Putting in the Reps

One of the verses I’ve preached on repeatedly is 2 Timothy 2:2: “And the things you have heard me say in the presence of many witnesses entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others.” The beauty of this verse isn’t just in what it asks us to do, it’s in the posture it demands. We must stand in the middle.

Dave Stone’s journey at Southeast Christian Church perfectly illustrates this principle. For seventeen years, he served as Bob Russell’s associate, learning the craft of preaching, the discipline of pastoral care, the practice of leadership, and the art of sharing the pulpit. Then, for thirteen years, he led as Senior Pastor, embodying everything Bob taught him while adding his own voice and gifts. Now, he’s watching Kyle Idleman live out that same role — a lineage of faithful, long-tenured leadership spanning decades.

What struck me most in our conversation was Dave’s honesty about what he learned from Bob versus what he’s learned from Kyle. “I’ve learned more from Kyle than I ever passed on to him,” Dave admitted. This is the humility that characterizes genuine mentorship. We don’t hand down our way as the final word; we create space for the next generation to stretch us, challenge us, and sometimes do it better.

Bob made space for Dave by doing something unheard of in large churches: he shared the spotlight. He gave Dave tough sermon topics, not easy ones. He let Dave preach Easter. He threw him in the deep end because he believed Dave could handle it. And Dave, in turn, did the same for Kyle. But here’s what moved me most: when I asked Dave what he’d tell his younger self, he didn’t talk about avoiding hard things or playing it safe. He talked about relying on the Holy Spirit rather than the flesh. He acknowledged that he’d been betrayed, that problems would come, but that these experiences drove him — as it should all of us — deeper into dependence on God’s Spirit, not away from ministry.

This is what standing in the middle actually means. It’s not just transferring information from one generation to the next. It’s creating a culture where we expect growth, demand honesty, embrace humility, and ultimately point people toward the Holy Spirit’s power rather than our own competence. At Great Lakes Christian College, we’re trying to build this kind of generational faithfulness. Our students stand in the middle too, between the faith their parents gave them and the faith they’ll pass on to their children. And our job is to help them learn that authentic ministry doesn’t come from mastering technique alone. It comes from learning to stand still and let the Spirit work.

That’s worth passing on.

A rubber band lying on your desk is useless. It has no power, no purpose, no strength. The only time a rubber band accomplishes anything is when it’s stretched—held in tension between two opposite poles.

That’s grace and truth.

Ron Otto and I got into this on the latest episode of the Better Preaching Podcast, and it may be my favorite stretch of conversation we’ve ever recorded. Ron, who is closing in on twenty years at Lincoln Christian Church, observed that Jesus often opens with grace and closes with truth. I pushed back gently—with the woman at the well, He led with truth: five husbands, and the man you’re with now isn’t one of them. The honest answer is that it depends on the person and the moment, and knowing which to lead with is one of the hardest judgment calls in ministry.

But here’s what you can’t do: let go of either end.

Hold the rubber band and release truth, and it snaps you—that sting is called hedonism. Hold truth and release grace, and it snaps you from the other side—that sting is called legalism. The power is only in the tension. So is the pain-free path, oddly enough. You have to hold both ends.

Ron told a story that shows what holding both looks like. He ends nearly every service by telling his congregation he loves them—not as a signoff, but because he means it. One Sunday he forgot. A young woman stopped him at the door and pointed it out. When he asked if she needed to hear it, she said, “Most Sundays you’re the only one to tell me that for a whole week.”

Let that settle in, preacher. For some of your people, you are the only voice of love they hear from Sunday to Sunday.

And here’s the ministry math Ron has learned over three decades: you can get away with preaching a lot of hard truths if your people know first that you love them. Truth without love sounds angry. Love without truth goes mushy. But truth wrapped in love—delivered by a shepherd who says “I love you” and means it—that’s the stretched rubber band. That’s where the power is.

Now go tell your church you love them. Some of them are waiting.

Because better preaching makes a bigger impact.