It started with a card.
The day I was ordained, my wife, Ruth, handed me a simple card. No flashy design. No long message inside. Just a handwritten note and a message from the first chapter of the Book of Ruth:
Wherever you go, I will go.
Your people will be my people,
and your God, my God.
I’d read that verse countless times before, but that day it landed differently. My wife wasn’t just quoting Scripture. She was naming a promise; a calling. A willingness to walk with me even when the path was uncertain.
I had no idea how literal her words would become — that one day we would leave our home in Scotland, cross an ocean and plant roots in a new country, unsure if we’d be allowed to stay.
But that’s how ministry goes, isn’t it? We think we’re stepping into something stable. Predictable. But often we find ourselves standing on shifting ground.
Now, as a pastor in the U.S., in a vibrant and faithful congregation in Missouri, I find myself leading not from a place of certainty, but from the threshold. The in-between. That strange space where you’re holding other people’s fears while quietly shouldering your own.
In 2023, a change in U.S. visa policy for religious workers left thousands of clergy, myself included, unable to renew our visas, even with approved green card petitions. Despite serving a congregation full time and receiving overwhelming support from both church and community, I can’t apply for permanent residency. Some estimates suggest it could take 17 to 20 years before I’m eligible to stay.
I recognize that my position is different from that of folks who are being arrested on the street; I don’t fear that. Still, it’s a strange thing, preaching about hope while wondering if you’ll be deported.
I’m discovering that leadership, in this season, isn’t about having the right answers. It’s about holding space.
Harvard leadership expert Ronald Heifetz talks about adaptive leadership, how true leadership doesn’t solve technical problems with quick fixes, but instead helps communities face loss, embrace change and discover new ways of being.
That sounds noble. But in practice? It looks a lot like sitting in uncertainty, staying grounded amid panic and trusting that transformation can grow in hard soil.
As a pastor, and in my earlier career with Police Scotland, I’ve learned how to regulate my own anxiety while others look for stability; name grief without being consumed by it; and build trust not by control, but by consistent presence.
I’m discovering that adaptive leadership is as much spiritual as it is strategic. It’s not about charisma or cleverness, it’s about showing up. Over and over again. Especially when you’re tired. Especially when you’re unsure. Especially when the ground beneath you doesn’t feel secure.
Over the years I’ve mentored and trained many new pastors, in Scotland and in the U.S., and I keep seeing the same pattern. Our seminaries do an excellent job forming theologians. But pastors? That’s a different skill set.
Too many clergy are sent into complex congregational systems without the tools they need to lead well. Emotional regulation, systemic awareness, boundaries, feedback, resilience. These aren’t electives, they’re essentials.
In policing, we were trained to read a room, de-escalate tension and stay calm under pressure. Ministry demands the same. But often, pastors are handed commentaries when what they really need is coaching.
Churches don’t change because someone gives them a better strategy. They change when they discover a new story.
And every congregation carries stories: of faith and fracture, of memory and mission, of grief and grace. Good pastoral leadership helps people name those stories, especially the ones no one wants to tell. The ones about loss, about fear, about the way things used to be.
The most transformative seasons I’ve walked through with congregations haven’t come from a new vision statement or a revamped worship schedule. They’ve come from moments of deep listening, shared tears, honest prayer and a slow reframing of what it means to be God’s people now.
Strategy matters. But empathy is the engine.
These past months have taught me more about trust than any seminary class ever could. I’ve had to learn a new version of my own story and lead my congregation in theirs.
I’ve held Bible studies while waiting for immigration updates. I’ve baptized babies while wondering if I’ll be here to confirm them. I’ve walked with grieving families while grieving, quietly, my own lack of agency.
And in all of that, I’ve discovered something holy.
This liminal space, the place between “not yet” and “maybe never,” has become a sacred classroom. It’s taught me to slow down. To rely on others. To listen for God in the waiting.
I’ve found solace in the stories of Scripture: Moses, unsure but still going forward. Paul, writing letters from places of confinement and uncertainty. And of course Ruth, choosing fidelity over security.
There’s a kind of spiritual clarity that only emerges when you’re no longer in control. Maybe it’s the same clarity Jesus discovered in the garden when he pleaded for the cup to be taken from him.
If nothing else, this experience has deepened my ability to walk with others who find themselves on the margins — immigrants, transitional pastors, anxious laypeople, exhausted leaders.
Sometimes they don’t need a solution. They need a witness. Someone to say: I see you. I know this space. You’re not alone here.
That’s what pastoral presence means to me now. Not fixing things. Just showing up. Bearing witness. Staying with.
The church doesn’t need perfect leaders. It needs present ones.
If you find yourself waiting — on answers, on healing, on clarity — you’re not failing. You’re being formed.
Ministry isn’t about certainty anymore, if it ever was. It’s about courage. Courage that feels not like a police officer at the door, but like someone standing quietly at the threshold, holding out a hand and whispering: God is still here.
And sometimes, it starts with a simple card.
Wherever you go, I will go.
Your people will be my people.
And your God will be my God.
