It is a truth universally acknowledged (by clergy, at least) that the word “yes” is one of the most powerful tools in ministry — and one of the most dangerous. Parish life, after all, runs on a steady diet of “yes”: yes to baptisms, yes to funerals, yes to committee meetings, and yes to someone’s very creative idea for a “Liturgical Puppet Ministry” that meets weekly in the church basement.
“Yes,” we are told, is the currency of service. “Yes” makes us approachable, kind, compassionate, and ever-ready shepherds of the flock. But after about the third “yes” of a Tuesday morning, when the coffee has gone cold and the inbox has begun breeding like rabbits, we discover the perilous truth: unrestrained “yes” is the highway to pastoral burnout, emotional exhaustion, and a mysterious twitch in one’s left eyelid that only manifests during Vestry meetings.
The pastoral art of saying “no” gently is, therefore, not a refusal of compassion — but a preservation of it. It is, in fact, one of the most loving things a priest or lay minister can learn to do.
Consider Jesus himself: he was not perpetually available. He said “no” in holy ways. He walked away from crowds, withdrew to pray, and sometimes just took a boat across the lake without a word of explanation. When the disciples came chasing after him with urgent matters (“Everyone is looking for you!”), Jesus calmly replied, “Let us go on to the next towns.” Translation: No, I won’t do that right now. There’s something else I’m called to do.
That wasn’t selfishness; it was sacred boundary-setting. It was the Son of God reminding us that ministry is not about omnipresence, but about obedience.
The trick, of course, is learning how to say “no” in a way that doesn’t leave the other person feeling as though you’ve just slammed the church door in their face. A holy “no” must be cloaked in grace. It’s the difference between:
“Absolutely not, I’m far too busy for that.”
and
“I’m so grateful you thought of me for this, but I don’t have the capacity to take it on right now. Can we explore another way to make it happen?”
The first response ends the relationship. The second keeps the door of compassion open — while firmly declining to set up a folding chair in the doorway.
A gentle “no” is best delivered with a touch of humour and a dash of humility. “I’d love to,” one might say, “but my bishop has strictly forbidden me to clone myself.” Or, “That sounds wonderful! Unfortunately, I’ve already given my last ounce of energy to next Sunday’s sermon, which — God willing — will be short.”
Holy boundaries, after all, are not walls but fences — permeable, flexible, and marked by kindness. They define where our ministry ends and God’s sovereignty begins. They remind both pastor and parish that we are finite creatures in the service of an infinite grace.
If we never learn to say “no,” we eventually run out of the capacity to say “yes” with sincerity. Compassion without boundaries curdles into resentment; ministry without rest becomes mere performance.
So perhaps the next time someone approaches us with a request, we might take a breath, whisper a quick prayer for discernment, and channel our inner Jesus on the lakeshore: serene, grounded, and unafraid to disappoint for the sake of love.
Because sometimes the holiest thing you can say is:
“No, but I love you.”
And then — because we are Anglicans — offer them tea
A Prayer for Holy Boundaries
Gracious and Gentle Lord,
You who rested by the well and withdrew to the mountain, teach us the sacred rhythm of service and stillness. When our hearts would say “yes” to every need, remind us that even You paused to pray.
Grant us wisdom to know our limits, and courage to honour them without guilt. Let our “no” be spoken with kindness, our “yes” with conviction, and both with compassion.
Guard us from the pride that thinks the world cannot turn without our effort, and from the weariness that comes when we try to prove it can. Fill us instead with the quiet joy of those who serve within the bounds of grace. May our boundaries be not walls, but holy fences where love and sanity may flourish.
And when we must disappoint another, let it be done in such a way that both hearts are still drawn closer to You. Through Jesus Christ, who said “no” to the crowds so that He might say “yes” to the Cross.
Amen