Ministry can be a very lonely vocation.

That sounds like an ominous way to begin a sermon, doesn’t it? And if not “ominous,” then maybe we’ve moved across the emotional menu and landed on “self-pitying,” or its close sibling, “self-indulgence.”

I’m just reporting. I’m not editorializing. My life is no more difficult, and in many ways, probably less difficult, than most people. But it’s not easy. Witness the record numbers of clergy not only leaving their churches, but leaving the ministry altogether.

Loneliness and isolation are just some of the possible side effects of being a minister—along with imposter syndrome, depression, and free-floating anxiety.

It’s not all fun and games. There’s hard stuff too.

I had occasion to reflect on the sometimes lonely nature of ministry while on sabbatical recently. Of course, sabbaticals are supposed to be a time of reflection on the nature of the job. So as I sat at home alone this summer while everyone else was out doing important real-world stuff, it’s no surprise my mind kept returning to questions of what it all means. Am I any good at my job—or am I just kidding myself? Are there things I can do that help take us where we want to go? And do we even know where we want to go?

And, wait a minute, aren’t I supposed to be the minister—which means (at least in the tiny fever swamp inside my head): Aren’t I supposed to know where we want to go?

Me and “too much time” have had some epic battles up to this point in my life, and thinking about inadequacies is frequently the cause of the ruckus when it erupts. It doesn’t take much to convince me that I’m the source of the world’s problems—which may come as something of a shock to you since you might also believe that you’re the source of the world’s problems. Take it from someone who knows: You may rest easy. You’re not.

But one of the books I was reading made a point about the kind of virtues we hold dear—the ones we think make us who we are at the end of the day when no one else is around. The book made a distinction between “resumé” virtues and “real” virtues.

As I was ruminating over that distinction, I had an epiphany: I’m really good at the resumé virtues—you know, the kinds of things we all think are what we’re supposed to organize our lives around. What kind of job do you do? How much education do you have? Are you wealthy? Are you famous? How’s your health?

None of them are bad things taken on their own. But if you spend your whole life devising the perfect bucket list and then use all your time and attention in the service of checking off boxes of “meaningful experiences,” you can die extraordinarily successful. Smart. Rich. Famous. And alone.

I thought about all the funerals I’ve done in my life, and some of the saddest are those where everybody agrees that the deceased was a really impressive person—someone most people would want to emulate because of all the accomplishments. What doesn’t always come through at those funerals, however, is that oftentimes the best thing the people who loved them can’t manage to come up with anything about the way the person touched their lives.

I remember doing the funeral of an older man one time, and the only thing that came through as I talked with the family about what his life meant, the kindest thing they could say was, “He always had the best lawn in the subdivision.”

That struck me as unutterably sad. Who wants that on the gravestone? (“He was a demon with a weed-eater!”)

As the book I was reading was quick to point out, why would we want to expend so much of our lives and energies in the pursuit of achievements that will make a good resumé and a “heckuvan” impressive obituary but leave us without any sense of having made a difference in the places it matters most—among those closest to us?

Wouldn’t we be better off investing in real-life virtues—like generosity, courage, honesty, wit, gentleness, wisdom, etc.? You know, the kinds of virtues that make us better friends, partners, bosses, siblings, and spouses but arguably less “impressive” people?

That all got me to thinking that real-life virtues—the ones that help us live real lives and not just “impressive” lives among those closest to us—are the kinds of virtues necessary for us to live together in community. These soft virtues like the ability to live and speak truthfully, to be a person others consider trustworthy (and not just being reliable about taking out the garbage, but about being worth the trust necessary to hold the vulnerability of others with gentleness and care), to be able to forgive (especially those who deserve it least), to have good boundaries that communicate where “you” end and “I” begin. These are the kinds of virtues that allow us to live not just in the memory of those who matter most to us but deeply and lastingly in their hearts.

Because, when it all comes down to it, community is where the really important stuff happens. Whether that’s the community of your family life, your friendships, or the kind people who help you survive another day of work—these are the communities that make life meaningful and valuable. Indeed, being deeply embedded in community is the only way to appreciate resumé virtues. Being the richest and most famous person in the world, alone on your own private island, sounds like a dream vacation for many people; but that’s for a week or a month for the heartiest among us. But being alone on that same private island forever? That sounds like the definition of hell.

No, we want a place, an environment where people feel familiar, where we can relax and assume that they have our best interests at heart, where we’re not afraid to be who we truly are. We want a place where we can sit across the table and look each other in the eye.

When it’s living the way Jesus told us to live, the church strives to embody precisely that kind of community.