Holding the Space: Pastors as Christ’s Lieutenants

 

Pastoral ministry isn’t about taking charge.
It’s not about commanding a flock, projecting certainty, or occupying the centre.
At least, it shouldn’t be.

And yet, we’ve built churches around exactly these assumptions.
We appoint leaders to cast vision, drive growth, manage strategy, and protect the brand. We adopt the language of CEOs and influencers. We expect performance, charisma, confidence.
But somewhere along the way, we stopped asking whether this looks anything like Christ.

So I want to offer a different image.
It might sound odd at first, even inappropriate. But that’s part of the point. Sometimes it takes an unfamiliar metaphor to shake us free from the familiar ones that no longer serve us.

What if the pastor is best understood as a placeholder, not a temporary stand-in, but one who holds the space for Christ?
What if the pastor’s calling is not to lead from the front but to be present in the middle, holding open a space where Christ can be encountered, trusted, followed?

Surprisingly, this image is hidden in the roots of a word we might otherwise discard: lieutenant.
From the French lieu (place) and tenant (holding), a lieutenant is literally "one who holds the place."
Not the one in ultimate command, but one entrusted to be present on behalf of another.

Yes, the word carries military weight. Yes, the church has too often mirrored the power structures of empire.
But maybe the awkwardness of the metaphor is precisely what we need. If we strip the word back to its roots, we’re not left with a soldier barking orders. We’re left with someone entrusted to hold the place for someone else.
Not power, but presence. Not dominance, but attentiveness.

This is not the model of leadership found in church growth seminars or leadership podcasts. But it may be closer to the leadership of Jesus.

To be a pastor in this light is not to perform, impress, or manage outcomes.
It is to hold the space Christ has opened in the world.
To hold it with reverence, with tenderness, with courage.
To remain there, long enough and quietly enough, that Christ’s presence can be recognised.

As Paul writes to the Corinthians:

“We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.”
(2 Cor. 4:5–7)

This is a vision of ministry rooted not in strength but in weakness, not in status but in service.
We are not the source of grace, but the ones who hold the space in which grace is made visible.
We are not the light, but those who keep the lampstand trimmed and ready.

And make no mistake, this kind of ministry is deeply countercultural.
In a world addicted to noise, speed, and control, pastors are called to a different way.
We are not empire-builders. We are space-holders.
We are not empire-defenders. We are witnesses to a kingdom not built by human hands.

It is the daily, often unseen work of pastoral ministry:
– The stillness we refuse to fill with platitudes
– The pain we choose to stay present with
– The conversations we hold open with patient love
– The worship we prepare not to impress, but to welcome the holy
– The tensions we bear without demanding resolution

To hold the space well means resisting two powerful temptations.

The first is to fill the space with ourselves, our charisma, our certainty, our urgency.
We are told this is leadership. But when we centre ourselves, we risk eclipsing Christ.

The second is to vacate the space altogether, through burnout, cynicism, or a false humility that whispers, “You’re not enough.” But this too is a distortion. The call is not to disappear, but to remain, present, faithful, even when uncertain. Especially when uncertain.

To be a pastor, then, is to hold the space for Christ.
Not to dominate it. Not to disappear from it.
But to inhabit it attentively, sacrificially, and with fierce gentleness.

This is not glamorous work.
It won’t make you famous. It won’t go viral. It won’t always look like “leadership.”
But it is holy work.

It is the sacred act of creating room, for Christ to be seen, for grace to be trusted, for the Spirit to move.

This kind of ministry is not a stepping stone to real influence. It is real influence, precisely because it refuses to manipulate or control.
It is the quiet subversion of a culture obsessed with power.
It is the patient insistence that God is already at work, even if we aren’t in charge.

We are placeholders of grace.
Clay jars, holding treasure.
Stewards of a presence we cannot manufacture.
Pastors, yes, but perhaps, too, Christ’s lieutenants.

Not generals. Not strategists. Not commanders.
But those who hold the place.

So hold it well.
Hold it with trust.
Hold it with reverence.
And Christ will be known.