In his “hierarchy of needs” the American psychologist, Abraham Maslow, cited “shelter” as one of six fundamental physiological needs. We understand the importance of shelter, and are rightly concerned for those who are “homeless”. But home is so much more than somewhere to shelter from the elements.

My wife, Val, has a deep need to “nest”. That is to create a home. She is the quintessential homemaker. We have moved around a lot in our 40 years together, nesting in 18 different homes. Some of them have been ours. Others have belonged to the churches we’ve served. Some have four wheels (like the caravan we’re living in at the moment). That’s not counting the 42 different places we laid our heads during an especially painful time when we were homeless ourselves. Maslow’s definition of shelter was met during that time, but none of those lodging places could be called “home”.

Many years ago, the Lord gave Val a passage of scripture that has become vital to us. Isaiah 58 v11-12 says this (NIV):

The Lord will guide you always;
    he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
    and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
    like a spring whose waters never fail.

Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
    and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
    Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

This scripture has spoken to us in various settings. It became especially important during difficult days while in the sun-scorched land of Australia. The Lord’s promises of guidance, provision, energy, resolve, and vocation represent their own group of fundamental human needs. Most particularly the dual call to be a “Repairer” and a “Restorer” speaks deeply to our hearts as it does to many.

It seems that over the past decades, one of the ways in which the Lord has strengthened in us this dual vocation, has been to call us along a path where both are, in varying measures, denied. We live with the heartache of broken relationships, “walls” if you like, that we long to repair but for the time being cannot. Since entering ministry 30 years ago, we have had a constant tussle with the notion of “home”. With the exception of our touring caravan, we have never chosen our own home, it has been provided (in the words of the HMRC) for “the better performance” of my duties as a church minister. That means it has been a workplace. We each have a study. The breakfast room doubles up as a counselling area. The sitting room is used for meetings and study groups. The guest room is more than just a spare bedroom for friends and family, but has frequently been a place of shelter for those in need. The garden too has been used in the course of our ministries.

We don’t resent any of this, and are grateful to God to have been blessed with manses that frequently make ministry a joy. But there is a flip side, especially when things go wrong, as often they do. Words spoken in tense meetings hang in the air of the only place we have to call home. The door to my study is immediately adjacent to our bedroom, and it’s far too easy to go to work at the most inappropriate of times. And, perhaps most pernicious of all, when I’ve been unwell, the manse has no longer felt safe. The house goes with the job, and when the job goes, so does the house. Many people have had to deal with the pain of a job coming to an end, but few have been made homeless at the same time.

Don’t mishear me. Every church I’ve served has been generous and thoughtful in helping us feel as much at home in the manse as we possibly can. Almost all have acceded to our requests. Only one has intentionally made us homeless.

So, why do I write this blog? To reach out to other pastors who may feel the same? Yes. To try and give people in our churches a different perspective on how the pastor feels about the manse? Yes. To satisfy some deep need for my conflicting feelings about living in the ”church-house” to be understood? Almost certainly, yes.

Right now we’re living in a touring caravan because I can’t face living in the manse. The very thought of returning to what is, objectively, a lovely four-bedroomed detached home in a desirable seaside town, causes unspeakable anxiety to arise in me. Is it the reminder of the “work” that I cannot face? Yes. Is it that gnawing sense that this is the one place on the face of the planet that I sense I and my family are fundamentally unsafe? I’m sorry if it offends you, but yes. You see, ministry has damaged me, perhaps irreversibly, though that’s yet to be determined.

And yet, that dual call to be a ”repairer of broken walls” and a ”restorer of streets with dwellings” will not go away. Sometimes I wish it would. Maybe there’s a pastor out there who really understands what I’m rambling on about. I suspect there is, and not just one.