The Overlooked Skills That Make or Break a Pastor, Part 2

Choosing Your Quirks Well

A few years ago, I was staying with a friend who was training for the ministry. I had traveled in from out of town, and my shirt was wrinkled from the suitcase. I asked where the dryer was so I could toss it in for a quick refresh.

His wife had a slight smirk. “Oh, we don’t have a dryer,” she said. “We use drying racks.”

Now, this wasn’t a money issue. They were doing just fine financially. So I asked why they didn’t have a dryer. I honestly don’t remember the exact explanation—it might’ve had to do with stewardship, or something else entirely.

But I do remember what I told them:
You only get so many quirks as a pastor.

That might sound trivial, but it’s not. Because if you’re the kind of people who don’t own a dryer—who line your home with racks and clips and damp socks—it won’t just be your thing. Some young woman, maybe a new wife or mom, will come over, see how you do laundry, and think this must be the better way. And then, before long, you’ve got a church full of drying racks, not because Scripture commanded it, but because the pastor’s wife did it that way.

I had another guy tell me he wanted to go into ministry but didn’t wear shoes. He believed shoes were wrecking everyone’s posture and destroying natural foot health. I didn’t argue. I just said, “If you’re going to be a pastor, you’re probably going to have to wear shoes. You don’t want to burn your influence on convincing people that barefoot is best. That’s not the hill you want to die on.”

Here’s the thing I’ve had to learn, mostly by trial and error:

I’ve got my own odd ticks and quirks. I tend to read and study topics most people wouldn’t even think about. I’ll spend an afternoon analyzing the Patterson-Gimlin film or reading about how the rise of American serial killers might be connected to post–World War II fatherlessness and the collapse of family authority structures. Fascinating stuff, but not the kind of thing most people want in casual conversation.

And early on in ministry, I’d just let it spill out. We’d be talking about parenting, or a Bible passage, or even something normal like sports, and suddenly I’m tying it back to Bigfoot or the golden age of FBI profiling. Every once in a while, it was fun and memorable. But too much of it, and I just came off as eccentric and disconnected.

That’s when I realized:
You’re always spending influence.
Every sermon, every conversation, every dinner table interaction—it’s all making withdrawals from a limited account. And if you spend too much of that on your quirks, you won’t have enough left when it’s time to teach something hard or confront sin or lead people through suffering.

I still have my interests. I’m still reading weird books and rabbit-trailing into obscure history. But I’ve learned to throttle it for the sake of the church and the mission. Because ministry isn’t about expressing your full, unfiltered personality. It’s about feeding sheep.

And sheep don’t need to know about cryptids or forensic psychology. They need help loving their spouses, discipling their kids, forgiving their enemies, and following Jesus for a lifetime.

So here’s my advice to young pastors:
Wear shoes. Use a dryer. Keep the Bigfoot theories to yourself, unless a campfire calls for them. You only get a few of these quirks, spend them well.