“Well, this is fitting, isn’t it?”
Those were the words I mumbled to myself as I turned the corner and started limping down the corridor toward the glass-enclosed conference room at Midwestern Baptist Seminary. I’m not using “limping” as a metaphor. My first battle with plantar fasciitis was in full swing, and I could barely walk without wincing in pain.
As I looked up, I could see my dissertation committee waiting at the executive table, laptops and papers scattered about like I was being summoned before a secret underground war council.
The committee was made up of godly, patient, kindhearted men who had helped me throughout my studies. So, unsurprisingly, they greeted me warmly as I entered the room.
I assured them my limp wasn’t done to garner their pity, but that I hoped it wouldn’t hurt. I can’t remember if they laughed, but I can tell you this: I wasn’t laughing. Defending a paper I’d spent over a year writing was the least funny thing in the world at that moment. And my limp was just one hard providence in a long season of struggles. My oral defense was an experience I’d not soon forget. Why? Because seminary broke me.
Let me be clear. The problem wasn’t seminary. It was me.
The problem wasn’t seminary. It was me.
I’m a creative type, so academia challenges my preference for more organic and improvisational learning. I’m certainly not opposed to growing my intellect, but reading academic books, writing research papers, and making technical arguments is to me the equivalent of assembling IKEA shelving units. God hasn’t blessed me with a heart or mind eager to navigate complexities in a stimulating and life-giving way. My mind just gets dizzy.
At this point, you’re probably thinking, Hey buddy, nobody forced you to do this. And you’re right. I chose to do something I knew would go against the grain of my natural abilities and interests. But here’s what I wasn’t expecting to happen: God humbled me.
What I Learned
Seminary taught me so much.
1. I learned I have a lot to learn.
Being a lead pastor (or in any ministry role) can play tricks on your mind. People call on you to provide wisdom so often and for so many things that you can begin to “believe your own hype.” You can assume your knowledge about theology, relationships, leadership, counseling, pastoring, preaching, and life in general is far beyond what it is.
When a pastor begins to think of himself as an expert at everything, it’ll hurt him. As Paul says, “If anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself” (Gal. 6:3).
Seminary showed me my knowledge only scratched the surface. As someone who preaches weekly, has authored many books and articles, and has spoken at a variety of churches, conferences, and retreats, I was sobered to receive assignments so marked up that I wondered if I grasped theology at a Sunday school level.
Of course, the most important thing isn’t adding knowledge (though that’s important); it’s what our knowledge can do to us if it’s not constantly being forged in the refining fires of humility: “‘Knowledge’ puffs up, but love builds up. If anyone imagines that he knows something, he does not yet know as he ought to know” (1 Cor. 8:1–2).
God graciously used seminary to provide me with a more pronounced limp. The classroom surrounded me with so many brilliant students and professors that “faking it” wasn’t going to work. Nor should it have. Seminary challenged me at every corner, and it changed me, sharpened me, and brought me to my knees.
Which is the place we’re supposed to be.
2. I learned to appreciate the scholarly men and women who paved the way for my learning.
If you’ve been to seminary, you know it comes with a lot of required reading. Academic reading can be tedious. But one thing it taught me was to appreciate the men and women who did the research and writing so I could learn the truths I lacked. When I think of the technical commentaries I studied for my dissertation, my mind is boggled by the level of research and intellect that goes into writing even one of them.
In all my academic angst, God gave me an appreciation for those writers who use their gifts to train and equip pastors and leaders around the world. I may consider myself a practical theologian, but I need good theology before I can be practical. That’s why I’m so grateful for the people God has gifted to be scholarly theologians.
3. I learned the most important thing about seminary wasn’t the degree.
Most of us seminarians have our eyes on the prize. We’ve paid good money and spent precious hours to achieve a goal we hope pays dividends down the line. Our spouses, kids, churches, and friends have paid something too.
I believe seminary is a privilege, and I’m grateful the Lord has been gracious enough to open this door for me not once but three times in my ministry journey. Yet I can’t express what a traumatic experience it was (even if my opening story seems like I’m making light of it now).
I may consider myself a practical theologian, but I need good theology before I can make it practical.
While in seminary, I felt like God was laying me low intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. I felt out of my element. The demands to perform kept me in a constant state of doubt about my abilities, and I wondered why I was putting myself through all the anguish. I questioned my motivations for going in the first place, and this surfaced in my comfort-driven tendencies in life as a whole. I battled with guilt over the sacrifices of my wife, Melissa. She endured with so much patience and encouragement that her name should be featured on my diploma.
After it was over, I learned the most important thing about seminary wasn’t the degree. It was that the Lord broke me down in areas that had become blind spots. I’d unconsciously believed that the persona I’d developed as a pastor, preacher, and speaker was enough to cover my lack of inner development.
Seminary showed me that my intellectual inefficiencies and somewhat sour relationship with academic training were the fruit of a spiritual deficiency: my tendency to draw back from anything resembling discomfort.
In the End
Two hours into my oral defense (could’ve been two days), I miraculously passed, and that was simply because there’s a God in heaven who loves me and a committee who loved God enough to shower me with mercy.
It was a surreal moment for my committee chair to put his hand out and say, “Congratulations, Dr. Martin.” Some tears found their way through, but I’m not sure if it was due to the relief I felt in that moment or the pain throbbing in my foot.
In the end, seminary didn’t break me after all. God did. He used something good but uncomfortable in my life to usher me into greater maturity. That’s how his grace and mercy become evident in us all. I may never pursue another degree, but I’ll never forget how God pursued me through this one.
And isn’t that so fitting of God?
