PCA in Collins, Miss.
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