Feb 20, 2013

Recharging

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When I started at my last church, kathrynzj gave me a Starbucks gift card she had personalized. It says “a card to fuel the fierce and fabulous,” a favorite reference of those who wish to be fierce and fabulous for Jesus. It’s a charming card, and a gift that meant a lot to me, so I have recharged it many, many times.

Last week I found myself in a Starbucks with her, in my new homeland, and there we ran into a UCC colleague who used to be in Maine and now serves in the town where we live, which is, you know, a little odd, especially considering we really knew each other and I did the interim in his last church after he left for Pennsylvania. #smallworld

So there we all are on a Thursday afternoon, and I am in line paying with my Starbucks card while they talk, and the card is spent down to nothing, so I pay the balance with cash and reclaim the card, fending off the barista so ready to dispose of it for me.

I join them, and the three of us stand talking, and I realize not only are my worlds colliding in a bizarre way — yes, the colleague I used to sit next to every Tuesday morning at preacher group just sat next to my wife this Tuesday morning at ministerium — but also they are doing the work, and I am not.

A few days later I got out the door early enough to be UCC at 8:15 and worship with the Presbyterians at 11. I saw and heard them both preach, my old friend and my new wife. They did it differently, in style and text and context. I wondered, as I took notes and reflected on each message, if people used to listen to me as intently as I did to them?

Despite their encouraging and good words, I felt like the gift card, run down to zero. Will God charge me up and use me again? Will I be handed over to be recycled? Or will I end up in a drawer, a fond reminder of gestures long past?

kathrynzj told me that she set up the actual card on automatic re-charge. Maybe that’s what this sabbatical is meant for, a chance to recharge on God’s account. Maybe when it’s over, way will open to ministry in a familiar form.

Or maybe not.

Filed Under: Discernment, Ministry, Preacher Group, Preaching, Sabbatical ·
Dec 3, 2012

Epiclesis

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I first read it in an email,
not at seminary.

What does that mean? I wondered.

A semester of “hymns and worship”
left gaps.

Watching my mentor, my pastors,
stand behind the table,
supplied imperfect knowledge.

I remember they talked about Jesus,
that night with his friends,
the way he broke the bread,
the way he shared the cup,
the way he shocked them.

What was I missing?

Epiclesis:
from the Greek–
the invocation of the Holy Spirit
to consecrate the bread and wine.

Oh!
the prayer of consecration,
that’s the thing.

I fear I only bless them.

God, I say — approximately,
because I don’t use a book –
bless these ordinary things
and make them more than ordinary,
put the extra in them,
change them that we
may know your presence.
Change them that we
may be changed too.

Holy Spirit,
if I am guilty of assuming
or presuming,
not naming you,
not calling on you,
forgive me.

But how else would things be changed?
How else would we?

Filed Under: Advent, Ministry, Mystic Sweet Communion, Poetry ·
Dec 2, 2012

It Goes By So Fast

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I try to keep worship to an hour, even when we have Communion, so I have a side-eye on the clock and move certain things along, but my intention is always to have the time when the congregation comes forward feel time-less. I look each person in the eye as I give the bread, and then they pass to the right or left to dip it in one of the cups being held by a Deacon. But for some reason, today they seemed to barrel toward me, in twos, barely giving me a chance to connect — which is not for me, but feels like an important pastoral act.

It felt like withdrawing.

In three more weeks, we’ll engage in a liturgy of farewell, releasing and forgiving one another. I worked on the order of service this afternoon, and it felt heavy. Saying goodbye well matters.

But it goes by so fast.

It’s the same with mothering. LP and I have pushed up the date of separation as we prepare for my move to Pennsylvania and hers around a few corners to her dad’s house, but it was coming soon anyway, in a matter of months.

As the congregation came up the aisle, so quickly, in such a hurry, I told myself I could not think about how it is the last time.

And then came LP, in the midst of the other choir members, her long hair shining. She looks down at me now, even in flats, wise in some ways beyond her years, and for a fraction of a moment I remembered her sweet little girl face as a seven-year-old, coming up to take Communion from me for the first time, and I felt the pricking of a tear…

and I told myself to stop it. Stop.It.

There will be other times, other times I can say to her, “The Body of Christ, broken for you.” I’ll land somewhere, eventually, and she’ll visit, and there will be Communion, and we will be in it together again.

But it goes by so fast, the days left in this house tumbling toward me like the hurrying communicants, the months until college like a wave racing to break on the shore. We’re both eager for the future — I think I can say that — and anxious about logistics and trying to get a lot of work done in a short time (packing/sorting/disposing for me; college applications for her).

There are many things I will miss, but here’s what surprises me. I grieve a little that the regular intimacy of congregational life will not likely be ours again.

Does that sound like an odd thing to say? We’ve been making the journey to church together every Sunday, just about, for her whole life. When I became a pastor ten years ago, she became a part of the ministry team. I value her reflections on human interactions in the congregation, and her critiques of my sermons and messages for the children. I value her company, the ways in which she accompanies me.

This day was coming, anyway. But I never expected my empty nest to be the Communion table.

Filed Under: Advent, Children, Ministry, My Girl ·
Oct 6, 2012

10 years

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The picture that later became my purple avatar, remember?

It’s the tenth anniversary of my ordination to ministry in the United Church of Christ.

The service took place at Woodfords Congregational Church UCC here in Portland. The service is less of a blur that I expected, as I look back on it.

I remember the wonderful sermon by my friend and mentor, Paul Shupe, and the surprise on my dearly beloved retired pastor’s face when he realized I had changed my name (no worries, it’s back now where it belongs).

I remember the smooth re-supply of Communion bread by my old friend, Nelson Toner, one of the Deacons that day.

I remember that a pick-up choir sang music I chose, as a celebration of our many years singing together in that sanctuary, especially a shape note setting of Ten Thousand Charms. “I will ri-i-ise and go to Jesus,” they sang, and so I did.

“He’ll embrace me in his a-a-a-arms.” And so he does, each day, thankfully.

I remember that when the clergy came forward for the laying on of hands, Gladys York, an elderly clergywoman who had arrived late, came all the way down the long aisle, hair braided on top of her head, dressed not in a robe and stole but in a sensible cardigan. I preach from her longtime pulpit now; it’s a privilege. Years later my younger son recalled that moment as having the gravity of an Entmoot.

I remember the friends who made the reception happen, and the care Kathy Helming took in making sure the bulletin was just right.

I think fondly and wistfully of Kathy MacGregor and Marion Hack and others there that day no longer with us.

We always say there’s a “sacrifice” in every picture. Lucy, it was clearly not you!

But most of all I remember that when it was time for Communion, the first people to come forward were these three precious children.

I’m grateful for ten years of ministry, for the five churches that have allowed me to love them, for the many times I’ve broken the bread and raised the cup and spoken the words, for the spectacular thrill of baptizing dear ones of all ages, and for the chance to share the Good News week in and week out.

It’s not clear what the next part of the work journey holds for me, but I thank God for this decade, whatever may come.

Filed Under: Children, Church Life, Ministry, Ordination ·
May 23, 2012

We Can’t Handle It

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My dream, as yet unfulfilled.

It is the Week of the Skunk. Or more precisely, skunks.

A guy from Lewiston I’m calling my New Best Friend set some traps in my yard, and when he came back and found only a pregnant possum and heard my report that the skunk had been seen nibbling the marshmallows at the door to the trap in the middle of the day, we had a talk about what would happen if she appeared to be rabid. “Then we’ll have to dispatch,” he said. “Call Animal Control,” I asked? “No. I’ll have to dispatch … her.”

I couldn’t handle it.

A clergywoman knew she had bats in the attic of her parsonage, and on a summer evening she distracted some children of the church by sending them to count the bats flying out from the eaves. 1, 2, 3. That was expected. 15, 16, 17. When does it start to get really creepy? They finally stopped counting at 450.

I really couldn’t have handled that.

I’ve been in the hospital when a beloved church member revealed more, shall we say, than I wanted to see. I’ve been on the phone with someone whose diagnosis brought my mother’s death right up in my face. I’ve gotten the email telling a story so much like my own that it makes me shudder.

I didn’t want to handle it.

In my first church, the organist resigned during announcements one Sunday morning after calling me out on referring to God as “She.” She gave a week’s notice, then sat down and waited to see what I would say.

I had to find a way to handle it.

Jesus, in the Common English Bible, tells the disciples, “I have much more to say to you, but you can’t handle it now.” He knew their limitations.

People won’t respect that boundary – really, why should they? I don’t always. I bet you don’t either. But if you’re the pastor, you’re supposed to know how to handle it.

The trouble comes when we decide we know everything we’ll ever need to know. We’ve achieved this stage in life – adult, seminarian, graduate, ordained pastor. We’ve read the Bible. We’ve prayed. We’ve discussed and pondered and written. We’re set.

Until we reach the next stage. And there is always a next one. (Just ask the oldest people in the room.)

“I have much more to say to you, but you can’t handle it now.”

Jesus knew how hard it was going to be for the disciples, but he also knew they would not be alone after he left them. He knew that just as he had come, part of God’s own self, to live in human form, so would the Spirit come to be available to his friends. The Spirit of Truth and Love would come to guide them and illumine them and inspire them. And it wasn’t just for that spring in Jerusalem, or the next five years, or the first three centuries of the new era his life began. It is true for us.

Here’s the tricky part.

You might think it would be easier for pastors. After all, it’s our job to attend to things of the Spirit, isn’t it?

(Please laugh now.)

Well, it’s true. But it’s also true that it’s our job to attend to people, and the world around us, and there are going to be medical crises that call up our personal history, and there are going to be skunks in the yard, the four-legged and maybe the two-legged, and there are going to be bats in the attic of the parsonage and in the belfry and in our own personal belfries…and possibly those of our church members, from time to time. There are going to be emails and phone calls and walk-by shootings in the receiving line that take our breath away.

There are going to be things we feel we just can’t handle, but we won’t have much choice about it. And those are the times we need the Spirit of God.

“I have much more to say to you, but you can’t handle it now.”

Thank goodness that isn’t the last word. I’m grateful Jesus did not leave his friends, or the rest of us, on that note, aware that there is more to know and not brought into the secret, left with the conclusion that we just aren’t ready to comprehend…yet.

We can’t handle it, not alone.

But God will allow things to unfold at the right time, when we’re ready. In the Spirit of Truth, there is a New Best Friend better than any other. That’s the Good News, whatever confronts us, whether it’s skunks or bats or slipping hospital johnnies or theological disapproval or all of them at the same time. When we need to grow in knowledge or understanding, when we need to love more or believe more, when we need to see visions and dream dreams that take us further, when we need the courage to prophesy, we are not alone. In the company of God’s Spirit, we can handle it.

(I had the privilege of leading a worship service for Members in Discernment in our Association today, as well as advisors and members of the Church and Ministry Committee, and this is an adaptation of the meditation I offered. Many thanks to kathrynzj for the bat story, which I am thankful is not mine.)

Filed Under: Gospel of John, Ministry, Pentecost ·
Oct 6, 2011

The End of the World as I Knew It

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It’s a season of anniversaries in late September and early October: second wedding, first wedding, my father’s death (which occurred weirdly on the anniversary of the first wedding, just after the first divorce) and more happily, my ordination, which took place on this day, nine years ago. In looking at the pictures from that day, I’ve been inspired to clean up my digital picture files, including deleting some pictures altogether. I threw my wedding album from the first go-round into a dumpster when I sold the house we lived in together after the divorce, which was probably not wise but felt pretty good at the time. Somehow deleting a person from the digital record feels more cold-blooded, but that’s coming, too. 

My ordination is still a happy anniversary. Many of the people important to my journey toward ministry were able to participate in the service. The first people to come up for Communion were my children. A number of the people in the pictures have died since then and are much-missed. In the background I can see the folks of Stevens Avenue Congregational Church, whose pastor I was about to become. In the foreground are the good friends from Woodfords Congregational Church who challenged me to improve my ordination paper, who stood by me when my personal life became chaotic during seminary, and who put on a beautiful party that day.
It was the end of the world as I knew it, and I felt fine. 
Worries about what I might actually be doing from day to day and whether I really knew how were yet to come. 
Old blogging friends might recognize the picture above and its purple companion, my longtime blogging avatar. I’m not so careful about the sharing of my identity now. Instead of a secret club meeting, blogging is part of my ministry, which means this post and the last probably seem uncomfortably revelatory. But this is where I am, nine years after being ordained. Mistakes, I’ve made a few. Revelations, I’ve had several, and I’m grateful for them. I didn’t end up with the biography I expected, but I’m in ministry, and that part feels right, and at 50 I’m finally figuring out who I am personally and feeling better about myself for it. 
God calls us as we are — God already knows our gifts and potential and secret dreams and inner hearts — and if we’re faithful, we become more the person God made us to be. That’s the place I’m in, and it’s in some ways the end of the world of the first nine years I was in ministry, and I feel fine. 
Filed Under: Ministry, Ordination, The Inner Landscape ·
Aug 21, 2011

Pieces of Bryce

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I keep a basket of stones at church, with big and small rocks, some souvenirs of trips and others just those smooth white stones you can buy in a bag at the craft store. I find lots of reasons to use the whole collection, and every now and then I give rocks away, if it feels right. I just make sure to tuck away the ones I want to keep.

For years I’ve guarded two pink stones, rough and porous, picked up on a trip to Bryce Canyon ten years ago. It was another person’s favorite place on the planet, and the pressure to love it and find it wondrous was immeasurable. I kept the stones as a gesture of respect for the memory of another’s delight, as a concrete expression of my commitment to another person’s limited joy.

Today I gave away stones to the children, as we talked about Peter being the rock on which Christ will build his church. We used a Sharpie to draw a cross on each one.

And today I gave away the pieces of Bryce, letting the children choose them from the basket of stones, letting them bring a new delight, an expression of my commitment to a different joy.

Filed Under: Ministry, Personal History ·
Feb 7, 2011

After a busy weekend

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It’s the first Sabbath Monday of my officially installed ministry at North Yarmouth Congregational Church. I’ve lived here a long time. I was In Care of this Association, and I did my student ministry here and I’ve now served four churches as Interim or settled pastor within its bounds. I’ve had three different last names, one of them now twice, and I thank God the congregation could chuckle generously with this renamed bird.

After being exhorted to shine and be salty, to mind my boundaries and care for myself, after receiving the loving embraces of many friends new and old, and marveling at the gorgeous Super Bowl Party-themed refreshments, I returned to the place that has been home through all my ministry, so far. Over the weekend,we had extra people in the house,and it was good. We introduced out-of-towners to the marvels of Portland Pie Company. We burned almost the last of the firewood not buried under several feet of snow.

I got to read old-fashioned favorite picture books with someone young enough to appreciate them, and found myself charmed once again by the Circus McGurkus, and Mr. and Mrs. Mallard, and Michael the policeman. I even got to visit an old house in Paris that was covered with vines.

And wandering into those places of imagination and memory brings back the little boy who wanted almost nothing but books, #1 Son. We sat on the couch for hours on end, reading one book after another. He never tired of them. He had my full attention, because there were no other distractions: no younger siblings yet, no full-time job and, Lord knows, no Internet.

We’re in a different place, a different time. I’m reading the old stories, older than Madeline or Dr. Seuss, and trying to find ways to bring them to life in my new home for ministry. I’m giving them my (mostly) full attention and looking for what they have to say on Sunday morning and in my heart and in our committee meetings and every place we gather to be the church.

It’s good to hear them again, even the ones that make us uncomfortable. (And there’s surely one of those gospel lessons coming this week.)

Today, I rested. I tried to turn my thoughts away, with difficulty, and rest my mind from the details of church life. Except for a few emails. And yes, I know those count.

But like Miss Clavel, I’m hyper-aware, always ready in case “Something is not right.” And I’m hoping the technology that sometimes distracts will mostly serve, as we find new ways to connect and share the message that wherever we are and whatever befalls, we are never alone, even “in the middle of one night.” That’s the Good News that keeps me going on the Monday after a busy weekend.

Filed Under: Ministry ·
Jan 23, 2011

A New Song

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A Charge to First Parish Church on the Installation of a new Associate Pastor

It’s a joy to be with you today. I had the privilege of serving as Interim Associate Pastor here, sitting in the same office now occupied by your new Associate Pastor.  From the first time I spoke to her, serving as a reference for this congregation, I hoped that you would discern a call to be in ministry together.

Of course, I knew more about you than I knew about her when we had that conversation. I had been with you for almost a year. But some things we know on instinct. I knew I could be happy here with you the moment we began singing a hymn together. It was my first Sunday.  I was in the front pew with the Senior Pastor, and the organist played the introductory measures, and we stood up and the sound was marvelous and joyful, and I began to smile broadly. I loved the way we all sounded together.

And singing together seems like a good image for today, as I’ve been asked to charge the congregation here as K is officially installed as your Associate Pastor.  I’m thinking back to the last time I joined a church choir, how I didn’t know the routines –where to put my music when we finished with it, where the pencil sharpener was, and where to sign out for days I would miss. You may think that after several months in your midst, K already knows the things she needs to know. But I would encourage you to remember that she is still new, and that things you take for granted, things everybody knows, may well still come as a surprise to her. Tell her your stories, about the life of the church and your own lives. Practice hospitality with her, opening your hearts as you open your memories. Remember that what seems obvious may not be, especially when it comes to the traditions so established you don’t even have to think about what you’re doing.

(You’ve mentioned the Clam Festival, right?)

Next, I ask you to remember the things this new pastor in your midst will need to take care of herself.  Ministry requires both private preparation and public performance. Without the work that goes on unseen , the things you can hear and see will suffer. Respect her day off, her family time, her vacations and Continuing Education time. Encourage her to use her non-work time to do things that make her heart sing.

I’ve sung in enough musical groups to know that adding a new singer means the sound changes. We talked a lot during the interim about the complexity of change in a large church with a long history.  This is where listening is important. Listen to the new voice in your midst. Try to be aware of the places where some adjustment in your tone will lead to a more harmonious blend. K isn’t here to do ministry for you, but with you. For instance, you want the youth to love her and trust her, but you also want them to feel like a part of the whole church. That requires everyone’s participation.

One of the most exciting forms of music is counterpoint, when two melodies that contrast become one complementary piece of work. There is bound to come a time when pastor and congregation differ on how to do something or what comes next. Remember that disagreement is not disaster, and that complexity can be beautiful, too.

Remember, also, whose song you are singing. The music you are making is not K’s or the church’s. The song you are singing is God’s song. And since God is always calling us to new ways of being, you can almost rely on the fact that there will be new ways to sing the song. The words may be familiar, but set to what seems like a strange tune. Or the same old song may be enlivened by new ideas. God is still speaking, after all.

By God’s grace, I trust you will make beautiful music together.

Filed Under: Installation, Ministry ·
Jan 19, 2011

In the Same Mind

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Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose. (1 Corinthians 1:10, NRSV — whole passage here)

Not too long ago someone asked me if I took any kind of a class in seminary to help deal with conflict in the church. As it happens, I did! It was a great class, taught by someone who really knew the topic, a seminary professor who also consulted with conflicted churches. I have the books on my study shelf, the ones that explain some mean or troubled people can be “clergy killers,” and I remember reading them, but I also know, from personal experience, that when a pastor feels threatened–when I do–the heart pounds and the breath gets short and it’s very hard to sort out what you did wrong (or whether you did) from how other people feel and what other people think.

And most of us tend to spring to our own defense.

Come on, you know you do.

It’s very hard to find that place inside yourself where you can be completely honest and non-defensive and yet not take blame you don’t deserve either.

I suspect it’s like parenting. By the time we figure out the right way to do a particular part of it, by the time we master parenting a particular developmental stage, the child has moved on to another, and the next child will probably live it out differently, anyway.

Paul calls on us–well, on the church at Corinth–to be of the same mind. I hope what he means is to get over arguing about things that don’t matter so much. He couldn’t have envisioned arguments over paint color and carpeting and hymnals. There was no institution to support. But it’s part of the human story that we squabble and align ourselves and change teams and just generally make a hash of things, at least some of the time.

In my new setting, I know more about the struggles of the past than of conflict in this moment, which sounds weird. Maybe it’s because we’re still in the honeymoon phase. And certainly it’s because I am not inclined to whip up conflict in the first six months! What would it mean for your church to be in the same mind? What’s the most important unresolved issue or disagreement in your church life?

Filed Under: Church Life, Lectionary, Ministry ·
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