Recently, in an issue of Poetry magazine (April 2013), poet Mark Halliday expressed his major respect for the minor placement offered to poet Kenneth Fearing among the pantheon of contemporary voices. Later in his letter to the editor, Halliday takes up these variations of major and minor poets as he notes the greatness afforded Shakespeare and the narrow greatness afforded Gerard Manley Hopkins. Naturally, these themes are often debated in literary circles, with certain writers being placed in the major (core) camp while others are relegated to minor (and ignored) status.

But what makes anyone a major poet? Or a minor poet?

And how might these same themes play out in pastoral ministry?

Pastors understand these roles. From our days in the seminary we have assumed the critical study of the scriptures and, with regard to the prophetic, elevated certain of the prophets (Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah) to star headline, while a heavenly host of others were relegated to understudy status. But these assignments are somewhat arbitrary—based more on length of the biblical scrolls themselves than upon the impact these prophets may have had upon the society of their respective times. Likewise, certain prophets (and certainly major ones) such as Elijah and Elisha—inscribed no documents of their respective teachings, and are thus sifted like sand into the Deuteronomic history: major prophets who perished into “minor” chairs for lack of publishing.

We understand these minor roles, however. Few pastors have star power. And even the most famous or provocative are relatively invisible alongside the luminaries of Hollywood or the glitter of New York. We identify more readily with the brief, the cursory, the fleeting.

Although we no longer live in the age of the prophets, pastors are, nevertheless, engaged in prophetic tasks (proclaiming vision and faithfulness, offering signs, speaking truth to power). These are not easy roles, and the pastor may no longer regard them as prophetic. But in the classical sense, the role of the pastor with regard to the prophet has remained.

However, because we no longer play to a large audience, or demand the respect of either power or society, our prophetic voices are best understood as a minor variation of a larger, more pronounced symphonic theme. We are not major players. Nor do we occupy any longer the first seats in the orchestra.

We are not major leaders. But we can be minor prophets.

Not long ago, at a ministerial association meeting in our town (an ecumenical gathering of clergy represented by Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, and a host of non-denominational leaders), we discussed an array of crises. These included: a knife-attack in the public high school; a proposal to bring a casino to town; the tragic death of a high school coach; and certain sweeping tax proposals that would affect a great many of the town’s poor.

Naturally, there were differences of opinion among the clergy about all of these crises—how to respond, how to act, what to do, what to say. But there was an element of the prophetic at play in our discussion, with various voices and approaches giving heed to the warnings, or the needs, or even to the leadership of our respective congregations. In short, consensus was not achieved. But I believe the prophets of old faced many of these same dilemmas. Direction and the proclamation of truth were not easily discerned. Not even the prophets agreed. Being prophetic was, and is, a tough business.

Such is the prophetic in our time.

If anything, the minor prophets remind us that there have always been unique voices in the fray. Hosea offered a sign (that would get any pastor fired!), proclaiming God’s faithfulness by marrying a pole dancer. Habakkuk had his plumb line and his myriad horses partitioning off the protection of God. Amos had his sheep imagery. Zechariah was just plain weird.

Every pastor will attest that our Christian enterprise in America is a swamp of voices—some who are crocodile hunters, while others are pickers, pawn stars, or restoration experts. And most of the voices we encounter in the church today are—to our individual sensibilities and traditions—far afield from our own perspectives or beliefs. In short, we cannot agree on the major prophetic themes, and so we are left to our minor tasks and signs which we hope will bring dignity and truth to our respective tribes.

This is not to say that the ecumenical spirit is dead—in may be, in fact, more lively than in the recent past. But our prophetic roles are minor, and are shaped far more by our times and by the small places that most pastors occupy in the hearts and lives of people. Our influence on the major discussions of our time is minor. We are small fish in an incredibly large pond. And even the big names like Billy Graham and Joel Osteen have relatively small influence any more. In fact, most Americans no longer know who Billy Graham is, and in spite of a “church awareness” of Joel Osteen, he certainly has a minor impact on the society. Or, as one lady in a restaurant said to me recently, “I’ve never heard of this Rick Warren. Who is he, and why is his son’s suicide national news?”

We are minor prophets.

The major portion of pastors is, in fact, relegated to the minor roles of prophet, servant, and priest. We are people of place. We are people of time. Our spheres of influence are minor. And although we live in a world where millions can be reached through a tweet, we know that we are just one voice among those millions, and most people who tweet would rather follow Justin Bieber.

As one pastor put it to me recently, “This is a most challenging time to be a pastor—and an exciting time, too.” I think what she meant was: we are, indeed, living in the age of the minor prophet, where we have been relegated to peripheral influence, even in our congregations . . . and yet the opportunities to proclaim the gospel in word and deed have never been more pronounced. We won’t change the world. But we still have a voice. Even in our small circles we are inscribing some portion of hope, or offering a sign, or embarking from one far country to another in search of a promised land. There’s nothing major about our influence any more. The kings will scoff. The false idols are still being fashioned. The chariots will roll over the land. But we are still speaking, giving witness. God has sent us into our place and time.

Years ago, when I was a fledgling pastor serving my first student appointment, I recall visiting one old codger—a cattle rancher—who spoke plainly from the button-hole as he toured me around his beef enterprise. This rancher was bronzed by the sun, and equally crusty and impenetrable from his vantage point. But he was introspective when he noted, “You’ll have to be more prophet than pastor to reach the folks in these parts. Pastors are a dime a dozen, and most clergy are far too careful and fearful about what they are stepping in. Prophets aren’t afraid to step in other people’s messes and give it a name. If you aren’t afraid to step in it, people will eventually listen.”

I liked what he had to say. I have never forgotten his words.

I have often retreated to them on days when I was uncertain of my own voice or influence, when I, knowing that I serve in a narrow span of place and time, wonder if there is any point to proclaiming a grand vision or attempting to articulate a transforming truth. I have pondered these thoughts at bedsides and broken marriages and board rooms. I have wondered if there is, any more, a prophet in the land, and if I am that voice.

There can be nothing major about that.

We are, after all, only minor prophets.