“Growing up, I feel my Father’s absence more like a presence.” – Philip Yancey, Where the Light Falls

It’s Sunday evening, a warm summer’s night. The sun shines brightly as congregants walk to the front door of the church. Gary stands there, as he always does, welcoming each person with a firm handshake- a weekly ritual & right of passage to enter the Sunday night service. 

People shuffle in, wearing their Sunday best. Tweed jackets, oxford shirts with paisley ties for the men. Floor-length dresses or jean skirts for most of the women. 

The church members are welcomed to greet each other and then invited to stand and sing hymns like “And Can it Be,” “The Old Rugged Cross,” and “It is Well with My Soul.” Special music is performed by a trio of teenagers singing along to a CD track. Then, the special speaker, a senior from the church’s youth group, walks to the pulpit and preaches a sermon with vigor, explaining a text by quoting the meaning of Greek words and citing Bible commentaries. The sermon ends with prayer, and right after the “Amen,” people clap. 

The church sings one final song. The pastor prays. Everyone is dismissed. Some rush home to put their kids to bed; others start stacking chairs; others socialize. 

That’s when it happened. 

Wave after wave of people rush up to me, and they recite cliche phrases but with real sentiment and care.

“Your dad would be so proud of you.”

“Your dad is smiling in heaven right now.”

“You look just like John.” 

“You sound just like your father.”

“You remind me so much of him.” 

One phrase sticks out…

“You’re meant to be a pastor and fulfill your dad’s calling.” 

My calling is to fulfill my dad’s calling? So, is it my calling or my dad’s calling? I’m confused.

For better or for worse, most of my childhood revolved around my dad’s legacy. 

My dad died suddenly of a heart attack when I was 5 years old- 27 years ago today. His death left a huge void in my life, my family’s life, and our community’s life. And, from the moment he died until this very day, I’ve felt that void. 

You see, everyone knew John Elliott. Everyone had a story about my dad. Everyone had a time when he helped them in a sincere way. He ran a local business, was the quarterback of the local football team in High School, and was about to become a pastor at his local church. People loved my dad, and he was good at loving people.  

So whenever people talk with me about my dad, it’s always how amazing, how generous, how funny, how kind, how smart, how “perfect” he was. 

And I believe them.  

King Solomon remarks, “A good reputation is more valuable than costly perfume. And the day you die is better than the day you are born.” When my dad died, he had the affections of his community. He had the admiration of his family. When he died, people felt it. 

My dad did have a great reputation, and he was a great man. But my dad was not perfect. Yet, the image I have of him is. I feel like I missed out on the perfect dad. 

All of my memories, all of the stories I heard. Never a bad thing. Never a failure, a mistake, or wrong. My dad is a Jesus-like figure in my mind. 

And then everyone told me…”You are just like your dad.” “You’re gonna be a great man just like he was.” “You need to become the pastor he was meant to be.”

And my whole life has been lived in this shadow of great expectations. Not expectations my dad actually put on me, rather expectations I put on myself to be exactly like my dad. 

I wanted more than anything to get married and be a good husband. I wanted more than anything to have kids of my own and be the perfect father [that I never had]. I wanted more than anything to be a preacher, a pastor, and a community leader like my dad. I want to be a good man, to die a good death, and to be missed by those I loved. 

And I am on this path. I have a wife, three young boys, and a community I love, plus I get the privilege of pastoring people I deeply care for.  

But, the reality is, I still feel like I haven’t lived up to my dad’s expectations. Or rather, I haven’t lived up to my own expectations that masquerade as the memory of my father. 

I want to be the perfect husband, but I sometimes drop the ball in my marriage.

I want to be the perfect dad, but I can get visibly frustrated with my kids.

I want to be the perfect friend, but I don’t have enough time to be.

I want to be the perfect pastor, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

I even want to be a good golfer like my dad, but instead, I double bogie every hole. 

I say the wrong words.

I make the wrong choices.

I get the wrong outcomes. 

These expectations and aspirations feel more like a burden than a blessing, more like a weight than a way forward.

And that’s because they are. 

My expectations for being a perfect husband, father & friend are crushing. Trying to be John Elliott 2.0 is tiring.  

I’m done striving. 

Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are struggling hard and carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Put on my yoke, and learn from me. I’m gentle and humble. And you will find rest for yourselves. My yoke is easy to bear, and my burden is light.”

That’s what I want.

I want to live a life of rest and joy. I want to slow down and take the weight of these expectations off. 

And that’s exactly the life Jesus offers us. He speaks kindly to each us and asks, “What’s weighing you down? What are you striving after? What work are you doing to earn your goodness, your perfection, your salvation? How are you trying to cover up your failures and mistakes?”    

Whatever work we do, whatever goodness we have, whatever goals we strive after. They will never be enough. And that’s good news. 

Because Jesus is enough.

He is the perfect husband (Eph. 5:23-27). He is the perfect brother (Heb. 2:11). He is the perfect friend (John 15:15). He is the perfect pastor and shepherd (John 10:11). He is one with his perfect Father (John 10:30). 

And, so I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t need to fulfill my manufactured expectations of perfection. I just need to be walking with the one who is perfect. And when I spend time with him, the strangest thing happens: I actually grow. I become a better husband, a better Father, a better friend, and a better pastor. 

This may be the great irony of all this. My dad really loved Jesus. And I think that if he were here with me right now, he would tell me, “You’re doing great, son. Just go be with Jesus; he will give you rest.”