PK
The Tragedy and Triumph of Growing Up as a Pastor’s Kid
Robert Litzinger
PK: The Tragedy and Triumph of Growing Up as a Pastor’s Kid Copyright 2011 Robert Litzinger - Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.
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Cover design by Jason Francia. Cover photo by Amber Litzinger, Copyright 2011 Joyful Life Photography. Cover model: Dan Litzinger.
Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
The "NIV" and "New International Version" are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™
Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked "NKJV™" are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked (CEV) are from the Contemporary English Version Copyright © 1991, 1992, 1995 by American Bible Society, Used by Permission.
contents
5—an introduction to the world
6—surviving in this sinful world
12—the classroom of loss and pain
13—self-leadership in the moment of crisis
14—be careful what you pray for
17—doing what’s right in front of you
24—healing begins with revelation
25—healing begins with a decision
26—healing begins with determination
28—healing begins with us, but affects the generations
29—a passionate prayer for pk’s
dedication
To my mom and dad who never really succeeded at pastoring, but raised three boys who would all at some point be in full-time ministry. Something worked. To my wife’s parents who poured their lives into their sons-in-law and raised girls that love God and love people. To those who patiently mentored me throughout my life, offering discipline and great advice ... mentors saved my life.
acknowledgements
For many years I felt the deep conviction that my story had greater meaning. I’m passionate about this story because really, it’s His Story that I get to live. I knew I needed to get it written down; to get it into the hands of those who needed to hear the heartache and the hope of my life. But I don’t like to write. So how does someone who isn’t a writer end up writing a book? One word: people.
I’d like to thank my wife for her unending support of me and my passion. I love walking together with you, Cindy. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks to my kids, Andrew, India, Jenn, Kaley, Lacey and Torey for allowing me the extra time it took to get these thoughts finally onto paper. I love all of you.
Next is the team of many volunteers who edited, revised, and shaped this book from rough ideas and sermon notes into a book that I hope brings you, the reader, on a journey from hurt to healing. Thanks to my hard working editors: Dan Theisen, Tara Brown and LeeAnn Perelli-Minetti. You actually like to do that stuff? Amazing!
And I can’t say enough about my church family. Thanks to my elder team, pastoral care team, apprentices, ministry leaders, and all of the servants who make running a busy, growing church possible. At Church for Life, we love doing LIFE together!
And last of all, thank, you, Jesus for loving me even when I didn’t love your bride.
introduction
When I think about where I am today, sometimes it’s hard to believe that it is me. The fact that I have an amazing marriage—a miracle. The fact that I love people—a miracle. The fact that I love church people—a miracle beyond belief. The fact that all three Litzinger boys have been in full-time ministry serving God and serving His church—humbling.
My main goal is to write to the pastor’s kids who suffered like I did. I am sharing my story to help them, primarily, but some of the suffering I endured is universal. We all struggle with things from our past and must overcome our own fears and faults. So, whether you’re a PK or not, this story will change your heart if you are brave enough to read it.
In the following pages, I will tell my story as distinctly as I can remember it. I am not a writer. I am actually not much of a reader either (although I force myself to be). Yet every time I met a PK and saw the struggle inside, my heart began to do something that for a long time I didn’t understand. I believe I have been called to specifically work with PKs. I have known for years there is something in me I can use to help PKs, but getting it out has been hard—harder than I thought.
If I can set out one clean glass of fresh water for you before we start, it is this: I believe there is a special destiny for pastor’s kids … but it is oh-so-hard to grab. Not because we can’t see, but because of what we have seen.
For every reader out there, PK or not, I pray this personal note will take your experience from a liability to an asset, understanding:
"This is the message we have heard from Him and declare to you: God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all."
1 John 1:5 (NIV)
1—the vow
People began to sit on different sides of the church. It got that bad. One side liked my dad, and the other did not. We all knew that. My dad tried his hardest; he about killed himself trying to please everyone, trying to be as humble as possible so people would be cool. But this Sunday night, it was not cool. They had called in the conference president to speak.
The night before, we’d had a meeting in the musty, dark basement normally reserved for kid’s church. It felt like more of a dungeon that night. At 15 years old, I demanded to go. I wanted to protect my dad in the worst way. I didn’t want to see that look of hurt on his face again. I didn’t want to deal with the three days of darkness and depression that would descend on our house after a meeting like this. Amazingly, I was convincing enough that my parents let me go.
The "sheep" complained about my dad’s leaving the outside light on all night at the church-owned house we had the "privilege" of living in. They said he was wasting precious church resources. My brother worked late until two or three in the morning and Dad left the light on for him. They didn’t care. They complained about his reading and referring to newspaper articles or current events out of magazines. "Read the Word. That’s all we need. We can read the paper at home," they would say. They also complained about my job at a call center where we took orders for many companies, some of which they didn’t think were "good companies."
On and on they went, complaint after complaint, until my dad looked totally defeated.
He had his hands folded on his lap, looking at the floor. Mom sat with a tissue in her hand, her shoulders slumped, trying not make eye contact.
No one stood up for him. No one came to his rescue. I wanted to. I wanted to tear into this bunch of Pharisees. I was seething, but I didn’t protect my dad … no one did.
See, I had said something once before. When I was seven or eight, I used to stand by the back door with dad as he greeted all the people as they left the service. There was an unspoken rule. The service would go no more than one hour exactly. One Wednesday night, my dad had a particularly fun message. He was in good humor, feeling good. I loved him like that. It wasn’t too often those days though. Since he really got into the message, he went a bit long—maybe 10 minutes over.
The vow I made that night would take many years… and the Holy Spirit to break.
He was still feeling good as he stood by the back door; then it happened. One of the old ladies walked up, tapped her watch and said, "You just can’t do it, can you? You just can’t seem to end on time."
I saw my dad’s face fall, as a look of defeat that overcame him … and I snapped. I began to scream, "I hate you, you old biddie! I hate you! I hate all of you!" I was crying and yelling, blubbering.
My dad swooped me up and ran me outside and began to cry with me. "Rob, we can’t do this. We can’t act this way. You can’t say things like that. I’m so sorry, Rob. I’m sorry."
As I have contemplated over the years, I think that was the moment—the moment when I declared in my little heart, "I hate the church. I hate church people, and as long as I live, I will never put myself in the position of being taken advantage of." The vow I made that night would take many years, many mentoring hours, and the supernatural work of the Holy Spirit to break. Even with all of the work that has gone on inside me, this is still my number one core fear today: the fear of being taken advantage of.
I stand guard against this fear every day. I find myself spending hours driving around town to all the office stores, checking the internet, looking at all the sale flyers … just to save $10. If I were to calculate my hourly time, I figure I would have wasted about $300 trying to save $10. This vow I made as a little boy still affects both the things I do and decisions I make. These little vows continue to wreak havoc throughout life.
QUESTIONS:
What vows or firm decisions have you made along the way in your journey?
How are those vows or decisions affecting you today?
Are you being held captive by decisions you made out of self-protection?
When are you going to break free?
What crazy statement(s) have you spoken that still might be affecting your decisions?
2—the vote
We left the meeting where everyone had complained and never said one word. I had been "trained better." I walked out, having left my dad without backup. I felt guilty and ashamed. I should have rocked those people’s worlds, yet then I would be like them, wouldn’t I? My dad crawled into the comfort of his darkness, retreating away from my brothers and me, from my mom, and from the world. He was not even mad, just hurt. He had given everything, and it wasn’t enough.
We chatted with the conference president that night, and he said the people were wrong. So why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he defend my dad? I began to mistrust leadership and authority.
To this day, my mom and dad still will not talk about what happened next. The conference president stood at the pulpit for the Sunday night service and said, "Tonight we will break bread and offer forgiveness to one another and begin the process of healing this church."
Now I still don’t know who spoke first, but before I knew it, people were yelling, accusing, and talking bad about my dad. One side was defending him … while the other was accusing him of the stupidest things. These things were nothing sinful, just petty. Some were lies, such as my dad was not making his required monthly visits to their homes. My mom started to cry, which she rarely ever did. My brothers and I began to cry. Our dad was being ripped apart in public, right in front of us. He had stood up to try and defend himself and was being shouted down. Mom grabbed our hands and dragged us to the altar, saying through her sobs, "Pray boys! Just pray!" We did pray.
As we knelt at the altar, all I could hear was my mom’s wailing and my dad’s trying to defend himself. I felt so helpless. Darkness was filling my heart. I hated these people. We prayed the fire that fell on the grumbling Israelites would consume these people behind us. We prayed these people would die.
That night, over half the church stormed out and never came back. My dad was never the same. Years before this happened, I remember my dad as funny, dynamic, and friendly. He was my hero, a man of faith who lived his life in service to the King of Kings, caring for the people around him. He would carry their burdens with them when they met with tough times. He preached with energy and enthusiasm from the front of the church. He was living his life in humble submission to Jesus, showing others the way they could have a great relationship with their Savior as well.
Our church robbed him of all of that. When we were kids, on one Wednesday of every year, we—the pastor and his family—stayed home while the rest of the people went to church and voted on us. Afterwards, some pitiful old lady would stop by afterwards and give us the thumbs up or the thumbs down.
We lived under a microscope. The congregation watched our every move; some of them even shared our backyard. What could have been respectful accountability became invasion and intrusion into our daily lives. Dad’s position as the pastor was at the whim and mercy of the congregation and board. If they didn’t like what he was telling them, we’d all lose our home, our friends, our neighbors—everything.
One thing I knew: I loved God, but I hated His people.
Looking back, it is no surprise he fell into the funk that he still lives in today. We had a tent in the backyard that we had set up to play in. One day, I looked outside; my dad was in there, just hiding from the world. Soon after that, he walked away from ministry saying, "You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to preach." All he wanted to do was build a house in the middle of cornfields where you couldn’t see anyone and didn’t have any neighbors. That’s exactly what they did. It’s where they live today in Ohio. My wife, kids, and I recently visited them. We were just there. The corn was 12 feet high on all four sides of their acreage. There were no people and no sounds. They were there just hiding in their hurts. My dad is a shell of the man he used to be.
One thing I knew: I loved God, but I hated His people. My brothers and I used to say, "If it’s preach or go to hell, that’s an easy one." We usually left the rest unsaid.
It is a miracle of grace that both of my brothers now attend and serve at Church for Life where I pastor today. As I tell these stories in my messages or in our leadership classes, my brothers tell me they have pushed these events down so far, they have forgotten them. Even so, the toxins are still there, seeping through in everything we do. We have all had our journeys of restoration, but God has been good to us, walking us to healing and healthy productive ground again.
He is a good shepherd, and He will lead us into green pastures and beside still waters.
QUESTIONS:
How have you been hurt as a Pastor’s Kid?
How have your past experiences affected your relationships with others?
If you have, when did you begin to get cynical?
Was there a moment when darkness flooded your heart?
Have you found yourself acting in ways that you don’t like, but feel unable to stop?
3—the big world
It was with a bitter and broken heart I entered the "big world." Except for kindergarten and one year in a Christian school, we were homeschooled. I had just turned 18, and as much as I loved my mom and dad … I couldn’t stay. I moved 11 hours away from New York to Ohio. I cried for three days when my parents left me in Ohio. I didn’t know until years later that my mom and dad had to pull over just out of sight because they were crying so hard.
My childhood had been a good, loving, caring time together those last 18 years; yet it had been hard too. My dad wasn’t the same; he has still never recovered. Still to this day, my mom shakes when we talk about past church issues or when some kind of conflict arises.
But there I was now, on my own. I was now responsible for my own life. I left home as soon as I turned 18. To this day my dad asks, "Why did you have to leave so quickly?" I had a great relationship with my mom and dad; I just couldn’t stand being around all those church people any more. I was afraid I would end up defeated like my dad; or worse, God would call me to follow my dad as a pastor. I turned 18 and fled. I moved a long day’s drive away, near Columbus, Ohio. I bought my own place and began to fight for my vision for my life.
I was going to go to Ohio State University, become a lawyer, and fight everybody in the world I didn’t agree with. I really wanted to fight for God, but the desire was out of justice and anger … not mercy.
I subscribed to the Christian Law Association newsletter, listened to every political debate I could, and began my personal conquest to right every wrong in the world.
A simple word for it was arrogance.
I argued with everyone about everything. I brought up every explosive subject you could think of and was armed with so much information that I could run circles around most people who bit on my toxic, shiny little fishing lure. I honed my skills, sharpened my tongue, and, like Saul in the New Testament, harassed, stabbed and killed people with my words "all in the name of God."
You can’t change your history until you’ve come to grips with your story.
In reality, I was acting like a jerk, even siding with Satan. I was trying my best to protect myself and ensure that no one could put me in a place where I would be at his mercy like my dad had been.
The better I got at it, the more arrogant I became. I told myself, "I will never let myself be beaten by anyone, no matter what the cost." I took it way too far, ruined many relationships, and isolated myself from so many people. Worst of all, I was a terrible reflection of Christ. It was all rooted in a vow I made that one Wednesday night after church when some old lady accosted my dad. So I vowed: "I will never let myself be taken advantage of."