The Greater the Relationship

"The greater the relationship, the fewer the rules."  I read that phrase many years ago and it has stuck with me since. The truth of it reverberates deep inside me.  I see it play itself out over and over.  In situations of loving trust, few rules are needed.  But when trust begins to break, when one party no longer believes the best of the other, when intentions are questioned, the rules start to mushroom.

The financial markets are facing the disastrous revelation that Bernie Maydoff lost his investment clients over 50 billion dollars in a giant ponzi scheme that finally collapsed.  The big issue is that so many trusted this man who turned out to be a creep and a thief. This, as much or even more than the loss of money, exacerbated the anguish.  The result will be lowered trust, more requirements, rapidly multiplying outside regulators with heightened invasive powers, padded bureaucracy, bigger policy manuals, lessoned joy, and no delight in unexpected friendship for there will be no space for it to form. 

Same thing happened after 9/11.  While airplane flights had long ceased being comfortable and privileged ways to travel, suddenly it became necessary to nearly disrobe in order to get through security.  The latest technology in scanning equipment effectively strips the body of all clothing, giving the screening personnel x-ray vision, kind of like Superman, as the people walking through the equipment are seen unclothed.  Sadly, there have been few protests.  The horrifying intents of a few have meant all of us pay the price of having to obey increasingly burdensome and intrusive rules along with lessoned freedom.

In the church, because of the despicable actions of a tiny percentage of clergy, nearly all of us who are seeking to enter the ministry endure years of investigations, interviews, reports, background and credit checks and examinations.  The hurdles to ordination have become so burdensome that we have lost the talents of some of the best and brightest of our young people who have sensed a call to ministry.  It's a huge loss to the church.

What happens in that public stage repeats itself in less public but equally as important private interactions.  Trust is lost in one relationship, so this lack of trust is then projected upon the next possible relationship accompanied by an often hidden list of "do's and don'ts" that turn into mine fields of explosive possibilities.  

What is most sad about this?  The increased rules just don't solve the problem.  Schemers will still con people out of their money; terrorists will figure out new and more creative ways to wreak mayhem; slimeballs who masquerade as holy people will still prey on the weak and vulnerable.  We've solved nothing by layering regulation upon regulation on us. Government can't save us.  The State makes a poor and ineffective Redeemer.  Policy manuals do not open the door to the kingdom of heaven.  

There's only one solution and that is the internal transformation that comes from relationship with a loving and holy God.  When that internal transformation is matched by an intentional choice to treat others with honor and graceful forbearance, then, and only then will goodness be able to penetrate and bring light to darkness.  

Atheist Bus Signs

There are advertising campaigns in England and Spain which publicize the atheist contention that God does not exist. Apparently highly Roman Catholic Spain has many, many atheists who feel very much discriminated against. So the local atheists have purchased an ad to run on the side of an occasional city bus that reads: "There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy life."

Now, while I don't agree with the atheists, I find I disagree even more with the people who responded to the ads like this, "God is going to get them for this. They'll be punished. You can't talk about God like this and get away with it."

Apparently, we have a thin-skinned, insecure God, ready to jump on anyone who disagrees or struggles with belief. This touchy and angry God seems quick to send to eternal punishment those who, when seeking intellectual honesty, come to the point where they just don't think God exists.

If that is the case, then I suspect a lot of the world has a real problem.

I occasionally experience what I call my "2 a.m. atheism," those nights when I'm so troubled by the cruelty and nastiness in this world that I do wonder if God exists.

What would the world be like if God just . . . disappeared? If there is no absolute goodness that holds the world together?

When my thoughts reach that point, I find I enter into a dark, dark place properly called "hell." I am longer embraced by the gentle darkness of night that gives good sleep; such gentleness is replaced by raging and desperate darkness where goodness and hope are absent--an empty place, truly terrifying in its emptiness. Empty of hope, empty of possibility, empty of any sense of goodness or justice or righteousness or gentleness or faithfulness or love.

This place is empty of gestures of kindness, empty of efforts to free the oppressed or give sight to the blind, empty of sacrificial generosity, empty of loving parents getting up in the middle of the night to care for their children, empty of dogs happily wagging their tales when their humans come home, empty of flower or vegetable gardens to provide beauty and food, empty of work that brings the satisfaction of a job well done, empty of clean laundry or home-cooked meals; it is without order, art, or music or dance.

It is a terrible vision that I receive in the moment of my atheism, those moments when God seems to disappear. That is what hell is: a place empty of God and therefore empty of good. And so, for me, I come from those times grateful all over again that God does exist and that God is good, and in that goodness, continues to invite us into redemptive relationship.

Now, does this God, who invites into relationship, but does not demand that humanity respond, become violently angry against those who just can't make the leap into belief? Is God furious with me when I enter those times when I must re-examine the basis of my faith? Or does God use those times to reinforce the mystery of faith?

Personally, I think God much prefers an honest atheist to those who calls themselves "Christian" but who live and act in a such a manner that no one ever sees even a glimpse of Jesus in their words or actions. Those are the ones Jesus termed "hypocrites," or "play actors." All pretense, no substance. And those who are quick to condemn the atheists may need to take a hard look at themselves--perhaps it is their own tendency to playact that have sent some in the direction of "there is probably no God."

Sanity Score

So what is health anyway?  If we can't define it well, we can't figure out if we have it.  Here's a test to check your mental health:  http://www.sanityscore.com/ .  I took it and am considered pretty healthy mentally.  How nice of them.  But I'd sure like some good definitions of health, physical, mental, spiritual.  Give us a place to start.

Western Medicine and the Healing Process

How does a person get well?  What is healing?  Does God really heal miraculously?  How does western medicine cooperate with the healing process?  How does one maintain spiritual health when the body appears to be suffering from un-health?

Perhaps an even better question:  what IS health anyway?

I've got a lot of these questions racing through my mind after the last few months in particular of seeing many dear friends and relatives get hit hard by various illnesses, some absolutely life-threatening, others simply bringing misery and pain and some despair.  All of us who are United Methodist here in this Conference are aware that one known as a spiritual giant among us, Rev. Kathleen Baskin-Ball, died of a very invasive cancer.  Was it possible that in her passion for her call as a clergy person she drove herself so hard that even she got off balance and did not have reserves to fight off the cancer when it began?

I write that because there is some evidence now that many malignant cancers form and then disappear--the body is able to fight them off.  How can some bodies fight them off, and some not be able to?  

As I wrote in an earlier post, all three of my grandchildren experienced significant illnesses this fall.  One was potentially life-threatening, the other two were simply felled by nasty viruses and other infections.  Are these normal experiences of growing up in a crowded world with constant exposure to others who are ill?  

A book I am currently reading about this history of ideas suggests that as soon as people stopped the roving hunter/gatherer lifestyle, they began to experience greater bouts of ill-health.  These are guesses from archaeological evidence, but the theory is intriguing.  People become more settled, the diet becomes less varied (with the development of agriculture and the domestication of animals), along with less physical exertion required to survive:  perhaps all together make us more vulnerable to the disease process.

And then there is the question of stress:  how much "stress" makes us more vulnerable to illness and how much is necessary in order to grow and thrive and create?

I've not got answers here, but am hoping to ponder and write about these things for a while.  I just don't think that our spiritual health is a separate issue from our physical and emotional health, and I don't think one can be addressed without addressing the other.  We shall see where these thoughts go.  Any suggestions and ideas are welcome.

Children, Grandchildren and the Hoidays

I was enormously privileged this year over the Christmas break to enjoy visits from my three sons, their gorgeous wives and significant others, and my three grandchildren, Joshua, 2 1/2; his brother Samuel, 13 months (my oldest son's children), and Kate, 1 1/2, (my middle son's child).

I have not had the opportunity to spend much time with any of the grandchildren.  The two grandsons lived most of the last year in France and Colombia, and have now moved to London, England. The granddaughter lives in New York City.  Because I work on weekends, and do not get more normal three-day holidays that would make quick trips up there feasible, I've missed much of their first years.  In both cases, circumstances and different life choices have meant that the maternal grandmothers have had multiple days, weeks and even months with them.  I am grateful to these two women who have poured out that special kind of grandmotherly love on these children.  Clearly, it is different from being a parent.  And just as clearly, these two women will have much stronger bonds with these children.  So in my gratefulness, there is certainly some tinge of envy and yet . . . I know that each of us is doing what is right for us and that each of us has joy in our calls and that joy can be mingled with sorrow over the things that must be left out in order to be faithful.

Each of these grandchildren is bright, beautiful, and utterly charming. Naturally. There is not a grandparent around who does not say the same about his/her own grandchildren.  That is our privilege--to see the absolute best in each of them.  Each had been very sick during December with colds, other viruses, and in the case of Samuel, a very serious antibiotic resistant e-coli infection.  Each had recovered enough health to make the trip here and brighten my life and the lives of all their other doting relatives, including their grandfather (from whom I am divorced), two great grandmothers, and a variety of other relatives.  I marveled at the flexibility of all three children--to have traveled so far, to be in the midst of jet lag, and yet to play and laugh and sleep and eat (and occasionally fuss) and to seem to be able to adapt to the constant change around them, both of physical place and of people who were interested in them.

As I looked at my sons and the families they are developing, I had a good sense of my life coming full circle.  While I suspect I shall live many, many more years, I also am aware of some sort of completion about myself.  Yes, I have much to do.  This wonderful church to serve and to encourage others to become radical disciples of Jesus the Messiah, the years left with my current and very much appreciated husband, articles and books to write, gardens to grow, sunrises to enjoy, other family members to savor.  But in all this, there is something about giving birth and seeing that birth come to maturity that is enormously satisfying.  

I looked at my daughters-in-law, who with good grace and a lot of endurance were enduring those small child years of minimal sleep and nearly no time to themselves, I was filled with admiration.  And again, filled with a sense of completion.  I have done what they have done.  I remember those years, but not clearly, because my memories are filtered through the exhaustion I also experienced in those years.  I'm glad I did that.  I'm glad it is now passed.  I loved having them here and enjoyed every single moment of the life and noise and chaos they brought.  And now I am also enjoying the silence and quiet and a different kind of order.

I am simply aware today that I am a very, very fortunate woman.  Thank you, God.

The Fountain Pen

"Here's a gift for you." We were out to dinner with some very good friends just before Christmas and my husband was doing one of his favorite things: distributing gifts to friends and loved ones. I opened the gift he handed me. He's a creative shopper and often finds unusual things. But this one left me in some initial dismay: it was an elegant fountain pen and a bottle of ink.

Because I have terrible handwriting, am left-handed so writing is awkward anyway, and because my hands tend to cramp painfully when writing, I pretty well gave up doing any writing by hand years ago and have long used the computer for all my correspondence and other written work. I also consistently lose pens. Personally, I think that when we get to heaven, we are first going to be greeted by three large piles. The first one will be all the lost socks. When I had three teen boys and did 25 loads of laundry a week, I don't think I ever had a time when the socks all matched. The second will be all the lost reading glasses. All you of a certain age know exactly what I'm talking about here. And the third will be all the lost pens. A bunch of those will be mine. Frankly, I think people can be divided into two groups by way they use or lose pens. On one side will be those who have used the same pen for 20 or 30 or 50 years. On the other side, there will be those who can't ever find one at all even though a dozen of them were just purchased. Guess which side I fall in? For that reason, plus the handwriting situation, I have long refused to spend more than a small amount of money for any writing instrument at all.

Now, suddenly I am gifted with an exquisite writing instrument--one of those German-made, handcrafted-with-precision type pens. In fact, they are so unusual that there are on-line forums dedicated just to discussing them. These are definitely NOT bought in bulk at the local office supply store.

As has long been my pattern, on New Years Eve I sat down to write thank-you notes. I looked at that pen and ink, and then looked longingly at my computer. Resolutely, I inked up the pen, took some stationary, and began to write.
Now, I don't want you to get the idea that there was some miracle here and I suddenly began to write with perfectly shaped and legible letters. My handwriting is still pretty bad. But this pen glided effortlessly across the paper. There was no resistance, but almost a pull to make the letters that form the words. Something I have avoided for years because of the pain suddenly became the intriguing pleasure of discovery. Exquisite workmanship, time spent in perfecting the pattern, a good quality ink--and the words of gratefulness came flowing out.

Those kinds of pens don't just come rolling off a mass-production assembly line. They are the product of careful individual attention. I think there is a strong analogy here with the individuals who pay careful attention to their spiritual lives and have the marks of the Master permeating even the smallest part of their being and those who have just been quickly put together and sent out the door. Both types of pens will write, and both types of people will have impact on those around them. But some will be so touched with the thumbprints of God upon them that they will operate with exquisite grace and endurance no matter what they face. Others will quickly quit being effective or not be treasured because of cheap workmanship and little attention paid to the details. The smallest trial or obstacle sends them to the trash.

Pens don't have a choice as to whether they will be manufactured quickly and cheaply or by the slower, more expensive hand-crafted method. But people do. We can decide if we will submit thoroughly to the work of God and be shaped inside and out for lives of transformational holiness. We can also decide if we are unwilling to submit to such discipline. God is both patient and loving and will honor us when we say "no." God will not go where we will not give invitation. But those who do say "yes" to the work of God await great glory. Eyes are suddenly opened to see the possibilities of a Jesus-filled life in every moment. The fruitless pursuit of happiness gives way to the enduring joy and delight of the creative energies of God in our lives and in our world. Doomed-to-fail self-improvement programs are transformed into a journey to holy living. A salvation that looks only to escaping from eternal damnation gradually becomes a salvation that begins now by being real disciples of Jesus Christ and continues when we pass onto the other side of death. For 2009, let us all chose to let the work of God permeate every detail of our lives. It's a great place to start this journey to discipleship.

First Day of His Retirement

As of midnight, December 31, 2008, my husband entered retirement.  Kind of.  He was immediately reappointed to his current church, but on a half-time basis, not full time. He's also starting a new business venture with some friends, but this will be a while gearing up and is full of uncertainties.  Many life changes marked at that moment.

We drank a toast to all of this, and then I immediately went to bed, having a sense the the flu was coming on.  That would be no surprise as my Beloved had been deathly ill from just before Christmas until a day and a half ago.  My turn was coming.

This morning, I woke to the sounds of busy kitchen activity, and soon the odor of beautifully-cooked black-eyed peas began to fill the house.  I straggled to the breakfast table, managed to make a pot of lovely Irish Breakfast Tea (both the elegant tea set and the tea being a Christmas gift from him), and just sat there, hoping some energy would return.   In the meantime, my Beloved busily cooked me a fabulous breakfast, and began the makings of an elegant mid-day meal.  As he served me, he reminded me that I am now the major wage-earner, and that as the retired one, it was his privilege to see how he could make my life easier.  An hour and a half later, as I'm still not moving from the table, the refrigerator has been cleaned out, the pots and pans stacked neatly in their appointed places, the dishwasher emptied, and the traces of lipstick, which I never can get off, removed from the glassware.  He then fed the dogs, gave them yet another lesson in dog etiquette, reminded them of their proper place in our household dog pack, and then joined me for a cup of Emerald Bamboo Forest tea (another part of the Christmas tea set gift).

I'm still just sitting here, but did bring the laptop in so I could write a bit and enjoy the morning light.  Clearly, I could get used to this very, very quickly.

In the last few months, as I've gone through a grueling time with multiple professional challenges and a sense that all the balls I had in the air were about to come crashing down, I mentioned to some friends that what I really needed was a wife.  It's really not fair to the word "wife" to say that--what I really wanted was a butler.  Someone to fix my meals and make sure I eat properly, get my clothes to the cleaners and pick them up, keep the house orderly because I work so much better in an orderly environment, do the grocery shopping, make sure the dogs get good attention, and thus help free some of my energy for the work issues on my plate and for more refreshing relaxation time.

Only if these things were combined with profound affection, respectful love and occasional romance could such a position be called a "wife."  And suddenly, at least for this day, I have that "wife."

For me, it is a bit of a challenge to consent to being served this way.  I've spent most of my life serving.  First being that "wife," and then rearing my children and then in various school and work situations where my primary responsibility has been the success of someone else who was the responsible one.  But now I'm that one. I am the primary wage-earner. I am the senior pastor of this thriving church that is experiencing so much change and transformation.  I still have the privilege of serving, yet really, and truly, the buck does stop at my desk. 

I sense in these hours with my Beloved the aroma of the Presence of the Spirit of God.  These acts are a reminder to me that I am not alone, ever, no matter how alone I may feel on occasion.  Nice things to savor on this first day of 2009. 

Low Reserves Revisited

Well, the challenging week continues, but I'm beginning to see some daylight.  I took yesterday off, declined to meet with some people over important issues because I knew I shouldn't trust my insight in this exhausted state, and then worked outside in the flower beds for much of the afternoon.  I cleaned out the beds with summer/fall plants, now dead from front.  Onto the compost heap.  I looked sadly at the house plants I had put on the front and south facing porch, thinking it might protect them adequately from the more extreme cold and realized many hadn't made it.  Each of those houseplants had a history.  Many came from the funerals of my mother and father in law, two years ago.  Others were rescued from my mother who systematically kills every plant ever given her. Another is a now 8 foot ficus tree I had grown from a 1 footer, acquired about five years ago for my office.  That ficus may make it, but another is gone.  So, more onto the compost pile.

 

Then I began to pull some weeds from the new beds we put in this past fall, and started placing newspaper down and covering it with compost to put a good barrier against others growing.  Didn't get too far--just don't have the physical strength right now to do too much.  But being out in the sunshine helped. Getting a few things cleaned out helped.  Tossing things on the compost heap helped.  All part of the cycle of life--even the most tenderly cared for plants eventually die, but in their death, they can bring life again.

 

My grandson in France seems to be responding to the huge doses of powerful antibiotics being pumped into his system, and all are cautiously optimistic.  The church administrator at my church has very likely experienced a miracle of healing.  A diagnosis of rampant and quickly fatal liver cancer from two and a half weeks ago is suddenly, "Well, the biopsy shows NO signs of cancer, but I don't trust it and want you to have another." 

 

In a couple of hours, I'll head to Dallas to do a wedding rehearsal and enjoy an evening there along with what should be a beautiful wedding on Saturday.  My Beloved, as always loving and supportive, has agreed to take the lead in this wedding and just let me be the tag along.  He's really better at these than I am, and I will ride gratefully on his strength for these two days.

 

My sermon for Sunday is ready and waiting for me on my pulpit.  My article for next week will be sent to the newspaper editor soon.  There's a sense of completion here that really helps.  I know I still need a long, long break, much sleep and sunshine to really recover again, but have a sense of hope again. Thank all of you for praying.

Bless and Curse Not

A few weeks ago, a horrific terrorist attack left a number of people dead and wounded in Mumbai, India. I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to this--it was just another piece of bad news filling the newspapers and airways. My inner response, "It doesn't really affect me anyway." Then I got an email from my oldest son who has been doing some graduate work in France. One of his classmate's father was injured in the attack. Although the whole description of the attack is too long to print in full, here is a snippet of what happened after the terrorists entered a hotel restaurant and began to shoot:

"The terrorists then rounded up anyone alive (about 20 people) and made them climb the service staircase to the 18th floor. On reaching the 18th floor landing they made the people line up against a wall. One terrorist then positioned himself on the staircase going up from the landing and the other on the staircase going down from the landing. Then, in a scene right out of the Holocaust, they simultaneously opened fire on the people. My father was towards the center of the line with his two friends on either side. Out of reflex, or presence of mind, he ducked as soon as the firing began. One bullet grazed his neck, and he fell to the floor as his two friends and several other bodies piled on top of him. The terrorists then pumped another series of bullets into the heap of bodies to finish the job. This time a bullet hit my father in the back hip. Bent almost in double, crushed by the weight of the bodies above him, and suffocating in the torrent of blood rushing down on him from the various bodies my father held on for ten minutes while the terrorists left the area."

After further description of the horrors and the eventual rescue of the four who survived this particular attack, my son's classmate wrote this:

"How do we fight such hate? How do we inject humanity into such monstrosity? How do we convince those who think they kill in god’s name that no God would condone such barbarity? How do we maintain our own values and humanity when faced with such hate and provocation?"

Yes, how do we fight such hate? Do we fight it with more hate? With more violence? With escalated wars? There are no simplistic answers here and I'm not naive enough to suggest them. But it surely does answer the question that many Christians are encouraged to ask during Advent, that time of waiting for Christmas. The question: "Does the world need a Savior?" How do you answer it? What will you do when the Savior appears? What will you do when the Savior appears and is not what you expected? What will you do when the Savior appears and instead of destroying your enemies he says, "Bless those who persecute you.  Bless and curse not." 

Just a few words to ponder as we prepare for a week of celebration, family, gifts and fun. Be sure and attend a Christmas Eve service--hear again those words and remember, "Christ the Savior has come!"

Even Fewer Reserves

So, yesterday morning I write about my state of being so empty.  Yesterday afternoon, my son who lives in France phoned to tell me his youngest son, Samuel, is in the hospital in Fontainebleau with a high fever that they can't bring down and a possible kidney/bladder infection.  I told Jonathan that he developed something like that when he was four or five but no cause was ever found.  Later, Jonathan phoned again and said that the pediatrician over there would like the medical records of what happened to Jonathan in the early '80s.  So I began to make phone calls to see if they could be retrieved.  Little luck so far. 



So, here I am, a pastor who knows how much comfort is found in sharing such things with others and asking for prayer.  And I find myself almost paralyzed by the need to ask for that kind of support, although I have let a few know about this.  I suspect this is both a symptom of my deep exhaustion and a wish not to focus attention on myself when there are so many others who need it.  I have a memorial service to do this afternoon for a family whose mother died Sunday morning.  I spent many, many hours with this great family, finding myself blessed by their love for their mother/grandmother (seven children, and a huge number of grandchildren, great's, nieces, nephews, in-laws, etc.).  I want to give them all that they deserve in this time of final goodbyes.  These are such holy moments, times when we are especially open to the probing, cleansing love of God.

It can and should become a time to focus on the glory of God.  I have heard so many grieving people say to me, "Does (the deceased one) know what we are doing?  Does she/he see how much we loved her and are trying to honor her memory?"  I would say, "I'm betting they don't care--they are so caught up in the presence of the true unveiled glory of God that that of us which lives after death before the physical resurrection is really uninterested in whether you got the details right of the service."  The services are not for the one who is dead, but for those who are living, who much come to a place of peace about their loss and prepare to move in and live in ways that honor the memory of the one they loved so.

So, guess I'd better get to work.

If you do read this, however, please pray for my grandson, Samuel.  All of us are worried about him. 

No Reserves

It's a tough, tough time for the nation.  We are well into a huge economic crisis and the people who are going to get hit the very hardest are those living on the edge with no reserves to fall back upon.  The more vulnerable ones live paycheck to paycheck, sometimes even taking out payday loans to cover emergencies--and those loans have unbelievably damaging interest rates, thus pushing already precarious financial positions into real calamity.

No reserves--that's the problem.  Nothing to carry us when blow after blow comes.

That is how I'm feeling right now.  No real reserves after a very challenging few months as well as a very blessed few months as pastor here.  I serve such a wonderful church.  These dear people offer themselves as examples of Christ Incarnate in their joy and service and loving response to all coming their way.  Even so, the energy drain continues on me, and everyone knows it.  And I just can't figure out how to get filled up again.  It's like the financial crisis--a precarious situation moves over into real calamity when there are no reserves to call upon.

It's easy to list the challenges and responsibilities on front of me.  And frankly, most clergy would love to be in the situation I'm in--and therefore I have a very hard time complaining about it, although of course I do. 

We'll know more later this week, but I do believe we have seen a healing take place in one of the members of my church.  This morning, spending time in prayer before being able to find the energy to leave my bed, I was thinking about the time that the woman with the long-lasting hemorrhage touched the edge of Jesus cloak and Jesus felt the energy go out of him as she became well.  Of course he would rejoice in her healing--and did so with gracious words of invitation into his family of faith.  But was he exhausted afterward?  Perhaps that is why his ministry was so short--those few years in which he gave all was all he could possibly muster.

I have long held that healing can only take place in extreme cooperation between God and the person in need of it.  It cannot be outwardly imposed on someone who really, really doesn't want it.  Many say they want it, but few really do.  Many are called, but few are chosen.  Few really, really want the kind of holy responsibility that comes with being healed by the hand of God.  Few truly wish to live a well persons in a world that encourages sickness of heart and mind and soul and body. 

Will God restore my reserves?  Or better, is God interested in restoring my reserves?  I think so.  But I don't think God will fill my well any more than financial accounts miraculously turn from red to black just by wishing it.  It takes cooperation.  It means lining myself up with holy habits that promote the rebuilding of the reserves:  rest, sabbath, time to read and reflect, time outside, laughter, order--in many ways, being a bit more selfish with my time and energy.

No quick fix here.  Wish there were. 

Oh! You better watch out!

"Oh! You better watch out, You better not cry, You better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town! He's making a list, He's checking it twice, He's gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming to town! He sees you when you're sleeping, He knows when you're awake. He knows when you've been bad or good, So be good for goodness sake!"

The words to that song drive me over the edge where Christmas is concerned.  It's sung as some innocent children's song to get our little ones ready for the celebration, but those words are anything but innocent.  They turn a made-up person into a god, and a mean and vengeful god at that.

There was a real Saint Nick, as far as we know.  But his story is far from the current Santa Claus myth.  The original was a man who inherited a great deal of money and gave every bit of it away in order to relieve poverty and suffering.  He didn't "know when you've been good or bad."  He just heard of those who needed help and used all he had to offer it.  Those actions are quite fully reflective of the nature of God's love and grace for a suffering world.  The words to the song above can be used to scare children into what they perceive as goodness.  Santa becomes an all-present eye with all knowledge about all people who is busy tossing people, especially children, out of any hope of receiving gifts.  Such words are actually threatening when taken literally.  Such a distance from a God who is far, far more interesting in loving us to holiness and faithfulness in mind and heart and hands!

I think Christmas celebrations are lots of fun, and the idea of a holy saint who comes around and offers gifts to children is delightful.  Such an idea helps make the bridge to recognizing a holy God who offers us the chance to become children of God and inheritors of all that God has and is.  But this song and much Christmas advertising and some Christmas movies turn Santa into God rather than seeing him as a human representative of God.  Santa is not God.  At its joyful best, Santa represents God's goodness and generosity.  At its worst, Santa is the stand-in for uncontrollable human greed because the focus is on what we get rather than what we give.

I wonder what it would be like if Santa would take children on his knee and ask them, "What would you most like to give to someone else this Christmas?"  Or, "What could you do for someone this Christmas that would show them how much you love them?"  If that were to become the focus, the letdown that often comes on Christmas morning as overly stimulated children who have focused only on what they get often say, "Is that all there is?"  It could easily change to, "What more can I give today?"  Even young children can be taught the real joy of giving, of how much fun it is to serve someone else, of the satisfaction of relieving suffering in some way.

I'm working on hanging in. Just feel slammed by learning just a week ago that our church Administrative Assistant has a fast growing and always fatal liver cancer. No warning, symptoms only started a week before the diagnosis. Aggressive treatment may buy her some time. Right now, it seems to be harder on me than on her. She's just been doing this work for the church for a short period of time, but we had already formed a good friendship and it quickly deepened in the hours we spent working together.

Last night I spent a couple of hours at the hospital with a large and loving family who are watching their mother die of lung cancer. They needed me to break open the conversation with her so they could all start talking more freely and honestly and lovingly. It was a powerful time of prayer and healing and love and support, and, naturally, left me even tireder. I so understand why Jesus kept needing to withdraw to the mountains for prayer and why the people followed him when he did. Words of honest love are so hard to find--we're busy putting Christmas wrapping on gifts of decay and deceit instead.


Did have a lovely day yesterday with my 17 month old granddaughter. She's the first child of my overwhelmingly brilliant middle son and I know that people have been holding their breath to see how much of that will be manifested in this child. She's adorable and was loving with me even though she has not seen me for nearly a year. She did say what I think was her first complete sentence yesterday. As I was changing her poopy diaper, I distinctly heard her say, "I made poop." That's got to be a classic statement of the human condition. Great place to start.


My Beloved husband is being incredibly supportive as he sees this melancholy crushing me to the ground right now. We've both learned to treasure it and hold it carefully when it hits. I had thought it might not be so bad this year since I live in a house with so much more light, and I'm very much affected by the shortened days. I was exceedingly wrong.

Yet, tomorrow is the first Sunday in Advent. It's the season of watchfulness, of waiting, of wondering if God really is on the move. Good timing for me.

Nov 18, the day before Charge Conference

I finally finished all the Charge Conference reports on Sunday.  Later that night, with some help from my Beloved, I wrote my newspaper article about the process.  You can read it here:  http://www.krumumc.org/articles/2008/nov_21_it_is_finished.shtml.  I really dislike forms--most of them don't make much sense to the way my mind works, so having to work through multiple ones, and ones I consider very poorly designed, has been very, very frustrating.

 

Tomorrow, the District Superintendent will be here and he, along with however many of the congregation show up (and I don't expect many) will hear a few of those reports, they'll vote on whether they will or will not approve my salary for next year, and whether we will change the name of the church from Krum UMC to First UMC, Krum.

 

I wonder about this vote on my salary.  A decent raise was recommended by Staff/Parish, and the Finance Ministry folded it into the budget, but it still has to come before the church for discussion and approval.  I was at a clergy luncheon meeting yesterday and spoke with a friend of mine who is pastoring a troubled church in a Dallas suburb. She said that she was informed by her Staff/Parish committee that they wanted to cut her salary by more than half and go to a part-time clergy person. She, of course, informed her District Superintendent, who came down pretty hard on my friend, suggesting that she might want to re-think her call to the ministry of the ordained.  I found this response shocking--the problems at that church have been a long time in the making and this friend has been there only since June.  Anyone with any knowledge of systems and institutional life and the change process knows that no quick fix works there. 

 

Anyway, to get back to the salary situation--what if there are those who don't like what I'm doing--but who won't speak with me face to face about this--decide to use the Charge Conference as a way to indicate their lack of confidence in me and both speak against and vote against the raise?  I know I"m still wrestling with these unseen undercurrents that I just can't seem to bring to the surface, and that doesn't help right now.  But it surely does seem like this simply helps put pastors on a performance basis--either do what the moneyed people of the church want, or be prepared to be embarrassed.  I don't know if there is a better way to handle this or not.  I just know I feel so exposed about this.  No one else has to disclose their salaries, but I most definitely must.  Very awkward.  Probably as awkward for them as it is for me.

50% Approval Rating

As I continue to ponder the challenges of being a pastor, I find myself really, really bugged by something.  I recently heard from a friend who is pastoring a small, struggling church in the Midwest.  She mentioned that she has only a 50% approval rate by the congregation and was not sure of her future in the church or in the ministry as an ordained clergy (she is not United Methodist, but is part of a denomination where she must receive a call by a congregation in order to serve as a pastor).

The more I think about this, the more appalled I am.  How on earth is it kingdom of heaven living--or to use a term that may speak better to us, how it is "with-God" living--for a congregation to take a poll and ask them whether or not they "approve" of their pastor?  This turns the pastorate into a popularity-people-pleasing treadmill, and the only outcome is death, both for the clergy person and for the congregation.

It's not the congregation's job to "approve" of their pastor.  It's their job to come together as a community of those who are called by the name of Christ and figure out how to live as disciple of Christ in a world that makes it pretty darn hard to do that.

Now, this doesn't mean that they have to agree with their pastor, or even like their pastor.  It does mean that they had better learn to love their pastor, however, and to treat that pastor in the way they wanted to be treated.  This also doesn't mean they put up with shoddy work by their pastor.  There are performance standards for every occupation, and we as clergy certainly need to live and work out of high expectations.  High expectations always seasoned by grace, of course. 

If I have to make decisions as a pastor concerning the direction of this church, and those decisions are based on whether the congregation will approve of them, I will be less and less likely to make the hard ones that God often calls us to make.  Ones like insisting that if we are going to be disciples of Jesus that we really do have a cross to pick up, and we really might have to give up everything they own if we want to save our lives.  Those are not the kind of words that bring high approval ratings.  They probably helped to send Jesus to his agonizing death. 

The pastors with the highest approval ratings are those who run cults with an iron fist and stamp out disapproval with shunning, expulsion, torture, or other methods of making sure that dissent is not tolerated.  I'll pass on that.  I want to grow a congregation of mature, adult Christians who own their own spiritual lives and have learned to discern for themselves how the Spirit of God is working.  They may not approve of me, and I may not approve of them all the time, but if we really are mature, we'll sure honor one another and trust that God is working through all of us, not just through some power-brokers who decide who stays and who goes by the level of approval. 

 I just find this whole approval rating thing distasteful.  Would surely like to hear from others who might be able to shed further light on this.

The Case of the Paranoid Pastor

While I was working out in the yard today, on this gorgeous November afternoon after a glorious morning of worship at my church, I felt the tentacle of paranoia began to wrap around my soul and pull me into that place of darkness and fear.

I've been re-reading the past few days the beautifully written book called "Leaving Church" by Barbara Brown Taylor, an ordained Episcopal priest who decided to leave her parish and her life as a priest.  Our stories are eerily similar at the moment.  Both of us pastoring in small towns, both seeing some success, although hers is considerably more than mine and I doubt that I'll ever be in demand or known as the "preacher of the year."  However, someone did come to church this morning because they listened to my messages online and wanted to experience them in person.  Both of us really eaten up by our positions and by our ministries.  Both of knowing that no matter how much we do, it is never enough.  

It is never enough.  There is always someone I won't have visited adequately in the hospital, someone who didn't find grace in my words and actions, someone whose special moment I forgot; always sermons inadequately prepared, articles hastily written, paperwork undone.  Always someone I've disappointed so egregiously that they've decided never to come back to this church as long as I am pastor here.  

I know there are rumors floating around, people not coming to worship because they are unhappy with other people there, or, more likely, with me.  I also know that while I may be doing a lot of things right, it is rare that I will hear about them.  And I will often not hear about the things I'm doing wrong until there is an explosion and someone says, "You mean you didn't know about this?"  People talk around me, not to me.  And all I know is something is wrong, something is off kilter.

And yet we had this really wonderful morning.  Much joy, much connection with the holy moments.  Many things are coming together, plans beginning to see the kiss of the Holy Spirit on them.  

But I'm worried, and having trouble get past it.  All I can do is wait this out, wait until someone speaks, wait upon the Lord in prayer and supplication, wait.  Wait and know that this is God's church, not my church.  Wait until someone is willing to break the silence.

Interesting time.  

Political Discourse

We are a bruised nation.  We're bruised economically, we're bruised internationally, but mostly we're bruised internally.  We're bruised because the uncivil discourse that characterizes most political campaigns bruises and soils our individual and national souls.

While it may not be articulated in exactly this way, the sentiment seems to be growing:  if people of local, state and national prominence can speak of one another so distastefully, get away with it and even win elections doing it, then we can get away with it in our more intimate interpersonal encounters. 

I've lived through numerous presidential elections.  After each one, people will say, "Stop the negative campaigning." But it never happens, because the game is to win at all costs. So what if the cost is littered reputations, piles of innuendo, and downright lies spoken and written?

Of course, after the elections, the winners and loser always say all the right things.  Everyone shakes hands, and talk about taking the high road to local, state and national cooperative politics.  But I contend those bruises have infected us so deeply that a few words spoken after the multiple hits are no more than extra-heavy makeup over an infected sore.  All surface--and with no change to disease-laden bacteria brewing beneath the temporary cover-up.

It is utterly ridiculous to insist that what we are exposed to does not affect how we think and act.  A recent study suggested that young girls who watch the kind of TV shows that indicate no restraints upon the expression of sexuality are more prone to become pregnant long before they are ready for the responsibilities of motherhood.  Almost immediately, the results of the studies were disputed, saying that it was more likely that sexually active teens were drawn to sexually permissive TV programming.  Right.  God forbid that parents might have to take responsibility for watchfulness over the TV viewing habits of their offspring. God forbid any of us might really want to pay attention to the slow corruption of our civility when we unconsciously model that which is beamed into our eyes and ears by the ubiquitous presence of ever-on media.

Sexually oriented media rarely if ever present moral and sexual restraint as normal, but as something to be fixed as quickly as possible.  In the political arena, the profound lack of civil discourse is now presented as normal. That normality bruises us all. This infection underlying our bruised souls denies the restraint and thoughtfulness demanded by truly civil discourse.  Our infected souls laugh at words of Jesus that read like this:  "You're familiar with the command to the ancients, 'Do not murder.' I'm telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother 'idiot!' and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell 'stupid!' at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill'"  (Matthew 5:21-22, The Message Translation). 

Words do kill.  And we are rapidly killing each other.  It is time for us who call ourselves civilized to begin to act like it in every area of our lives. This is especially true for call themselves both civilized and Christian.  For the Christian is more literally a "Christ-follower."  One who follows Christ knows the power of words to heal and the power of words to kill.  Let us be the ones to actively re-introduce the world to truly civil discourse, with words that give life, rather than death. 

Did you agree with the results of the last elections?  Then season your agreement with humility.  Did you disagree with those results?  Then choose your words of disagreement with caution and undergird them with the rules of civil discourse.  See if you can breathe life to your own ideas without having to bring destruction to others in the process.  Let us be a truly civil people and heal the infection that has left many aching with pain.

Your Headlights are Off

"Did you know that your headlights weren't on?"  That's the first question that popped out of my mouth after a frustrating 30 minutes trying to find a friend of mine who was supposed to meet me at a restaurant in Frisco.  Her reply, "At least I was driving on the right side of the road.  Give me some credit!"

She's been living in England for three years, and had flown in for a short vacation.  All her plans were made at the last minute, so our own get-together was hurriedly planned and not well-thought out.  As I discovered later, she doesn't have a much of a sense of direction, so my instructions, "go north on the Tollway to the exit and then go back south on the service road" only confused her.  Thanks to cell phones, we we're finally able to get to the same place. But it was dark, and in her borrowed car she had no idea that the headlights didn't come on. As she said, "I was driving with the light from the streetlights."

During our conversation, she mentioned a difficult decision that was before her.  She had been turning to many others for guidance with this, but was getting a variety of opinions and still found herself torn and undecided.  For some reason, she could not trust her own soul with this, and the conflicting words from friends left her very disturbed.  I suggested that perhaps she was driving with her headlights off--using the light from others rather than turning on her own light so the path was better able to be seen.

I'm not sure she appreciated my suggestion, but think that a lot of people do just what she seemed to be doing.  We want to seek guidance from God, but are so untrusting that we can actually hear God's voice for ourselves that we rely on streetlights from others rather than our own headlights to move forward. That works while we are on well-lit and well-traveled roads.  It becomes very problematic when we move off the popular street onto less well-traveled spots. 

Finding the general guidance of God is pretty easy:  loving God with all that you are and then loving your neighbor as yourself.  Those are the main streetlights that light our paths.  It's the specifics of loving God and neighbor as self that can get pretty confusing, and the way we love God and others is different for each person.  That's why we've got to use our own headlights as well as the streetlights. 

So how do we turn on our own headlights?  I remember first hearing a very, very famous preacher and scholar getting ready to talk about finding the will of God.  I was just starting my years as a graduate student and I, along with hundreds of others, sat waiting with our pens poised to write for wisdom that would change our life.  The famous preacher said these things, "Pray, read your Bibles, and go to church."  We all looked at him with some dismay.  This is all?  Isn't there some mysterious way into the mind of God where we would know exactly what to do. 

Not really.  If you want to drive with your own headlights on, that's what you do:  pray, read your Bible, and go to church.  After a while, you'll begin to know the mind of God, and the road will become very clear.  It was a piece of good advice I've never forgotten.

Continuing Thoughts on "The Stories I Hear"

I find myself still shocked by some of the events and conversations of last week, and others that are continuing this week.  Every pastor, when coming to a different church, no matter what the circumstances, gets to enjoy a honeymoon period.  Everyone is on good behavior, and we're all hoping the best will happen.  We look at one another with generosity and often hide some parts of ourselves and our thoughts for fear of being unloved if exposed.  So, while honeymoons are great, real lasting love doesn't begin to develop until the honeymoon is over.

The honeymoon is over here.  Hurt feelings, disagreements, tensions, things that almost look like rudeness are surfacing now.  That's OK--this means a new level of openness and vulnerability is happening here.  Again, a time for real love, not pretend love, to develop.  So, I ask myself, why am I so shocked?  I'm hardly new to church life.  I know these things happen.  What's going on?

I keep returning to the purpose for the existence of the church.  In the United Methodist Church, we say that we exist to "Make Disciples for Jesus Christ for the Transformation of the World."  That statement opens doors to multiple questions.  First :  What does it mean to be a disciple?  Second, what on earth do we mean by the transformation of the world?  Third, isn't there anything here about being "saved?"  Fourth, what about the people who come to church who have no interest in being a disciple of Jesus Christ, however we are going to define it? 

Church entry standards are very low.  But Jesus' requirements for being a disciple seem awfully high--like leaving everything behind and laying down our lives for one another.  Or, to put it simply and scripturally, loving God fully and loving our neighbor as we love ourselves.  I'm just not seeing the last one happen real well right now.  And I know myself well enough to know that I have to start fixing this by looking very, very hard at myself.

We have such expectations of one another in the church.  Expectations that we will really act according to the law of love, but mostly those expectations are laid on others while we assure ourselves that we always act from love.  That, of course, is a load of baloney.  Most of us fail to love ourselves well at all, so we look for others to do that for us, blind to the fact that the lack of healthy self-love means we absolutely cannot love anyone else in a way that brings any glory or holiness or honest connection in our relationships to each other.

More on this later, because I'm aware at this moment that my own lack of self-love is hindering my writing and thinking process.  It's time to take care of some important tasks that indicate real love.

Oh, the stories . . .

"Oh, The People You’ll Meet And The Places You’ll Go”. . . that’s the title to a Dr. Seuss book often given to people who are changing something in their lives—a graduation from high school, or perhaps a new job, or the first time to travel to someplace very different. It’s a celebration of possibilities and future.

“Oh the stories you’ll hear and the heartbreak you’ll know”. . . .That’s my current paraphrase of the book title as I consider the life of being a pastor.

After two and a half years here, I have a sense that the congregation has begun to trust me and to invite me more into their lives. They tell me their stories. They give me the pictures of their lives.

Each story flows with rich colors.. Bright colors of happiness and fun swirl around somber colors of heartbreak and struggle. Each life creates a unique painting, and each stroke of color adds to the whole.

Each life painting differs radically from all others. Some are like the Old Masters, serious, rounded, hinting of a stability and perhaps desperation behind them. Others are like modern impressionists, more wild and open to multiple interpretations. Some seem simply two dimensional, not yet well explored. Others go so deep that an infinite universe is contained in them.

My own life gains color by those stories. My mind hosts a repository of secrets and confidences, kept there forever, swirling around, clashing against each other. Today, those clashes have brought me to a point of understanding why Jesus wept over Jerusalem, saying he longed to gather them under his arms, as a hen does her chicks. For I am weeping with my own anguish today.

Stories fill in the background and open our eyes to motivations and reasons for actions and words. Often, one small piece of us collides with one small piece of another person and then misunderstandings abound. The piece we just ran into is without setting or understanding of the whole. It is like the proverbial group of six blind people describing an elephant: The one who feels a leg says the elephant is like a pillar; the one who feels the tail says the elephant is like a rope; the one who feels the trunk says the elephant is like a tree branch; the one who feels the ear says the elephant is like a hand fan; the one who feels the belly says the elephant is like a wall; and the one who feels the tusk says the elephant is like a solid pipe.

When we interact with just a piece of another person, it’s easy to say that person is a solid pipe or a wall or a rope, and not know that such a person is all of those and a whole lot more besides.

As a pastor, I get to interact with the sorrowful, painful, anguished, and sometimes rabidly unrepentant sinful sides of others. These are the facets rarely presented freely when in public, and I hold the privilege of seeing these things very seriously. Thus the secrets forever sealed in my brain.

But when I see someone else proclaiming judgment on another, “She’s a rope; he’s a tree branch” without understanding the bigger picture, I want to cry out, “Stop! You don’t know enough to make this pronouncement!”

“Stop!” I cry. Stop. Stop deciding that you know the hearts and motivations of another when hurts they may have brought your way were probably wholly unintentional. And if they were intentional, then the person doing such actions is in need of passionate prayer, for such a one sits at the edge of hell, nearly lost from God. Why are we so eager to push people further into that hell rather than invite them back into the “with-God” life? Why, I cry out though my tears, are we so ready to discard people into the junk heap when we find ourselves with a bruised toe or bleeding head from these collisions? Are we eager to find ourselves in that junk heap—that place of malodorous waste, steaming with the bacteria of decomposition? I doubt it. I really, really doubt it.

Yes, I sit here and weep today.