Clergy Guy

Vicarious Thrills

2012-01-17T19:16:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t too long ago that I read from a textbook thatministers and counselors can be tempted to get their vicarious thrills throughthe personal accounts of people who come to them for help. For instance, while the clergyperson may nothave engaged in many sexual adventures, he could enjoy hearing about what otherpeople have done when they confess in the counseling room.

As soon as I read it, I realized that I used to dothat. However, I grew out of it before Iread that it was a problem. I couldn’treally draw a clear boundary back then, but I gradually realized I was on thewrong side of the line. I was using someone else’s misery to fill anemptiness in my own life.

When people come to me they’re often terribly conflictedabout their pasts and they’re looking for resolution and perhaps absolution. Theydon’t intend to be a source of entertainment.

Well, okay some of them do, but I’ll write about thatanother time.

I wish I had had better training in my younger days. However,we focused primarily on the study of scriptural texts and articulatingdoctrine. Nobody warned us of the temptations that few people other thanministers and counselors face.

As I matured, I sharpened my focus on the concept thatI’m supposed to help people, not use them. Plus--and this is a big thing--overthe years, the sadness, cruelty, and pain of people’s lives have had acumulative effect on me. I’m stillinterested in being of help--sometimes even passionate, They honor me with their trust. and I find satisfaction in helping. But I'm no longer excited by someone else's misadventures. I’m usually relieved to find refuge at home atthe end of the day.

The Old (Crazy) Songs

2012-01-14T14:34:00.000-08:00

Here are some words to a song that was popular in the fundamental conservative denomination in which I grew up.

Troublesome times are here,

filling men’s hearts withfear

Freedom we all hold dear now is at stake….

Jesus is coming soon,

morning or night or noon,

Many will meet their doom

Trumpets will sound….

Believe it or not, this was one of those “feel good” songs, where people stood up, swayed, and clappedtheir hands, smiling at each other, marveling at how they could worship and havefun at the same time.

Here’s another one:

It’s gonna rain. Yeah, it’s gonna rain

Oh, you better get ready and bear this in mind.

For God showed Noah the rainbow sign

It won’t be water, but fire this time….

The teenagers would rock to this one, using it as a wayto get the joint jumping just before we had pizza and volleyball.

We had several other tunes that were catchy enough, butas anyone in their right minds could see, the message was full of anxiety, doom, and destruction.

It took me a long time to see how nutty we were: “We’regonna be destroyed. We deserve it. Praise God!” And then we'd tell each other that heaven would be just like this.

It was more than conflicting. It reflected a crazy,schizoid lifestyle full of depression and anxiety.

When I became a minister within that community, Iconsidered myself a reformer, someone who could help deliver us all from ourcraziness. My efforts were often not appreciated. I got into more troubletelling people they were okay, that God loved them, and that they were going toheaven.

After a few years, I quit trying to save the “saved,” andI moved on.

Now here’s something really odd to me. I get a weird nostalgia when I think of thatcrazy music. It’s part of my childhood. Sometimes it feels like it was somebodyelse’s life. I miss it.

Then I take an aspirin and lie down until thefeeling passes.

Christmas Crap

2011-12-10T18:55:00.001-08:00

I’m just going to come right out and say it.

Christmas sucks and I wish it were over.

I’ve preached on how we should not let ourselves be ruledby a negative attitude. I’m singing themusic. I’m being the life of the parties.

But I’m faking it, as usual

I’ve talked to too many parents who’ve had to bury theirchildren during this season. There are too many people in recovery who are tryingnot to start drinking again. I’m rememberingsuicides in seasons past. And then there are all the funerals that happen justbefore or just after Christmas Day.

Now, I still like the story of Christ’s birth who is asymbol of hope and a promise of peace. Ilike how the mystical and the earthy elements are woven together: dreams andvisions vs. pregnancy and traveling. Angels singing and shepherds listening. Astar shining over a stable.

As a father, I get how a child can be a God figure.

Holding onto that makes it possible to bear all of thecrap and push onto the new year.

Beware the Friendly Faces

2011-12-01T09:22:00.001-08:00

When I go to a new church, the people who are friendliest atfirst are usually the ones I can’t trust. They’ll take me to lunch, give metickets to ball games, and sit on the front row at church and beam as I preach.But they’re the ones who want something from me, who have an agenda that theywant me to support. And they’re usuallythe ones who got rid of the last preacher.

I am reminded of a movie called “Romero,” a true story of anArchbishop appointed to San Salvador. Hewas soft spoken and physically frail, and the local powers figured he’dbe easy to control.

He wasn’t.

There was a party to welcome him and people brought himlavish gifts for which he politely thanked them. However, he was ecstatic whena poor shoe maker gave him shoes with soft soles so he could walkcomfortably. He wore them all the timeas he walked to the villages of the poor.

The frail, soft spoken priest became the champion for thepoor, speaking powerfully against the wealthy families, and the corruptgovernment officials.

He was assassinated—shot while he presided over Mass.

I’ve been here long enough for the tide to have turned in mychurch. The ones who were happy to have me here are not so happy now. They can’tsay anything because I’m pretty popular with the others.

They really ought to be grateful I’m as old as I am, becauseas a younger man I wouldn’t have tolerated them so much, and I would havelooked for ways to make them go away.

But they won’t go away. They’ve been here so long that eventheir enemies tolerate them. They’ll get quieter and bide their time until I’mnot doing so well. When my vitality flags, or I have personal complicationsthat come from having family, or if the church suffers some discouragement, they’llmove against me. And they mightwin. In fact, they probably will.

That would be a shame. This church, like most, has a shortlifespan. It won’t last another ten years unless it makes some major changes. Canthey make them?

It’s iffy. Chances are they won’t, especially if theyinvolve themselves in another power struggle that wastes time and energy. They can’t afford the luxury of playing thisgame anymore.

But here are some things for me to consider.

First, I like this church.

Second, I like this town. I like the people. I appreciatehow pretty the scenery is. I’m reallypretty happy here. I could even make some friends, maybe.

And third, I didn’t come here to close this church down. Iintend to light it up. It might burn down but it won’t shut down.

This isn’t San Salvador and I’m not Romero. Let them taketheir best metaphorical shot at me. I’vegot work to do.

A Better Place

2011-11-30T14:35:00.001-08:00

I’m in a better place these days.

It’s amazing how pleasant things can be when you have treesand grass and flowers outside, a nice house to live in, and people who act gladto see me when they come near—and some of them may even be genuine.

It’s not a perfect church. Plenty of problems to go around,but of course, that’s why I work here.

I’ve been busy with my new situation here and that’s why Ihaven’t blogged, but I’d like to get back to it if there’s anybody out therewho still checks this blog out. I havesome more to say.

Since I’m in a better mood, I’ve decided to change the look,brighten things up a bit. So I hope you like it.

I Like Them More

2011-07-02T06:09:00.000-07:00

I met with the younger families of my new church. I was a hit with the older folks, but these young ones were a tougher sell. And they were less forthcoming to my questions about the strengths and the future of the church.

I think it’s because they could see that so much responsibility for the church’s welfare would be resting on their shoulders. And that’s correct. With so many old people who will be dying soon, they will shoulder more responsibilities.

And they’re already tired.

In my last church, I didn’t cut them much slack. I told them they needed to decide on their priorities and put the church’s mission first. I told them not to be crybabies but to grow up and think like the grownups they were supposed to be.

It didn’t work out well.

I looked at these young ones who were chasing their little children and speaking of the bills to pay and their ailing parents. I remembered how long the days were for a young parent and how tired they could get, but still more would be demanded from them far into the night.

I’m going to go a little easier on this bunch. They’re not so arrogant and they work hard. And I could see the fatigue. They need a pastor.

Why do I feel tenderness with these people when I was so hard on the last group?

For whatever reason, I like them more.

A Better Preacher

2011-06-30T14:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve moved from dry dusty plains to lush greenery and lovely blooms. There are mountains and tree canopies and birds of every color. Our new house is big enough for me to have some privacy and my wife to have her own office. My office is no longer a cubicle, but large enough for me to pace about.

My new church has some pretty old people, but they are very interesting—lots of literate, educated folks, which is new for me. They were rough on the last preacher, but they feel pretty bad about it and are determined to be nicer to the new one (that would be me).

In an atmosphere of appreciation, I’m a better minister overnight. They marvel at how quickly I picked up their names. They love to hear me sing. And my preaching is brilliant—okay, maybe they didn’t say that last part.

But I’m really doing a better job here. I’m thinking straighter and my mind has gotten more nimble, like it used to be.

They say my style makes them feel like I’ve opened up the windows and let in the fresh air and light.

It’s the honeymoon stage, I know. But I didn’t have one in the last church, where people curled their lips when I greeted them. So I’m grateful, even though this work will have its frustrations soon enough.

In fact, as I walked beneath the pine trees on a path that’s just a hundred yards from my house, I kept breathing the same word.

Thank you.

My Favorite Bumper Sticker

2011-06-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

JESUS LOVES YOU!
(Everyone else thinks you're an a--hole).

Blood Letting

2011-05-23T18:08:00.000-07:00

“This geek isn’t going to fit in,” one of the influential leaders said about me before I ever moved in here.

By geek, they mean I’m not athletic and I don’t care about sports. I think it also means that I like to read and enjoy good conversation.

He was right. I didn’t fit in.

I’m used to that. We ministers really are a strange breed, especially in blue collar areas where one’s worth is measured by how well he can raise livestock or drive a tractor.

My children were criticized for not fitting in well in this community. The implication is that there is something odd about them.

The last preacher’s kids fit in much more easily. Of course one of them narrowly avoided jail by making a deal with the DA to testify against his friend. And the others knew how to have a good time. So of course, they're missed.

But my children didn’t make the cut. Never mind that they’ve made A's in all subjects every semester they’ve been here. Never mind their achievements in art and music, as well as academia. Never mind that my older son has one of the school’s highest ACT scores ever. Never mind that they are articulate, kind, and have never once been in trouble at school.

The people don’t like my wife either. Like the kids, she’s too quiet, and she makes others feel uncomfortable. I guess it doesn’t help that she’s breathtakingly beautiful. I told one of the leaders that I was baffled by the criticism because my wife has been quite popular in other churches.

The leader tried to encourage me. “I’m sure she’ll be popular here one day, if she keeps trying.”

I was taken aback at what he implied. Later, after the moment was past and I was by myself I figured out what I wanted to say: “You don’t understand. It’s not that she isn’t measuring up. It’s THIS CHURCH that isn’t measuring up. It is THIS CHURCH that has failed. It’s THIS CHURCH that needs to do better.

I can look back and see where I would have done some things differently—that’s a normal part of evaluating. I can even see where there could have been some misunderstanding and I would have appreciated the opportunity to clear things up.

But I didn't make many wrong moves. I've done this work enough to know that I'm better than average at it.

And I worked hard to make things better for them. I visited them in the hospital. I comforted them at funerals. I taught and loved their children—I still love their children.

I don’t know how to end this post. I don’t know how I feel. I do know that we’re moving in two weeks and if I could pack up and leave tonight, I would.

I'm Not Wyatt Earp

2011-05-17T07:27:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you what nudged my thoughts in last night's post.

I was watching Tombstone, the story of Wyatt Earp. They'd killed one brother and maimed another. He rode out of town with his family as if he'd been completely beaten. But as soon as his family was safe he went back to defeat them with his friend Doc Holliday.

I can relate.

I have felt like a sheriff more than once. I've faced mean and occasionally dangerous people before. And I've had friends I loved dearly who were every bit as drunk and deadly as Doc.

Okay, there are some differences, too. This isn't the old West. I'm not tall, slim, and tough. I don't ride a horse (a motorcycle instead). I carry a Bible, not a six gun (I can shoot one though). And I don't kill people. In fact, to the best of my limited ability I try to honor Jesus by blessing my enemies (but I'm reaching my limit on that one).

But other than that, I'm exactly like Wyatt Earp.

Well, okay not exactly like him.

Okay, not like him at all.

I still don't like walking away without having gotten the job done.

On the other hand, I can learn to live with it.

Sore Loser

2011-05-16T20:26:00.000-07:00

It’s working out.

My reputation is intact. No one in the denomination believes the unfair criticism people leveled at me. I’m going to a better church that’s eager for me to come. The schools will be good for my children. My wife likes our new home which will be nicer than anything we’ve lived in before.

I’m going on to better things.

They will still have each other.

I win.

And yet it galls me something fierce to walk away without having gotten the job done.

So if I could stay, would I?

Hell no.

But I hate losing.

A New Set of Problems

2011-05-05T04:27:00.000-07:00

So there's this old lady at the new church I'll be moving to. They're blaming her for everything and she probably deserves some of the credit for their problems.

She talks too much and too loud and most of what comes out of her mouth are complaints.

I saw her in action the first time I visited these people. She's an old woman full of anxiety and spare time that she spends gossiping on the phone. But she's no threat. The day I can't handle that old biddy I'll hang up my robes, retire and go fishing.

Wait, don't tempt me.

No, she's the identified patient in this little crazy family. The scapegoat. As usual, their problems are more systemic with a strong inclination toward passive aggressiveness. She's a hitman that they point at anyone they don't like.

They didn't like the last guy.

But they're gonna like me. And she's gonna adore me.

The Sex Talk

2011-05-02T14:26:00.000-07:00

It was very quiet on the day I preached on moral responsibility concerning human sexuality. It wasn’t just quiet, it was still. And tense. And it made me that way, too.

Now I have to say, I thought I was pretty damn graceful in my phrasing. I was not graphic by any means. It's hard not to trip over a double entendre that would cause folks to titter, but I managed. And I doubt I came off sounding like a prude, which is good, because generally, I'm all for sex. It's one of my favorite things.

Some appreciated the sermon. Others didn't.

Generally, we’re pretty freewheeling about the subject of sex our culture. It’s in our jokes, our gossip, entertainment, literature, and news. If it’s the least bit funny, and often when it’s not, we’ll laugh raucously.

But let the preacher talk about it from the pulpit and all the humor, as well as the oxygen, is sucked out of the room.

It happens when we talk about money, too. If the minister gives one measly sermon on tithing, someone will skulk out the door and huff about how preachers only want money.

If I can’t talk about sex or money, that leaves politics, but the law says I can’t address that (which is okay by me).

“Just preach from the Bible preacher.”

That’s what I was doing, although I toned it down considerably. The Bible has so much to say about sex that you could give it an "R" rating.

“Preach about holy living.”

That’s what I was doing.

“Preach about spirituality.”

That’s what I was doing.

Well just don’t make us uncomfortable. Preach things that make us feel good. We want it to be fun. Don’t make us feel guilty. Tell us funny stories instead. Make it exciting. And don’t take too long.

Sigh….

Why Preachers Move

2011-04-19T14:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve grown up in a minister’s home and I’ve been a minister all of my adult life and I’ve known many inisters. I can tell you why most of them have to leave churches.
Sometimes there’s a scandal, where the pastor slept with the organist, or stole money, or worse. I’ve known of at least two ministers who faked their deaths so they could just disappear. Sometimes it’s a happier circumstance where he is offered a bigger opportunity, or perhaps by some miracle, he or she gets to retire.

Mostly preachers leave because someone doesn’t like them. It’s always a vocal minority that gets a voice when the pastor has been at a church long enough to have hit a slump. Usually, that’s the third year.

Usually, the majority like the minister just fine but for the sake of peace they passively withdraw their support of him and hope he’ll just disappear like the two guys I mentioned above. So he picks up his belongings, pulls his wife and children out of their lives and hopefully finds someplace else to go. This has happened to me a couple of times and it’s happening again.

Was I right or wrong? Did I do well or poorly? It doesn’t matter. Someone wanted me gone and the congregation expects me to be a sacrificial lamb for the sake of their peace.

Am I a good man? Am I moral? Or did I practice evil? Again, it doesn’t really matter. Just as long as people stay comfortable.

Will this hurt my wife and children? Well that would be a shame, but when it comes down to it, they don’t care.

Perhaps there is something here that would explain why preachers self destruct. And perhaps it’s also a symptom of churches that just sort of hang on but never grow much.

It certainly explains why most preachers’ children never set foot inside a church building when they grow up--unless for some reason beyond my understanding they’re called into the ministry.

Time to Move On

2011-04-08T06:28:00.000-07:00

We’ve reached the point where I have no one to trust or rely on. After marrying, burying, baptizing, comforting, and counseling these people, a large segment of them, many of whom I have helped, went to my superior behind my back to complain and ask for me to be removed from my position.

They have no idea what they’ve done. They may not ever figure it out.

It turns out I have a reputation that goes beyond their little realm. My supervisor was not impressed with the dozen people who came to him with their complaints. He was not impressed that they went behind my back. He was not impressed with their petty complaints. And he didn’t believe them. Neither did the larger cabinet who decided to promote me.

I’m moving on to a church that is excited at the prospect of having me. I’ll be leaving a church that was at each other’s throats when I got there and will continue to devour each other when I’m gone.

The group that went to my boss? The group that won? They’ll be blamed and hated the rest of their time here. They didn’t know that I’ve been protecting them.

To hell with em.

It’s time to pack my bags and go.

Hairophobia

2011-02-22T18:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve been discriminated against!

Pardon me. I need a moment to calm down, slow my heart rate, and ungnash my teeth.

I traveled three hundred miles round trip to visit a woman in the hospital. She’s certainly worth the time and effort. She’s lovely, bright, and appreciative.

But not her husband. He was standing by her bed. I had never met him before today. When I reached to shake his hand, he backed up with his hands pulled out of reach.

“I can’t. I won’t touch something dirty,” he said.

I wondered if he might have a germ phobia, but given his appearance, I doubted it.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “I washed my hands just before I came in.”

That wasn’t his problem.

“I don’t trust a man with a beard,” he told me. “It’s unnatural. It’s not decent. And I figure a man’s got to be hiding something if he has a beard covering him.”

I could see by the light in his eye that this was an old craziness.

"That's why I don't go to church," he said. "When she came home and told me you had a beard, I knew I'd never set foot in your church."

“I see.” And because I couldn’t help it, I said. “I wonder of Jesus had a beard.”

“They didn’t have razors back then,” He said with a withering look. He bowed up, ready to fight some more.

But I was done with him. I turned away to visit with his wife who held her head and shook it slowly.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. And then we talked. She was surprised that I drove so far to see her.

“You’re worth it,” I said. I always say that.

I didn’t stay long. But I was nice. I’m always nice except when I’m not.

On the drive home, I alternated between being mad and being amused.

I am afraid his condition is permanent. He’s a terminal asshole.

I have a lot of friends who are just as crazy, some of whom I love very much. They’re eccentrics who can’t get along with others and are very lonely. I know how to be friends and accept them and they’re usually grateful for it. And sometimes, just a little acceptance from the minister opens the door for them to the rest of the community.

But for this guy, it just ain't happening.

I’m almost sorry to say it, but I will not give this old fart one more minute of my time unless he’s humble enough to ask for it.

But like I said, that's not going to happen.

Being the Boss

2011-01-06T12:38:00.000-08:00

The cleaning lady quit today. Her teenage daughter left the keys on my desk along with an angry letter about how disrespectful I had been to her mother--and me being a minister and all.

She threatened to tell on me.

She had saved up all the memos I had written her mother and she was going to turn them in to the, and I quote:

"Better Bisuness Buro."

I'm relieved. She was doing a terrible job. Even I noticed, and that's saying something.

Even so, I shielded a lot of negative talk from the congregation about her. I've been working for churches for thirty years. In every congregation there's a gray haired cadre of women who are unhappy about the hygiene of the church building. I hadn't even put my books up on the shelf of my office in this present church before one of them came to me with a "real problem." With all the construction going on at the time, it was hard to expect a spic and span facility.

Besides, I didn't care.

As time went on, it was clear even to me that she wasn't getting the job done. Any other employer would have fired her a long time ago. But I worked with her a lot. I didn't want her to lose her job. However, she found a reason to quit when she saw I was going to insist she actually work while she was here.

I hate supervisory work, but it's a necessary evil, I suppose.

I've cleaned a lot of the building these last few days. I like it. It's not hard like, say, being a supervisor.

I like making the building look spiffy. I've written about my ambivilance concerning lavish church buildings, but I also think if we have something, it should be taken care of.

And now I'll be able to write up a better job description for the next person.

Once a member of the church becomes an employee, the relationship changes, and it's hard to be both boss and pastor. I try to have a supervisory committee in place, but it still comes down to me having direct contact with the employees. If this lady had been working somewhere else, she would have come to me to vent, and I would have given her my support.

Now, she'll be venting to someone else about me.

It bothers me. I didn't do anything wrong. In fact, I feel like I was extra patient and kind. I even protected her.

But as in many cases, when you try to be the hero, you're going to be treated like a villain.

Gotta go clean the windows now.

Funeral Work

2010-12-31T05:02:00.000-08:00

Actually, some of my best work is done at funerals. I am often asked by the funeral director to hold services for those families who do not have a minister because he knows I’ll be nice and I won’t say stupid things.

The goal is to help the people attending to be able to access their own memories of their loved one. Usually, I can visit with the family beforehand and get them to share stories. I’ll ask about the person’s work and hobbies. When it’s working, I can stop asking questions and let them talk to each other. In the service, I’ll convey some of these same stories to the audience.

Lately, I’ve encountered a lot of shame in families. Their loved one did something wrong, or committed suicide or caused a lot of pain with other members. In some regions, families keep them secret, but I’ve noticed in the town I live in now, they’re more forthcoming about their pain, or maybe I just see it better than I used to.

It’s better for me to know than not to know. If they make me a participant in covering up the deceased major flaws, it makes things worse for the family in the long run.

I can usually reframe the negative into something with a more positive light. A person’s flaws are often their strengths, too.

In spite of the pain they cause, few people truly try to do evil. They meant to do good and I can usually get a sense of what they were trying to do even if they made a mess of things. Even if there is great bitterness within the family, there is usually love in the mix (otherwise there would be no pain). I try to tap into the good intentions and the love. I don’t have to put it all into words, I just work to pull it out of the people’s hearts and into their consciousness.

I haven’t explained this well, but it’s the best I can do.

I usually end with some exhortation about how it’s our turn to step up and make things better. The deceased gets to rest now but we still have some work to do. The idea is similar to recovery from surgery: Get the patients up and moving so they’ll heal faster.

Window Dressing

2010-12-30T06:02:00.000-08:00

I remember reading about the criticism of a clergyman’s words at a funeral for a person he obviously didn’t know. The remarks were general and rang pretty hollow.

I’ve been there. It can be hard to do services for people who didn’t come to my church, didn’t know me or didn’t want to know me, but their families wanted the minister to come in, say heartfelt things over their salty Uncle Jed and sort of ceremonialize the guy into heaven. Afterwards, they hand me fifty and don’t want to see me again until the next funeral.

It’s the same with weddings. I usually insist that couples come to me for premarital counseling and they’ll come and sit restlessly, nodding at the right places. I tell the young ones that issues of spirituality get more important as they get older. I tell them that their values are what defines them. And they nod vacantly.

The day comes when they say, “I do.” They hand me fifty, run to a waiting car and an overpriced honeymoon, and I don’t see them again until they die or perhaps get divorced and find themselves needing someone… anyone… to talk to. Even a clergy guy will do then.

I wonder why so many bother. People say the clergy are hypocritical and hollow, I say people treat me like part of the decorations at their occasion. If they gripe because I wasn’t meaningful enough, I wonder what they expect out of window dressing?

Why do I do it? I’ve thought about refusing more often but there are two reasons I don’t.

First, it’s my one moment that I can minister to them, perhaps reach them and give them meaningful words they can use later.

Second, I need the fifty.

Preventable Death?

2010-12-27T13:27:00.000-08:00

On the day of Christmas Eve, I was shaken to hear that my next door neighbor took his life. Earlier in the week, he drove far out into the country and shot himself.

I didn’t know him. I greeted him when he first moved in, but that was all.

I’m upset because I could see he had troubles—signs of depression and drinking. I’m pretty sure if I had taken some initiative I could have gotten involved, become his friend, and by doing so, changed enough of the dynamics to change the outcome.

I’ve done it before.

But by the time I would see him in the evening as I was getting home there was nothing left in my emotional tank. So all I did for him was wave as I went into the house.

But there was another issue. The truth is that he was too close. I wanted to keep him at a distance. I didn’t want him in my house. I didn’t want to risk exposing his desperation to my wife and children. He was a risk.

In previous years, I was willing to take risks for myself, and there were some doozies, but not now and not close to my home.

So I didn’t reach out to him. I didn’t help him. And he’s dead.

I recognize that guilt is a normal reaction when someone dies. I didn’t cause him pain and I certainly didn’t cause his death. I can’t save everyone. I might not have been able to save him even if I had tried.

I’d like to say that if I had it to do over again, I would have tried harder or done things differently.

But I don’t know how I would. And that sucks.

Shined Boots and a Crooked Stole

2010-12-25T13:25:00.000-08:00

Look at what I got for Christmas....

No, it’s not the boots, but the shoe shine kit my son gave me makes them look good, don’t they?

I wear these every Sunday along with my robe and stole.

Speaking of my stole, I have the hardest time keeping the ends even. The ladies are constantly fussing at me to straighten it, but I had a hard time caring about it until I saw a picture of myself at a baptism. Sure enough, the stole was uneven. Combine that with a slightly bowlegged guy wearing boots, and I look just like a drunken cowboy who has stolen a preacher’s religious garb.

So I try now to keep my stole straight. And my boots are shined, too.

2010-12-25T03:56:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to my friends in this community. I appreciate you and wish you a wonderful day.

Clergy Guy

Mr. Speaker, Would You Please Dry Up?

2010-12-20T09:45:00.000-08:00

The guy doesn’t just shed a dignified tear or two. He snorts and blows. He needs people on tissue detail.

This really doesn’t need to be a discussion on whether people can cry in public. Our emotions can occasionally overwhelm any of us. But when leaders stand up to speak to their people, they need to show strength. Even if they want to show some vulnerability, they should look strong while they’re doing it.

I hate preachers that make tears part of the show. I’m sure they have it marked in their notes or teleprompters when they should turn on the waterworks. Every time I hear someone start with the sniffling and the wavering voice, I want to stand up and tell him to shut down the waterworks and go back to work.

Am I insensitive and heartless?

Naah.

I cry a lot. I have a reservoir of tears that break loose at the damndest times—movies, personal conversations, grand openings of strip malls.

But when I preach at church, I am supposed to minister to the people, not demand that they watch me collapse emotionally. At a funeral, I’m there to help the grieving cope, not be in as bad a shape as they are. When I counsel someone, I’m not supposed to interrupt them to reveal my own vulnerability. If I need help, I’ll get it somewhere else at another time.

I can’t say I’ve NEVER cried in the pulpit. But I’ve never boohooed like the Speaker of the House, and I’ve always gotten it back under control as quickly as I could, so I could do my job.

The Speaker can jolly well dry his tears and do his work, too.

Better

2010-12-07T04:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, I feel better.

I went to bed and the next morning I felt clearer.

What I’ve been doing with my church hasn’t been working. I’ve been trying to manage this church by fostering cooperation between me and the various power groups. I’ve been frustrated because they’ve been managing me more than I’ve managed them. I find myself spending hours stuck in my office listening to complaints, and fending off manipulation. By the end of the day, I just want to hide under the desk. Which isn’t me.

I’ve lost sight of the quiet crowds out there who would appreciate someone who is interested in them. Many in those crowds are pretty desperate. I need to pay attention to them, not the ones who wish to play power games.

Regarding the power players, I’ve decided that they can win by default because I’m not playing anymore. I’m not going to be available for complaints about the decor, the spots on the commode, and the paper cups left in the classroom. I’m not refereeing any more arguments, and I’m not engaging in any of my own.

I like cheering up sad people. I like helping people work out their problems. I like tending the sick. I like being a pastor. I’m pretty good at it and it still makes me feel good.

Languishing

2010-12-04T13:08:00.000-08:00

I spent years getting my education and then getting my credentials. I’m at a nice church, sitting in a nice office, seeing my nicely framed diplomas and certificates, and ask, “Is this it? This is what I worked for? What do I do now?

And what, if at this age, after all these decades, I find that I don’t want to do it anymore?

Holiday Quiet

2010-11-28T13:22:00.000-08:00

This year for Thanksgiving, my wife and children stayed home and had a nice day to ourselves. On Black Friday, I indulged every shopping whim I had by staying home and not engaging the crowds.

I also had a gravesite funeral service to perform. The woman had died a few months before and they had had the big funeral service. The family took advantage of the holiday to come together to her hometown (where I live) to bury her cremated remains. They needed a minister and the funeral director knew that I'm flexible about these things, as well as available, and I rarely say stupid or offensive things.

Sickness, death, and emotional crises often happen around the holidays. I like to be available for those crises—I’ve never minded those kind of pastoral calls. I like to be of help.

I think what I like most about the holidays is that people are too busy to bother me with things that don’t matter. During Thanksgiving and Christmas, no one will bother to complain to me about the dirty window sills, the children being too loud, or any number of incredibly stupid, mind numbing issues. They’re busy having a good time visiting or entertaining family.

So the phone is quiet. The neighborhood is full of small children playing. The fallen leaves are blowing in the wind. And I’m left alone to be with my family. We celebrated by eating turkey, watching movies, and my taking several long naps.

Happy Thanksgiving

2010-11-24T03:48:00.000-08:00

I'd rather have it for dinner:

Than Be One:

Wishing you all a Happy Thanksgiving

Am I an Agnostic?

2010-11-17T09:39:00.000-08:00

Am I an agnostic? Maybe I am and maybe I’m not.

Over the last few years, I’ve examined every element of my faith and I no longer have that rock solid, don’t-confuse-me-with-the-facts conviction that our Sunday school teachers told us we should have.

I really want to believe in mystical things. Sometimes I do. I love the thought of angels. I long for the presence of the Holy Spirit. But if they’re there, I haven’t seen them, or felt them. I wanted to believe they were there. I tried to talk myself into thinking I had experienced them.

I think about how disciples down through history would deny themselves food and wander in the desert, then speak of the visions they’d received. Well of course they saw things that weren’t there. Go without food or sleep and you’re going to have hallucinations—there’s nothing magical about that.

I don’t view scriptures like I was taught—inerrant scribbling by people who took dictation from a God who whispered into their ear. I still study them and teach about them. I see their literary and cultural value. In fact, I love them more than when I viewed them superstitiously.

Please don’t tell me that God is so big that I can’t see him. If God is that powerful and wants to communicate himself to us, then he could find a way. Also, I’m tired of analogies and metaphors—they don’t prove anything.

Don’t tell me to have faith. I show my faith in my service. I show it in my prayers to a God who does not answer back. I show it by listening constantly for the smallest voice. And I haven’t stopped

What keeps me going? There is this aching need that has never been filled. The vacancy is a kind of witness, isn’t it?

The Bible promises fullness, companionship, a slaking of my spiritual thirst. When does that happen?

One of the Sheep

2010-11-15T09:54:00.000-08:00

A high school student comes to our church every time the doors are open, although his parents never come. He’s intelligent and thoughtful and usually sits by himself, although he’s pleasant when he visits with me.

I called one of his teachers to ask about him.

The teacher described him as an “old soul.” He sits by himself at lunch and reads, mostly because he doesn’t have anyone to visit with. His teachers like him very much. He used to go to the church down the street where the youth group is bigger, but he opted to worship with us.

His family is poor. People in our church chipped in quietly and rented his tux for the prom. I took him to get fitted and he was quietly excited. Even he could see that he was quite handsome in his fancy duds. He was very graceful in accepting his gift and expressed genuine gratitude.

He’s always hungry. When he comes on Sunday, we always have breakfast for him and a few others. On Sunday evenings with youth, I make sure there’s plenty of food that comes his way.

I asked my son about him. He told me the boy is a nice guy. Everyone likes him. But he just doesn’t fit in.

I like him. He reminds me of me at that age: sitting alone in a crowd with a book, getting along better with adults than the children my own age. Perhaps lonely but unable to be silly like the other kids in order to fit in.

I want to tell him that it may always feel that way, but he’ll find a handful of friends along the way that will mean a great deal to him. I already tell him how many possibilities there are for him. I don’t think he knows that. I don’t think anyone in his family tells him that.

But his church does. And his preacher does.

Underwear and Lice

2010-10-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

In all the years I’ve been a minister, this is the first time we’ve had the issue of head lice enter our sacred doors. We have to watch carefully to prevent our preschool kids from spreading it around. It’s not THAT big a deal. Aside from the “eeww” factor, a little common sense and caution, along with the medicated shampoo, should fix us up.

Speaking of firsts, the youth department has a strange fundraiser. They’re hanging underwear in people’s yards—and I’m talking super, industrial strength, 9X boxer shorts. For a contribution they’ll remove it and put it in someone else’s yard at the previous recipient’s request. They leave a sign that say’s “You’ve been briefed.”

I prefer to think of it as holy extortion.

The first week the old ladies were mad. The youth director came to me on Sunday morning in a panic. “Pastor, I need some help here.” She offered to call the whole thing off.

“Don’t do that,” I said, “Then all those people who worked on this silly thing will be upset.”

I went to the gaggle of ladies sitting in their appointed places for Sunday school. I shook their hands, beamed my big mug in each of their faces, and told them how pretty they looked. It made them giggle. Or maybe the word is titter. Since they were in a good mood at that moment, I didn’t mention the underwear hanging out on the lawn.

Later at worship, several funny things were said about it. Then I got up and said, “The youth leaders were worried that this might offend someone. But I reassured them. We all have a sense of humor about these things. DON’T WE?”

Everyone nodded.

It’s a gift I use sparingly: I can charm, amuse, and arm twist all at the same time, and make people feel glad they came.

Head lice and underwear. For this I went to seminary?

You're Damn Right It's a New Car!

2010-10-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

I bought a new car last week. By “new” I mean it’s five years old. But it’s nice, a little more comfortable than the other one we have. The boys love it. My 12 year old found at least twenty-seven things about it that were “awesome.” The older one likes it too, although he’s too cool to say much; however, he’s pleased because he’ll get to drive the older one more often.

I haven’t shown it off because experience has taught me how jealous people in the church get when I have something nice. I am sick to death of hearing the catty little jokes about how much money the preacher is making. I will never listen to another speech about how other people have had it so rough and somehow the money I make now contributed to their hardship back in the depression.

While I’m on the subject, how is it that ministers are judged so harshly by their salaries? They don’t set them. They accept what’s offered, same as any other job.

I actually had a man tell me I shouldn’t have accepted a raise because I they already paid me so much money (trust me, it wasn’t so much). As a matter of fact, I have turned down several raises for the sake of the church’s financial welfare. And I’ve never, ever asked for one.

I heard the resentment from the very beginning when little old ladies resented the fifty dollars a week I was paid for youth ministry—they thought I should have done it for free.

So I’ll enjoy my new car quietly and let it dawn on them slowly that I have it.

A Banjo and Baby Jesus

2010-10-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

In my last post, I carried on with great self pity about losing my music. It must have sounded like enough of a prayer to get a response.

A man called and said he was bringing something over for me to keep for a while—a banjo. He’d upgraded and this one was just gathering dust. I once told him how I used to play a few years back, but with a burst of foolish generosity, I loaned mine out to someone and I never saw it again.

So, in spite of my previous complaints, I’ve been enjoying myself, learning again the chords and fingering, delighting the nursing home residents who, let’s face it, are not a tough audience. I also played for the children’s class today—they’d never seen a banjo up close.

No matter what I may have last written, I can’t deny that the banjo is simply fun. How can a person not enjoy playing one?

And then something else happened tonight with the children. We started working on the Christmas musical and we sang a verse that got me all misty:

“Hail the heaven born Prince of Peace. Hail the Sun of Righteousness…”

Regardless of my crises in faith and my frustration with the church, I am a follower of Jesus. And I am moved by the scene of angels singing for a poor baby in a feedbox who is really a King.

I have questions and challenges I often want to hurl at the Almighty. But when I see the baby boy who was born to heal and teach and save, I am unhesitating and unwavering in my loyalty.

I would love to have been there. I would have been happy to fall to my knees with hands raised to sing with the angels and offer allegiance to this baby King. In my heart, I still do, which is why, in the midst of depression and grief, I keep doing what I do.

Losing the Music

2010-10-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

I know it sounds weird, but I’m a musician who hates most music.

I have stacks of LPs and a working turntable but I’m tired of all of them. I have an even bigger stack of CDs that I never want to hear again. Sometimes, I’ll put one in the player and the music that I used to crave makes me angry instead.

Before I could talk, I loved music. My earliest longings had to do with wanting new music, either to listen to, or to play. I could sit for hours and soak in the music on my stereo. I used to love working on new music to perform. I sang in school choirs and put up with many a temperamental choir instructor because I wanted to be a part of the music.

I think the longing is still there, but the music doesn’t fill it anymore.

Sometimes it will still reach me. If I hear a real singer who worked hard enough to discipline his body to do it right, I like it. If I hear a song with real feelings being expressed, I like that. And I still like a little of the older, melody rich music.

In fact, on rare occasions, a real piece of well performed music can me cry.

“Where have you been?” I want to ask. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

Losing the music happened about the same time I lost the sense of God’s presence.

There’s a glib story where the first person says, “Things have changed. I can’t find God anymore.” And the second person says cleverly, “Well, God hasn’t changed. It must be you.”

I freely admit that I’ve changed. I’m more educated and thoughtful. I’m kinder. In many ways I’m better at ministry than I’ve ever been. In view of my growth, I would have expected to see more of God, but instead it feels like less.

It’s not like I can go back and be what I once was. I can’t go back to liking the old music. I can’t go back to praying to the God of my childhood Sunday School.

I have to keep moving forward. But why does growing up make me so empty?

Flirting With the Pastor

2010-09-28T00:56:00.000-07:00

I’ve had my share of women flirt with me. I figure it’s because women don’t really go for those slim muscle bound fellows, but rather men of substance (big boys). Picture me as a grizzly that has just had his fill of honey and salmon. Who could resist that?

Quite a few actually.

But there have been women who flirt with me occasionally. As a younger man, I was vain enough to think it was me, but I’ve learned it usually has more to do with them. When a woman flirts with me at church, I’ve learned to look for troubles in her marriage. It can mean she’s unhappy with her husband and she wants out. If so, she’s probably not just flirting with me.

Rats.

I remember one particular woman who would flirt outrageously with me and then spend the next week saying mean things about me to others. I learned to look for knives when she batted her eyes at me.

The flirts are not dangerous or tempting to me.

It’s the women who come for counseling where I use some caution. Most of the people who come for counseling are women. To share personal things with an accepting man makes it easy to develop feelings toward him. And I could toward them, too, because intimacy is a shared thing.

However, part of the trust factor in pastoral counseling requires my not taking advantage of another’s vulnerability.

We in the biz call that a sin. I take it pretty seriously.

It can be seductive. If I had a fight with my wife that day and people were mean to me during the week, then a vulnerable woman who thinks I’m a wonderful helper can be a temptation.

I usually steer the talk down a more productive road. “What are you going to do about your situation?” I’ll challenge gently, which reminds her that I’m not there to rescue her, but to show her how to take responsibility for her life. That’s almost always all it takes to put the relationship in the right place.

They don’t flirt with me much anymore. And they don’t fall in love with me either. It’s probably because I’m a more effective minister and has nothing to do with my being old, fat, and gray.

The Kook Who Rules the World

2010-09-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

In regard to the preacher who says he’ll burn the Koran, where do I start?

Okay, how about this? Has everybody lost their minds?

Since when does anybody listen to a loudmouthed, small minded, narcissistic, minister of unremarkable quality? I wish I could get this much attention by being a crazy a—hole. As it is, I can’t even get my own church to listen to my sermons. How was he able to score so much press time?

He’s wrong. Okay? He’s stupid and crazy, too. I've known guys like him all my life and we only encourage him with all this attention.

Move on.

But noooo. We have to put him on video all over the world. We’ve got to say he’s a national threat. That he's creating more danger for our military (I'm sure they're quaking in their boots over this one). For crying out loud, the President of the most powerful nation in the world has decided to spend some of his valuable time talking about him. I know he’s got more important things to do.

Now it’s reported that the White House wants to contact him to talk him out of doing this.

All this is doing is rewarding a kook for being a kook.

He’s not a national threat.

The people who want to hurt the United States are already making plans to do that. They have their own kooks driving them. If our kook decided to repent and make nice, our real enemies would still be our enemies, even if they never heard the ravings of Brother Pyro.

And, I have to say this. If someone decided to publicize burning the Bible (and it has been done), would the world be so crazy with fear and angst? Sure, some would be. But most of us Christians would read of it, cluck to ourselves, and move on. I have to believe most of the Muslim community can do the same in the face of an insult from a kook.

Could we have some perspective here?

101st Post

2010-09-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

I was just looking things over and realized that this is my 101st post on CG since June of last year. I know that us clergy guys are somewhat verbose, but I didn’t know I had that many things to say.
It has been fun and I have more things to say.

I’d like to thank you, my loyal readers (all four of you :)) for your comments—honestly, they keep me going. I didn’t know this would be a means of making friends, and I don’t take that lightly. Friends are hard to come by.

If you’ve been reading and haven’t made a comment, I’d love to hear from you, if only to know you’re there. Really, give me a “hi!” if nothing else.

Peace to you all.

Football and Religion

2010-09-06T15:19:00.000-07:00

In my current church, football is spoken of with the same reverence we have for guns and the flag.

Yesterday, on two different occasions of prayer, the success of “our boys” was addressed. It sounded like a battle in Afghanistan rather than the first game of the season, which they lost.

For crying out loud, must we elevate “our boys” to deistic heights? And what about those other students, including the girls, who study hard every night, focus during classroom hours, make their high grades, and fight to increase their GPA by a fraction of a percent, so they can scrounge the little scholarship money left over from the sports funds.

Not to mention the starving wages we pay teachers who equip our kids with paltry things like algebra, English, history, chemistry, and computer technology.

Sports is the religion of America. We worship the fast runners and the high scorers. We debate the significance of the short pass and special teams, like they did in my church kitchen yesterday.

It’s a losing proposition, I know. I’ve learned not to fight it. In fact, I use it. Sports is a good metaphor. Sports teaches people to try hard. It’s there, so we I’ll use it to get their attention and teach what I can.

But I think it’s ridiculous.

Music Hath Charms....

2010-08-30T18:23:00.000-07:00

There’s a woman at the nursing home that always cries when we sing, “In the Garden.” I always sing it, even though I know how it affects her, because there’s an important connection there that is being made. The music cuts through her dementia and touches her past and it makes her cry.

I happened to know some of that lady’s past. I was her pastor many years before when she was a little younger. I know some of her losses and I know how she stepped up to some major challenges and I know about some of her heartbreaks. So I sing her the song that makes her cry because she needs to cry.

“You were always my favorite pastor,” she tells me every time just before I hug her goodbye.

I’ve seen it many times before. Music skirts past the chaos of dementia to connect us to our memories and reminds us of who we are.

One guy always asks me to sing a child’s song he learned in Sunday School: “Zacheaus was a wee little man, and a wee little man was he…” He always gets this childlike grin when I sing it and he moves his hand up and down with the music like a kid might.

I used to know another woman who was often not pleasant. Once, I came in beaming at everyone and asked how they were. She crossed her arms and screeched, “I was doing fine until I saw you come in here with that old guitar.”

I patted her shoulder and said, “You don’t mean it.”

“Yes I DO!” she said incensed.

But she really didn’t.

I stood in front of them and belted out “Pow’r in the Blood.” The music caught her and in an instant she was singing right along with me.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I said. “You were singing so pretty right with me.”

She laughed. She couldn't help it. For a moment, she was herself again.

The music helps me, too. Once when the doctor was monitoring my blood pressure, I went into her office right after I had sung with the nursing home residents.

“Your blood pressure is down. Have you been exercising?”

“No, singing.”

Last night we had a community singing. I heard other musicians play and sing and some of it was pretty good. Their old songs took me back to some good times where I remembered people who were precious to me and it made me cry. And it was a good thing.

Face Touching

2010-08-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

In the movie, “Life as a House” a divorced man who is also estranged from his son lies in the hospital room. The nurse touches his forehead briefly and he sighs deeply.

“I haven’t been touched in years,” the sick man says.

The nurse thinks about it a little and then softly strokes his forehead and face for just a moment. He sighs again and takes hold of her hand. She backs up in alarm.

“I’m sorry,” she said, acknowledging that she (they) had crossed a boundary in some way. She left quickly.

The scene resonated with me because within the last year I’ve gotten bolder about touching people’s faces. When they lay sick in the hospital, I place my palm on their foreheads like I’m taking their temperature. At a time of grief, when I’m hugging someone, I’ll sometimes pat her cheek or the back of his head.

Another time, I was on my knees in front of a woman sitting in a hospital waiting room while her son was fighting for his life. I held her hand and placed my forehead on it.

It’s intimate without being too invasive. I don’t do it often or lightly and I try to gauge how the person takes it. It has never been easy trying to find that balance between offering tender support and crossing the line of appropriateness.

Face and head touching is quite powerful. I think that’s why people open up to their barbers and hairdressers. In church we use it for baptism and anointing. The Pentecostals touch the people on the forehead so they’ll be “slain in the spirit.”

I don’t believe in that Pentecostal practice, but I wonder if that isn’t what the scripture is getting at when it speaks of laying hands on someone. There really is something about physical touch that brings one’s spirit close to another.

Face touching is my way of reaching past the loneliness, especially during times of great sickness or distress.

I Didn't Know Enough

2010-08-03T15:33:00.000-07:00

You hear about such cases in the news shows. A high school teacher had an affair with a student. She lost her job over it but they were in love and wanted to get married.

I was young and I had an undeserved reputation for being a good pastoral counselor. But I don’t know why the two were brought to me. Perhaps to help them see this was a mistake.

I had my opinions at the time. This was back when I didn’t know enough to form good opinions.

I assumed the teacher had seduced the boy and my job would be to help him get out of her clutches. But as I spoke to each of them, I became confused. The dominant personality of this pair was the teenage boy. He was physically big with an imposing personality. The woman, while a grown professional, was shy and miserable. The boy was charming and gregarious--like other predators I’ve encountered.

Legally, she was responsible. She was without excuse. If the genders had been switched, she could have gone jail. People thought she should have anyway.

I can’t argue with that.

But it was clear to me that the boy seduced her. He was the aggressor. If there was abuse going on, he was committing it. I wonder if he considered this woman his biggest score.

I’ve spent a lot of years trying to understand this episode. I didn’t help either of them. I didn’t know how. I wish I had focused more on helping the woman find the strength to resist him.

I hope she finally did. But I bet he hurt her a great deal before she did.

I just didn’t know enough to help.

Hemmed In

2010-07-31T06:14:00.000-07:00

My office, with its expensive furniture, feels like a jail cell. They put stain glass in the one window I had and now I can’t even see out. I have artwork on the wall, but it doesn’t help enough.

The church building is bigger and more lavish than any I’ve worked with in a while but the walls press in on me regularly even in the biggest room. I’m mad every time I walk the halls and feel the opulence of the facilities. And as expensive as it all is, as pretty as they all say it is, I think it looks ugly and ridiculous.

My house is small and I can’t find even a corner of privacy. The neighbors have their houses close to ours and we can hear the family next door fighting or partying right outside our bedroom window.

I walk the streets and every damn dog in the town barks at me when I go past. A huge number of the dogs in this hick town are pit bulls or rottweilers—I hope their chains hold and the fences are high enough.

The only time I have any privacy is early in the morning before anybody else is up.

It’s the weirdest feeling to want to be left alone and feel lonely at the same time.

I Love the Children

2010-07-27T10:06:00.000-07:00

I write a lot about the crises that people experience where I try to be of help. When I was a younger pastor, I reveled in the adrenalin rush. But I’m not that young pastor anymore. I still find meaning in the work, but the crises make me tired and sometimes it takes me several days before I get my strength back after a death or tragedy. Then there are some things I just don’t get over.

The children make this work easier. It has taken a couple of years in this church, but they’ve decided I’m okay. We got a bunch of them and they have that high octane energy we adults admire so much.

We have a few little boys who are wired for 220, as we say in these parts. Mischievous, good willed, funny, and sometimes brainless, their parents are often exhausted just getting them to church. But I rarely have problems with them. Usually, all I have to do is ask them to adjust their behavior, and they will. If I can’t get their attention, I’ll find an excuse to hug him and tell him how glad I am to see him, and then repeat my request, which they usually obey.

The children’s classes are my favorite ones to teach. I tell them the stories of the Bible and when I’m on a roll, they’re spellbound even without pictures. These days, I’m teaching the older kids some doctrinal material so they can decide how they will make their own spiritual commitments. They energize me with their questions and challenges. They’re much more interested in this stuff than their parents.

I love being the big smiling preacher who high fives the kids and holds four of them in my lap during story time.

When I was younger, baptizing the babies was difficult to pull off. There’s a point where I take the baby from the mom and I couldn’t figure out how to make that transfer gracefully. One time a mom got her hand caught somehow and couldn’t get free. Another time, I brushed my hand against the mother’s breast (it was an accident, I swear).*

And then the baby would cry.

But I’ve had more grace and better luck in recent years. Most of them like to feel my beard (sort of like petting the family dog). After the baptism, I walk up and down the middle aisle to let all the people get a close up and everyone waves and smiles and makes googly eyes at the tiny powerful life.

We have a preschool class during the school year. When I’m having a rough day, I’ll walk down the hall, poke my head in door of their classroom, listen to them each say hello to me, collect my hugs and go back to work. My teachers assure me they don’t mind my interrupting their class. They’re usually glad I came. So am I.

I wonder if the children realize how much they do for a tired pastor. I’m not sure I could do the job without them.

*When I apologized later to the woman whose breast I brushed, she just laughed. I realize now that mothers with small children have their clothes tugged and their bodies pawed constantly—They often get to where they just don’t care anymore.

Good Debating

2010-07-25T17:20:00.000-07:00

Daniel Fincke wrote an article last year that I just came across where has some important things to say about how people can debate each other. It's not so much about winning someone over completely as it is about influencing another's thinking.

I think he's right. I used the post to mention my own gripe which is not nearly as important as the substance of his article.

Take a look at it at http://camelswithhammers.com/2009/10/15/is-debate-between-believers-and-non-believers-inevitably-futile/

Waiting

2010-07-22T14:49:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my very quiet office. Nothing's popping at the moment. The secretary is gone for the day. The phone is silent. There are no emergencies or crises. No one's in the hospital. No walk ins so far who want just a minute of my time to discuss how they recently remembered that they were sexually molested as a child.

And no one's complaining.

My sermon came easily this week and I'm ready early for Sunday. I could work ahead and get future lessons written up. I could clean and organize my office. I could go out and pay a visit to someone. I could take a rare moment to read, meditate, and pray.

Nah.

Maybe I could go home? If I did there'd be stuff there that I don't want to do either (mow the yard, clean the garage, etc). I'd sit there like I'm sitting here waiting for the next thing to happen that will launch me into action.

Maybe I'm tired. But I’m not sleepy. There's just nothing inside.

There'd be something if someone needed me. I'd be up and focused and useful. It's a helluva thing to hope for someone to have a crisis so I'd know what to do with myself.

I remember an occasion back when I was sick and exhausted. I had an appointment to go to the prison to preach. I wondered how I was going to form any coherent thoughts to share with the inmates. However, when I stood up to face them, the energy came to me and so did the words.

As soon as I was done the exhaustion came back.

The memory has an unreal quality to it.

What do people do when they’re off? I think some go play but how do you do that? What's the point of it anyway?

Wait, someone just came in....

I'm Only as Young as They Feel

2010-07-19T17:21:00.000-07:00

Holy cow! I’ve become an old fart.

I remember just the other day, I was the youngest person in my church and people dismissed me because I was too young to know better. Now I’m too old to know better because I’m out of touch.

For about five whole minutes I was at just the right age to be relevant.

A Bad Night

2010-07-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

It was one of those late night vigils where the family was trying to find the resolve to turn off the machinery that kept the man breathing. His wife was hysterical, refusing to believe his brain was gone. She yelled at him to open his eyes, to get up from his bed, that he couldn’t leave her. But he was already gone, leaving behind a hissing ventilator and a screaming wife.

Her grown children tried to help, holding her tenderly, speaking softly, but she turned on them, and verbally attacked each of them. I found it hard to feel kind toward her. I wanted to tell her to pull it together because while her children were grown, they were still young and they needed her. But I resisted the impulse.

I was the pastor for one of those children, a daughter, but not the rest of the family. There wasn’t much I could do except keep my hand on her shoulder while she faced her ordeal.

This isn’t the only time when I witnessed a death where the family behaved poorly. I remember one time where family members stood over the body of a young woman as she gasped for her last breath, and they fought over what little property she had left.

It’s not usually this way. Generally people show the best versions of themselves at such a moment of crisis. They find their courage by gathering up their love and faith, and clinging to one another for comfort. The weeping is open, the hugging is spontaneous, and soon they speak of things they love about the person who has just gone.

Later, after the grief has set in for a while, people will sometimes hurt one another without realizing it’s the grief that makes them crazy. But they shine at the moment of crisis.

I’ve learned a little more about the grieving woman since that night. She had some ongoing ordeals that had already sapped her emotional reserves before her husband was taken. There was nothing extra to draw on for strength. So she was doing the best she could.

Most of us do.

No More Demons

2010-07-07T15:32:00.000-07:00

I can’t say when the demons started haunting me. I used to think they had plagued me since I was a child, but I think maybe that was part of the delusion.

As I recall, the hallucinations began a little over a dozen years ago.They got bigger as I got sicker and it took most of a decade to chase them away. I thought they were demons, Satan’s toadies sent to torment me. I also wondered if they were sent by God to punish me.

I don’t think they’re either one anymore.

At its worst, I found myself huddled to the floor covering my face, merely enduring them. Later, I could keep them on the sidelines of my mind (You can imagine how much I could relate to the professor in 'A Beautiful Mind').

It was years before I told anyone about them. Years before I ever looked those demons in the face.

The psychiatrist told me I was suffering effects of a psychotic break brought on by severe depression.

He seemed quite pleased when I told him of two visions that were helpful rather than terrifying. One was a vision of my sister who had passed away a few years before. She came to me while I was in the hospital and told me that I couldn’t die yet because it wasn’t my turn. She made me promise to keep going.

Another vision came to me often whenever I needed it, of my firstborn son. While he was a baby in real life, in my vision he was a grown man: tall and handsome with a confident smile. I was full of pride as I looked at him. I could feel his arms around me, holding me up.

I wonder if there will ever be a time I can tell my son about this—right now he’s busy growing and it’s my job to hold him up. Maybe when he’s middle-aged

The doctor suggested the visions came from the healthy part of my mind that was fighting back.

It came to me that if the bad visions were part of my mind, then I could control them. So I imagined myself locked in combat with the monsters. I made weapons to use against them. The monsters started getting smaller.

It took years. At times, I merely held them at bay while I concentrated on daily activities. Sometimes they got the better of me, but not often.

I don’t have them anymore. And I won’t have them anymore.

It feels like I shut off and starved a part of my mind—like a portion of the heart that no longer has blood circulating through it.

Sometimes it bothers me because that was the part of my mind that entertained mystical/spiritual perceptions. It’s harder to pray now. Worship often leaves me dry. I figure God will just have to learn how to communicate with the logical part of my mind because nothing and no one, not even he, is allowed to hijack my thoughts.

I'm not sure I'm happy now. Sometimes I'm very frustrated and anxious. But I'm not miserable. That's worth a lot.

What's Your Name?

2010-07-03T18:27:00.000-07:00

“Hey there, preacher man. Long time, no see.”

I took his outstretched hand.

“Yeah,” I said, “how’re you doing these days?”

“Good. Good.

“Glad to hear it. See you later.

My wife and I walked on into the grocery store, while the big man walked on to his car.”

“Who was that?” my wife asked.

“No idea,” I murmured.

I thought about it all afternoon. Usually, if I think hard enough, I can remember. But not this time.

“You sure you didn’t know that guy at all?” I asked my wife.

“You’re the one who knows everybody,” she said.

It’s finally catching up to me. I remember as a young man that my memory was sharp and fast. I could remember most of the people I met. But after three decades, several towns, and thousands of people, they’re all sort of slosh together in my mind. They look alike, sound alike, and when they say their names, they usually have names similar to others I’ve known.

I remember a young man approached me once and said, “Hi Pastor. Remember me?”

No, I didn’t.

“You performed our wedding.”

“That’s right!” I said, but really I still had no clue

“Remember the thing with the unity candle?”

Then I remembered. All the decorations looked so nice, but they forgot to put the unity candle in place and none of us noticed until the middle of the ceremony. I pulled a small candle from the rail and used it instead.

A few years later, he approached me again, this time in another town.

“Hi pastor. You remember me?”

No, I didn’t.

“You did our wedding. Remember the unity candle?”

“Right, right. How are you…?”

In my defense, I’d been sick for nearly a year and there are large portions of my memory that are gone from that period, but I wish I hadn’t forgotten him twice.

But geez, I always remind people who I am, especially if it has been a while. I tell them my name, where we met, and how long ago it was before they ever ask. Then they can say of course they remember me.

They’re all important. Each person’s name is precious, including mine.

I just don’t always remember them. Including mine.

Firearms and Panic Attacks

2010-06-24T15:06:00.000-07:00

The pistol was on the coffee table in front of him.

“Hey, that’s nice,” I said. “Can I look at it for a minute?”

He nodded without sitting up from the sofa. I could see he’d been drinking.

I held it and admired it. It really was a nice firearm. 9mm Glock, small, designed for concealed carry. I slipped it in my pocket.

“So what’s going on?” I asked.

And he told me his problems, which were many and made him to wish he were dead. However, he also had many things to live for, which we also talked about.

“Can I borrow this a while? I’ll get it back to you when you’re feeling better.”

I was pretty sure he had other weapons, but he was sleepy and I figured he wouldn’t have the energy to pull himself up and go to the next room. It took a little negotiating, but I finally got a no-harm agreement from him.

This happened just the other day. And of course, his story isn’t over yet. He still has some more healing.

It’s not the first time I’ve quietly taken someone’s firearm. Several years ago a woman got her husband’s shotgun and threatened to harm herself. She punctuated her intentions by firing it into the ground. It was then that I drove up on the scene. I got her to talking and while she was screaming at her husband, I quietly picked up the weapon where she had laid it, and I put it in my trunk. Then we went inside to talk.

Another time, I rode my motorcycle in the middle of the night to a man’s ranch to talk him out of suicide. He didn’t have a gun—he was going to use a big, wicked looking knife. He was calmer when I got there than when I’d talked to him on the phone, and he was touched that I went to some trouble to come see him.

In truth, they were not terribly dangerous situations. These people needed someone to care and listen. Their tension eased the more they talked.

One time, things really did get dangerous when a man in a drunken rage emptied his gun into the house of his relative who was hosting the Bible study I was teaching at the time. I went to visit him later in the jail, and he was sorry for what he did. I got him to come to church when he got out.

However another time, I escorted a man out of our church. I heard he was harassing some of the women. I warned him once and when he continued, I told him he’d worn out his welcome. I listened contentedly to the curses spewing from his mouth as we walked down the long hall to the door he would never come through again.

He returned with a gun and waited for me to come outside. I wonder if he thought I’d swagger out the front door to talk to him like they did in old cowboy shows:

“I thought I told you not to show yer ugly face around here again, ya lowdown, lily livered, no-good varmint!”

Instead I went to call the cops. But a couple of fellows who were heavy into martial arts told me they’d speak to him for me. They were able to help him leave the premises quietly. And he never came back.

I am not frightened during these occasions. To tell the truth, I’m usually exhilarated. They help me feel validated in my work.

What puzzles me is that I often have panic attacks when there’s nothing to be frightened of. When I was a younger man, thunderstorms would set me off. Nowadays, it’s hard to travel alone because I’m scared I’m going to die, or that my family will die if I’m not there to protect them. And I have the occasional nightmare of things I can’t make myself write about here.

Here is the crazy thing. I used to love the adrenalin laced moments of risk. They were the only times I felt… normal. Maybe the word is “high.”

I don’t seek those moments out like I used to. I’m more careful for the sake of my wife and children.

There’s no point I’m trying to make. I’m not saying that the ministry made me like this. Nor am I saying you HAVE to be crazy to be a minister. But it helps.

Wedding Receptions and Rehearsal Dinners

2010-06-18T18:09:00.000-07:00

I don’t like wedding receptions and rehearsal dinners although I’m always invited. It borders on rude if I don’t come, but I usually find a way out anyway.

I feel like the hired hand who is invited up to the big house to eat at a table by himself while the family and friends share laugher, stories, and affection with each other.

I know it’s not really like that.

I’m more like the hired official who eats at a table by himself while the family and friends share laughter, stories, and affection with each other.

“Your family is invited, too,” they always say.

But my children would rather take a beating than be on display in a room full of people they don’t know. “Don’t worry,” I assure. “They don’t see you anyway.”

I usually decline the rehearsal dinner by saying I’m expected elsewhere. I am. I expect myself to be home with my family eating a baloney sandwich rather the brisket, ham, or pizza with strangers who don’t have anything to say to me.

At the reception, I’ll take a piece of cake which I leave on the table because I don’t like wedding cake. After I’ve been there long enough to be seen but not spoken to, I’ll slide over to the groom, ask him for the license, fill it out, take my thank you card, and slip out. Sometimes he merely slips a few bills in my pocket and says “thanks Preacher, you did good.”

I usually refrain from wringing his hand with gratitude before I go home.

It doesn’t always feel so bad.

There was one reception where I felt at home. It happened to be the fanciest wedding I ever did. But the family were truly gracious hosts who worked to make everyone including me feel comfortable.

When the moment came for the dad to take his beautiful daughter in his arms to dance, I thought about how much I liked them. Then the music changed from formal to whimsical. Accordion music filled the air to the melody of The Chicken Dance as the father and daughter did the funny moves. I could see this lovely woman as a little girl doing the dance with her dad in their living room.

And I started loving them.

It was one of the only times I ever stayed to the end of the evening.

Looks Good to Me

2010-06-16T11:50:00.000-07:00

The following either describes me or the people I encounter. You can decide which.

I was in the grocery store with my friend who sees all and knows all. He watched me as I greeted the numerous people we encountered from my church.

“Every one of those people looked relieved the moment they saw you,” he pointed out.

I’ve considered that. I had known those people long enough to understand their quiet desperations. If they saw me as a helper, then maybe I was more successful in that community than I had thought.

However, that’s not always how people react when they see me coming.

Once, in the mall, a woman did an about face when she saw me coming.

“Wonder what she’s feeling guilty about,” my father, a longtime preacher, murmured as we watched her dart into a women’s clothing store.

They do feel guilty sometimes. Once, when I smiled a greeting to someone in a store, the first thing she did was explain why she’d missed church: “I’ve been outta town!”

Some latch onto me to tell me of the latest “emergency.” “Preacher, WHAT are we going to do with all those crying babies during worship.” Those are the ones I’d like to walk away from.

I make some people cry just by walking into the room.

Really.

Usually it happens when they need to talk to me about a specific ordeal. I don’t feel bad. They’re showing they trust me by letting down their guard.

Then I’ve seen others stop their furtive conversations the moment they see me. Usually, this occurs at church gatherings. They change expressions and offer a hearty but phony, “hello there, preacher!” (I know what you’re thinking and I’m not paranoid).

When I’m new to a community, the most common look I get is one of polite caution—they want to see what kind of guy I am before they show too much. Fair enough.

I think the thing I hate the worst is when I walk into a room and no one even looks up to see me. It’s worse than the exasperated expression that says, “Oh no, not you again.”

My favorite greeting is when a person’s face lights up because he is glad to see not his preacher or accuser, but his friend. It’s usually accompanied with a hug.

Helping the Needy?

2010-06-14T14:48:00.000-07:00

A guy walks into the office.

I need help, says he. Tells me that he’s a war veteran and was shot in the line of duty—did I want to see the bullet hole? (No).

Or he was fired from his job. And has cancer. Did I want to see the scar where they did the surgery? (No).

Or how about this: His mom died. Needs to get to a destination 12,754 miles away. His car broke down and he had to spend all his money repairing it—which is why his car works now.

Is there any way I could help him out? Besides he’s got a wife and kid.

No, I say.

Could you put us up for the night at the hotel? One with a TV and a pool?

No.

Could you put gas in our tank?

No.

Could you buy us some groceries?

No.

Sometimes they send their wives in to ask while they stay in the car with the engine running.

There was a time when I helped anyone I encountered. If the church was out of funds, they could have what was in my wallet. And that’s still true if I think someone needs help.

There are the truly homeless ones who wander through, hitching rides as they go, willing to do a little work for a few bucks. I’ll help them.

I also encounter ones who have mental disorders but have lost their government aid, and I’ll help them, too, which includes getting them to other resources.

I like helping people who are trying to work, trying to hang onto their homes and feed their kids. Most churches are not equipped to take over the monthly expenses of families, but we can give some temporary help if they’re short for the month.

I’ll even help those I think are probably lying if they look hungry or desperate.

But there is a culture out there consisting of people who travel from town to town living off the grace of small churches. They tell their canned story—it’s amazing how similar they are—designed to gain sympathy. They take as much as they can get, then go down the road to bilk the next community of conscientious people.

They’re thieves.

I have done this for so long. I recognize them the second they come in the door and they make me tired, as well as angry, as I listen yet again to their patter.

It still bothers me to send them away. But I won’t give them what others truly need.

Interesting Discussion

2010-06-06T04:19:00.000-07:00

Daniel at Camels with Humps, and I have engaged in respectful dialogue on occasion. He's also been nice enough to refer to this blog before. I thought I'd return the favor by mentioning the discussion he hosts concerning a Mosque at Ground Zero, where he includes statements from all sides on this issue. I found it very interesting and encourage others to take a look.

Holy Narcissists

2010-06-05T12:56:00.000-07:00

Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. What you YOU think of me?

I’ve been thinking about the ministers who are able to build big churches regardless of the denomination. Southern Baptist, United Methodist, Pentecostal, or nondenominational, we’ll find standouts who are able to build huge bustling organizations.

What is it that makes them so successful?

Are they extra powerful speakers?

Not that I can see. I recently listened to one of the best and brightest in his denomination. His sermon sucked, to tell the truth. But the audience took it in like he was dishing out chocolate ice cream. In reality he was spinning stories that did not have a point. I’d rather have had the ice cream.

Are they super intelligent? I’ve known some of these guys and they are definitely not the sharpest crayons in the box. Some of them can’t think their way out of a paper bag.

The one thing they have in common is that they are narcissistic and they know how to draw crowds. They have a certain charm that appeals and assures people.

They are also egotistical, and emotionally needy. If you don’t fall under their spell or have anything they need, they’ll cut you out of their lives.

It’s no wonder so many have affairs, or are abusive in their more personal relationships. In fact, every relationship they have is abusive in that they demand unqualified allegiance rather than allowing for mutual respect.

And it’s no wonder all churches I’ve known are dysfunctional and fall apart when the leader falls apart.

Can any church actually be healthy? I am audacious enough to think that the world can be improved and I have thought that churches ought to be at the forefront of positive change.

But how much difference can we make when the strength of a church depends not so much on the ability of its leader but the charisma?

Finally, upon self examination, I admit that I have a certain amount of this charisma. Can’t do the job without it. So what does this make me? And am I helping or hurting the society I’d like to see healed?

Where Does a Preacher Buy Condoms, Part 2

2010-05-27T17:53:00.000-07:00

This is un frickin believable.

I’m going though All-mart to pick up condoms.

Yes, AGAIN. (See previous article).

I’m trying to use a little taste and discretion in my efforts to practice safe sex and you’d think the Almighty would cut me a break.

But nooooooo….

I covered the contraband with a DVD and a cell phone, and then I wheeled the basket to the checkout line. So far, so good. I looked for one of the automatic checker machines. Most of them were closed, but I found one.

When I passed the cell phone under the scanner, the floor manager bustles up to me. “I’ll have to help you with that, sir. She mashes an interminable number of buttons before it accepts my purchase. And then she rings up the rest of my items until she sees the condoms. “Do you want to ring those up yourself?” she asked as she recoiled.

Geez lady, they’re still in their sealed packets. You’re safe.

She leaves me to complete the transaction, but of course the machine is cranky, so the guy behind me steps up to help me through the process. “Thanks,” I mumble. He has a huge grin on his face as he watches me shuffle away.

I get to the exit. The alarm sounds as I walk through the sensors. I figure the DVD set it off. I hand it to a woman who looks like my Aunt Flossy. She resets the alarm and we tried again.

This time it sounds even louder.

The woman figures I’m in a hurry, so she tries to help me by pawing through my bag herself. Then she scrutinizes my receipt.

At least she didn’t call out on the loudspeaker:

“ATTENTION, NEED A PRICE CHECK ON EXTRA THIN, LUBRICATED, DUREX BRAND CONDOMS.”

Finally, they let me go and I make it out the door.

I swear it would have been easier to smuggle them across the border when I came home from a Mexico mission trip.

Bad Coffee

2010-05-27T05:02:00.000-07:00

I have a congregant who actually likes his coffee from a Styrofoam cup. I wished that I did because that’s how I’ve drunk an awful lot of coffee—and I do mean the word, awful.

I’m not sure why it is, but almost all church coffee is bad. It’s always the cheapest store brand brewed in an old urn, where it has sat too long before it’s served in the aforementioned Styrofoam cup.

Then on the other side, I’ve known of very large churches that have their own gourmet coffee shops in the foyer, which seems to go a bit far the other direction. While drinking coffee shouldn’t be a Spartan effort, perhaps it doesn’t need that much emphasis either.

But I can hear the discussions throughout the brotherhood: “We need a coffee ministry like the First Affluent Church has. How are we going to reach the lost if we don’t have a Starbucks?”

Bad quality or not, people need their coffee. In my current church, if it’s not waiting for them, the old timers get pretty cranky. “Where’s the coffee? Why isn’t it ready?” they’ll ask, as if the waitress hasn’t moved fast enough for them in a restaurant.

Many retorts come to my mind:

“Why so cranky over this swill?”

“The café is just around the corner.”

“We need a volunteer for this; since you’re so interested….”

I decided I’d make the coffee myself if it was that important to them. People say, “Pastor, you shouldn’t have to do that.”

And they’re right. I don’t have to. I do it simply as an act of service, a favor that no one pays me for. I also do it because I drink coffee and I can’t stand how others make it.

I’m going to start buying the coffee, too. What’s more, I’m going to buy the more expensive stuff.

It’s all part of the service, folks.

The Naughty Sea Mammal

2010-05-23T19:11:00.000-07:00

I used to keep a figurine on my desk of a dolphin leaping out of the water. There are people who are immediately drawn to it when they enter the room, but not because they like sea mammals. In fact, they can’t say why they like it.

It has a phallic similarity that I did not notice at first. But the dolphin is curved just so, as it stretches up. And it is just the same size as, well… you know.

On occasions when we had meetings in my office, one fellow would pick the figurine up, place it in his lap and play with it thoughtfully while we discussed the Lord’s business.

And I had a secretary, a prim, past middle aged church lady, who couldn’t keep her hands off it. When she entered my office to talk to me, her eyes would light up as she saw it. She’d pick it up and stroke it absentmindedly while we conversed, oblivious to what she was revealing. I would watch with a mix of humor and embarrassment.

I could understand why her husband was a happy, sort of mellow fellow.

I never pointed out to her what she was doing because she would have died of embarrassment.

It has often been mentioned by readers of this blog that people are sexual and we can be silly in our denial of this part of ourselves. In fact, it’s important that people express themselves sexually.

On Sunday mornings, I can often tell who had sex the night before and who didn’t. There are the couples, young and old, where the man leans back against the pew with a satisfied look while the woman nestles against him, sometimes with her hand resting on his thigh. It makes me feel good to see them.

I also see couples who might sit together, but obviously aren’t interested in touching each other. Or maybe only one isn’t interested while the other looks glum.

I never mention this to anyone, of course. And it never got brought up in seminary. In fact, this is not something I can talk about to anyone, so I write about it here. But it’s part of my constant monitoring to gauge how things are going with folks in the congregation.

It used to make me uncomfortable to see these things. But as I get older and more comfortable with myself, I know how to see the people and decide what kind of work will be required of me for the week.

Dancing

2010-05-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a religious tradition that threatened us with the fires of Hades if we went dancing. Dancing was a shocking sin, every bit as bad as sex (I know… there’s a lot of craziness in that statement).

As an adult, I encourage people to go dancing when they can. But the truth is I cannot dance myself. I am physically uncoordinated for one thing, and I’m way too self conscious for another. And maybe I’m still a little repressed from my religious upbringing.

Which is frustrating because in my soul, I think I am a dancer. In my heart I move in celebration with music. But I don’t because I don’t want to be laughed at or judged in any way.

The other day I was at an anniversary party where there was dancing. My friend is overweight, has an artificial hip and a bum knee, but he took his bride to the dance floor for a turn. They looked good—she in her dress and he in his tux. She always looks good. But he was the one I watched.

While the music played, he wasn’t half crippled. He was a dancer sharing a graceful moment with the woman he loves. They weren’t having sex but they were making love as they held each other and moved to the music.

Then a young woman took to the floor during a faster number. Her dance was exuberant and sexy and sometimes goofy. She came up to me, grabbed my hands and got me to stand up, but that was all I did before I demurred.

I would have liked to have danced that day.

I’ve tried to learn. I once paid money I couldn’t afford for ballroom dancing lessons because my wife wanted us to learn. The poor woman who taught me will probably never recover from all the times I tromped on her toes with my boots. And I still can’t dance.

It seems to me that religion and spirituality should set us free to do things like dance. Spirituality really has a close connection to sensuousness and celebration. To squash that part of ourselves can shut us completely down.

Of course, in some cases, dancing could lead to sex and perhaps that’s wonderful instead of terrible.

Please, God....

2010-05-19T05:25:00.000-07:00

She sat waiting for news. Would her son live or die? If he lived, would he get his mental capacity back? Would he even be the same young man he had been before with his humor, vitality, and intellect?

The following week, I’m sitting with other parents. Their new son is terribly premature. I’m shocked at how tiny he is—he could fit in the palm of my hand.

The latest news is not good. He is struggling for his life.

The couple had so wanted this child. This was an in vitro attempt and it was their last chance.

I am reminded of the movie, The House of Sand and Fog. In part, it is about a man who had immigrated to the U.S. and was struggling with his pride as he struggled financially to be the success he had once been.

Near the end of the movie, his son is accidentally shot. As the boy is dying the father is in the waiting room, praying to Allah. He is on his knees pleading, negotiating, even cajoling with bribes. In the end he is shrieking repeatedly:

PLEASE GOD! ALL I WANT IS MY SON!

PLEASE GOD! ALL I WANT IS MY SON!

The parents I sat with were quieter, but that’s what they were praying, too.

They had people all around them offering spiritual advice:

“You have to be strong.”

“You have to believe.”

“Stand up to that ole devil!”

“God won’t give you more than you can bear.”

I wanted to yell at them to shut the hell up.

I remember when Jesus entered a man’s house whose daughter had just passed, he made all the people leave the room. Did he want them to shut the hell up, too? I bet he did.

I knelt by the woman whose son was injured and took her hand. I wanted to kiss it, but I knew that was too intimate.

She said what a lot of people say around here say during their hard times: “I hope you never have to go through anything like this.”

I hugged her and said, “I wish you weren’t going through it now.”

With the young couple, I brought my chair up close, faced them directly and placed my hands on each of their forearms. The young father turned his head to hide his weeping. Good. He needed to cry.

When I pray for people at these times, I do not read from liturgy as some of my colleagues do. Nor do I screech frantic orders for God to heal someone… in the name of Jesus.

I either say nothing or speak softly. I speak of our fears and feelings of helplessness. And I ask big—for healing. I refuse to hedge my bets with “If it be thy will.” I assume God is going to do what he chooses. So I spend my time saying what I want.

I have sons, too. Ministering to people who lose theirs can make me terribly afraid late in the night. In my heart I say what these parents are saying even as I write these words:

Please God, all I want is my son.

Musketeers

2010-05-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

The Man in the Iron Mask is one of my favorite movies. It touches on the important themes of honor, bravery, the pride and sorrow we have in our children, unselfish love, and sacrifice.

And sword fighting.

I enjoyed watching the four old musketeers when they were past their prime. When it was time to fight, they moved with practiced speed, outclassing their younger adversaries. When they charged toward the squadron of muskets, one opponent breathed his admiration:

“Magnificent valor!”

They lived and died for a cause greater than themselves. They were strong personalities coming together for a common purpose. And they were loyal to each other:

“All for one and one for all!”

I know it’s melodrama. In real life I work to make good things happen, but I do most of it at my desk and on the phone, and it looks pretty dull. On the outside, I’m a rotund, wordy minister, but on the inside I’m the noble swordsman riding on a powerful steed.

I still believe in nobility, honor, loyalty, and courage. I see these qualities just enough to keep believing in them. Usually they come from ordinary people doing extraordinary things at extreme times.

I wish our churches could remember to look on things through the eyes of a hero. Too often our heroism is leeched away by selfishness, pettiness, fear, and unwillingness to give up comfort.

I’m not the only one that values nobility and heroism. Movies like this one are very popular and not just for the action.

Perhaps part of my job is to call us to be the heroes we secretly want to be.

Second Wind

2010-05-11T04:12:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret that I’ve found this a hard church. It hasn’t helped that I grieve for my last church where I was comfortable and did a good work. They put me in this larger, more pretentious one that tries to keep me in my place.

I remember I was sitting in my office a couple of weeks ago, wondering what to do with myself and wondering what would happen next.

And then I realized I had let them do a number on me. No matter what they think or try, they do not lead this church. I do. And as such, I don’t wait for things to happen. I make them happen.

I think part of their frustration may be that I let them take control.

I put a message on my screen saver: “Do the Work.” And that’s what I do.

I go out to the people. Speak loudly with a big smile. Tell them how much I like them even while they’re complaining. I hug them and tell them how great they are, while I ignore their bitching and moaning.

On Sunday morning I found a boy sitting in the foyer in major pout mode. I sat next to him and said, “What’s up with you?”

“I don’t want to come to church.” He moped.

I nodded companionably.

“I understand,” I said. Then I put my arms around him, kissed him on his head, and said, “But you need to understand that no matter how you feel, I’m really glad to see you. Oh, and you can’t stay out here. Go to class.”

BTW, one of the things that makes this place bearable are the children. We have a preschool here during the week and I make an appearance most mornings where they surround me with a group hug. It’s the highlight of my day.

Something else is happening. The old guard—the ones who have been so protective of their turfs, and have tried so hard to keep me out. They’re getting tired. Some are sick. Others are overwhelmed with life problems.

I’m getting my second wind. Maybe I’ve outlasted them.

I might not succeed in this church. But if I go down, I’ll go down my way and not while I’m at my desk wondering what’s going to happen to me.

After Mother's Day

2010-05-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Mother’s Day and lots of families filled the pews as they sat together showing each other off. There were new babies and grandmothers and moms with corsages. We gave out flowers to all the women and I told some funny things that children say about their mothers. I also indulged myself and told a couple of cool stories about my mom.

Some churches honor the youngest and the oldest mothers, but I never liked doing it. (Who wants to be the oldest mother?) I didn’t mind blessing the youngest mothers, even when they were fifteen years old and really didn’t need to be raising a kid at that age—if anyone needs a blessing, they do.

I gave it up the year a nineteen year old woman seduced a fifteen year old boy and had a child by him. I didn’t want to honor her; I wanted her arrested (I felt the same way about the older guys who got the fifteen year old girls pregnant).

I am always aware that this is not a happy day for everyone. We always have a few women in the audience who wanted desperately to have children but were unable to. Our church has more than a few mothers who have lost their children in the last year. Some people did not have happy childhoods and the happy sappy family stories mock their hearts. Plus, while I spoke, I was aware of one mother praying in the hospital waiting room that her grown son will survive the terrible injuries of a freak accident.

I picked one of the Ten Commandments and spoke of what it means to honor our fathers and mothers, and just why this is the only command with a promise—that those who do so will live long upon the earth.

As children, we do what we’re told, and that’s part of honoring parents. As adults, we come to the place where we honor them by caring for them in their old age. As for those who had painful childhoods, who did not have parents worthy of honor, I usually ask, “are you sure about that?” Sometimes it is right to give our parents a break even if they made bad mistakes but they did the best they could. Then I suggest that it is right and good to show mercy where it is needed and that that’s a kind of honor. We find healing when we practice that kind of honor and I suppose that will help us live a long time.

Many grieve for our parents, which is also a kind of honor. The pain can be a testament of our love for them, I suppose.

Call me a kill joy. It’s an occupational hazard that I spend the happiest times of the year ministering to people who are at terribly unhappy. I don’t want to bring everybody else down, but I spent at least a little of the hour asking people to shoulder some of the burden of our saddest people.

Damn Preachers

2010-04-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

The preacher told her that she needed to divorce her present husband so she could go back to her first husband. It was unknown whether he had remarried. She asked what should be done about her seven-year-old son that she and her present husband had. How would it affect him for his home to be broken up?

“He'll thank you for doing the right thing,” he declared with wild eyes.

This moron came after I served at the same church. He had great talent in chasing people out of an already troubled church. He yelled, condemned, even called names.

I was invited back for a special program. When we had a moment, I asked him how things were going. His eyes widened and watered and with a childish whine said he thought that things were going very well.

I wanted to say, “Look pal, when you beat up on the people, you don't get to turn around and act like one of the wounded.”

The thing was, he probably was wounded as a child. But I'm not willing to be warm and fuzzy to a guy who kills the spirits of others. First, leave the rest of my people alone, then maybe I'll offer some kindness.

I knew another loser who could actually grow a church in his own sick way. We both served churches in a college town.

It was homecoming weekend. Moms, dads, college children, grandparents, and babies were all there on Sunday morning, dressed up, smiling, proud to show their families and see old friends.
The preacher stands and preaches about the evils of homosexuality.

Jerk.

This same guy was asked to speak as a guest at large church where old guard leadership wanted to make it clear that divorce was ALWAYS wrong. He served as sort of a verbal hit man and he was good at it. Several women ran out of the church crying. It’s a couple of decades later, but I still want to deck the guy, although he’s probably in a nursing home by now.

This same guy once criticized me to one of his former members who decided she liked my church better. Who could blame her?

“He doesn’t believe in baptism,” he protested as if I had just proclaimed that Hitler was a saint. It’s true that I didn’t believe like did—that people will go to hell if they don't get the job done in just the right way with just the right words uttered. However, I still offer baptism as a sacrament from God.

“Go back and ask that assho--, I mean that preacher how many he’s baptized,” I said, “then come back and ask me and we’ll compare numbers.”

Like I said, guys like these usually suffered tremendous wounds as children. But it's hard for me to care. I've known many people who used their wounds as motivation to help others, not hurt them under the protective mantle of religion.

So I kind of despise them for what they've done in contributing to humankind's woundedness. We're the guys who are supposed to make people better, not worse. I've spent a great deal of energy trying to undo their work.

What really mystifies me is how people can lump guys like these two clowns with the rest of the ministers who work quietly, compassionately, and perhaps effectively (I'm humbly including in the latter category).

The cruel dictator preachers often have growing churches, at least for a while before they self destruct. Are people really sheep, as Jesus describes? Don't they have any ability to discern when evil is deceptive?

I'll have more to say later.

Loved By the Mother of a Bar Room Bouncer

2010-04-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

“I’m a bouncer for a bar.” I told the little lady in the hospital waiting room.

It had been a funny, lively conversation… spicier than I usually get from grandparently women. I was with a friend whose mother was having surgery. I had teasingly told them that after all we’d talked about, they’d be surprised to find out what I did for a living.

When they asked. I told them I was a bouncer.

Ain’t I a scamp?

Then I ‘fessed up’ and told them I was a minister. They noted my western boots, jeans, scruffy beard, and tall stature (not to mention my girth).

“You look more like a bouncer than a minister they said.”

“I know. However SHE’S the real bouncer,” I said as I pointed to the lady I was sitting with. She’s no bigger than a minute but she really runs a backwoods saloon and has been known to fire a shotgun in the air to gain the attention of some rowdies.

We laughed some more and one of the ladies said, “I’m going to have to start going to church again.”

The woman who was having surgery had asked me to come see her. I was no longer her minister but we were still friends. It had been a while since I had seen her but the two hugs she gave me before she went into surgery felt very familiar as they soaked into me.

She may have needed to see me, but I also needed to see her.

“I love your mom,” I later told the sometimes gun-toting daughter.

“I know,” she said. “She loves you, too.”

I nodded, not wanting show the emotion that was threatening to come out. I knew she loved me.

The fact is, I have been popular enough in most of my churches. I can charm most people in most waiting rooms.

But being loved by someone is pretty dadgum special.

My friend in the hospital has no money or influence. A few people have told me that I’m a saint for putting up with her because she can be flighty and even irrational.

But I’ll happily drive across the state to see her for a few minutes simply because she asks it of me. And she would do the same for me for the same reason I’d do it for her. She loves me.

In my profession we talk a lot about love. It’s the basis for the good we’re supposed to do. But the truth is that I don’t feel it, I don’t receive it, and I don’t give it nearly enough. But when I encounter it, I treasure it.

Oh, and she came through the surgery just fine.

Risky Sabbaticals

2010-04-20T07:39:00.001-07:00

Eugene Peterson once wrote (I think it was The Contemplative Pastor) about the need for pastors to take a sabbatical. He had been at his church for decades and he chose to take an entire year away (as I recall). He wrote of his insights and encouraged all pastors to engage in sabbatical discipline.

It sounded great if a pastor could actually swing the time off.

I learned early in my ministry that my opposition moved against me when I was out of town. If I took two weeks, that was time for at least two quiet business meetings and all kinds of phone calls. I know more than one minister who came home from vacation to find he was out of a job.

If I go on vacation, I weigh the stress of knowing someone is speaking against me while I am away with the relief of having time away from horses' asses.

This is one of those things about church work that I find shameful. Why is it that an organization which exists to do God's work can be so dishonest, cowardly, petty, and mean spirited?

Are they so frightened of the minister that they can't look him in the face to say, "We're not happy with the work you're doing."?

I got mad at Peterson for suggesting that pastors weren't cutting it because they weren't pursuing enough spiritual discipline. And I admit that I got just a bit of satisfaction when I read in his next book how he came back to his church and found things so turbulent that he couldn't stay.

Eugene, it's difficult to soar with the eagles when you're surrounded by wusses.

Church Ladies

2010-04-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

When I moved from the strict conservative denomination where I grew up to a more moderate one, I found that many things stayed the same: music, gossip, potlucks, board (bored) meetings, Sunday School, and funeral dinners.

During my first week at this new church, we prepared for a potluck luncheon. An older lady came by to check the kitchen for supplies.

I've known ladies like this all my life. They are the ones who make the church go. They check supplies, make the phone calls, teach the classes, watch the nursery, and keep the pastor informed of the latest town gossip. They bring food to every funeral, meeting, potluck, and sick family. They fill the children at church with candy but disapprove of how young parents allow them to run about in the church. They are the conscience of the community, clucking and pursing their lips at the innappropriateness of it all.

This was one of those ladies. But then she blew the stereotype when she looked in the fridge and said, JESUS CHRIST! We're out of butter!"

I've heard church ladies like her offer utterances of a tamer quality: Heavens! My Lands! and Oh Noooo! But invoking the name of the Almighty's begotten Son was what you did after suffering a brain injury.

I decided I was taking it wrong. She was not cursing. She was praying.

"Brothers and sister, I perceive that you are religious in every way. Why, you even call upon the Lord to confer about the unknown origins of dairy products...."

Easter Ego

2010-04-04T17:48:00.001-07:00

Easter Sunday and the place was packed. Lots of wayward family members squirming in the pews as a favor to their grandmothers. And there were the semiannual church attendees who came last Christmas. Plus, the visiting dignitary--part of a body of governors that I answer to, who decide my professional fate.

The irritation, ego, and anxiety settle in. First, I think about how most of these people won't be here next Sunday and I fight the temptation to thumb my nose at them. Then I think of the dignitary and how I need to perform well for him. If he doesn't like me, I could be sent to the Siberia of our denomination.

I quickly review the sermon. Jeez, I wish I could think of an extra clever story to go with the message--something that really pops. God, don't let me be too lame.

Then I think how I've been preaching longer than this guy and am probably better than him on my worst day. It occurs to me that I don't want to show him up too badly or he'll make sure I get sent to the Siberia of our denomination.

And then, finally, I remember that this man has his own sadness and trials to bear. Whatever his purpose for being there, mine was the same as it always is: to bless the people.

I'm not sure why that is hard to remember, but I go through this little process fairly often.

There were no problems. People said I was extra good. And I was.

But there goes the ego again.

Wrestling with God

2010-03-29T04:30:00.001-07:00

I've heard from yet another preacher who is getting out. For the sake of his family.

Since the early days recorded in scripture, people of God have often sacrificed their families to do their work, such as the priests Aaron, Eli, and Samuel. It is speculated that the apostle Paul lost his family when he became a Christian missionary (although there might have been other issues there).

I know of a half dozen other ministers who are leaving or have left because of concerns of family or for health reasons--both emotional and physical. I know one very intelligent person who has to leave because he just doesn't feel like he's good enough. But in fact, he is. In fact, all these people I'm thinking of are better than average at their jobs. They are gentle, creative, hardworking, and idealistic.

There are plenty of lousy ministers out there who ought to find some other jobs, but these losses are going to hurt the Church and we're not going to easily replace them. Plus, although I think they deserve to be happy, I suspect they're not going to be able to find peace outside of the ministry.

Many people create a scandal in their lives that make it impossible to stay or even re-enter the ministry. Are they wolves in sheep's clothing or are they wounded healers that just couldn't see straight enough in the end to say, "I want out."?

But these recent departures are not leaving a wake of injured souls. They are the injured souls. They're trying to find healing for themselves and the people they love the most after having their most of their vitality sapped.

Why have I remained in the ministry? I've tried to leave but never for very long. I have been ambivalent about the ministry ever since I entered as a young man. I wanted to be a good pastor, but at the same time, I've always wished I could do something else.

I can relate to Jacob, who spent an entire night wrestling with an angel of God, refusing to quit until God blessed him. He came from the fight exhausted and crippled but he got his blessing, I guess. And his name was changed to Israel, which means contender with God. Oh, how I relate!

Why must it be so hard? Why, as we mature, does God seem to try to disappear, even as we wrestle to hold onto him? And why does his church sap and break the very best of his servants?

The sun has not yet appeared for this day but when it does, the wrestling will not cease like it did for Jacob. The wrestling and the night continues.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2010-03-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

I am reminded of one of my favorite parishioners about whom I've written before. He's an outrageous storyteller who has yet to set foot in my church.

It seems he cut several fingers off in some kind of freak accident a few years back. The other day, he showed me his new prosthetic. It was a kind of glove with fingers built in that would actually give him more use of his hand.

"Does it really work?" I asked.

"I pinched a woman's bottom with it the other day," he said with a wink.

"I'd want to use my real hand for that." I said. It just kind of slipped out before my inner holy editor could intervene.

See, this is why I have this blog. Some of my most entertaining conversations never make it to the pulpit. But I just have to share it with someone.

Anyway, Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone.

Nursing Homes

2010-03-09T04:52:00.001-08:00

Please don't send me to a nursing home. Just let me wander out into the winter wilderness to experience its final embrace.

Either that or I want to be shot by a jealous man because I got his twenty-one year old girlfriend pregnant.

My visits to the nursing home are always a blend of sadness, admiration, and hilarity.

I especially like the people who tell me that they'll be leaving soon to go home, or to get their own apartment. It may not really be possible, but I never refute them. They live longer than you'd expect, I think because they give themselves a dream to look forward to.

There are some that never speak and some that never quit shouting at the top of their lungs.

Many are constantly harassed by the indignity of physical problems that they can't keep private.

There are always some who are sexually active with each other. Whatever age they are, the men like to see what they can get away with, and the nurses get a lot more human contact than they really want. Functional men of that age are very popular with the women residents.

I find joy in the fact that in the face of impending death, there's sex, romance, inappropriate behavior, jealousy, and even new marriages that occur in the nursing home.

I often take a worship service to them and I always have lots of singing. Some ministers wait long moments so the people can find the song in the hymnals—but they often can't see the print anyway. I pick the songs they grew up singing and stick with the familiar verses.

Even those who no longer talk or think straight will often still be able to sing.

At my age, I tend to find my worth and identity in my achievements and accomplishments. This is my time to produce. But the elderly people in the nursing homes cannot be what they once were. We have to look harder to see their value.

Often someone will grab my hand and speak urgently of what they used to do. "I was a policeman for 35 years." "I owned a ranch." "I have five children." They want me to know that they were once somebody significant.

When I walk into a stuffy smelly room to visit an old man in his bed and I see WWII medals on the wall behind him, I realize that older folks have nothing more to prove. They are heroes who refuse to go away.

Could I ask you a favor? If you're like me, you don't like going to the nursing home. Please go anyway. You will make someone's day just by entering the building. You could find a blessing, too, if you look deeply enough to really see the people.

Is it too difficult for you? Consider living there and hoping someone will come see you.

To Tell the Truth

2010-02-25T15:14:00.000-08:00

When I was in a liberal seminary, we spent a lot of time discussing what was not true. The Pentateuch was not written by Moses. The gospels were not really written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. The atonement theory is really a cleverly designed plan to keep women in oppression. Revelation is not a prediction of the future. And the hope of heaven is overemphasized.

Furthermore, we should be open minded but we MUST agree with what the professors taught, if we could figure out what that was. And don’t anyone dare ask the wrong question or say the wrong thing.

It got so I refused to even pray out loud at mealtime with them because someone would get upset with my terminology.

They’d die if they heard me say that they sound much like the arch conservative Christians I grew up with, but they do. Only the rules are different:

You can’t be saved just any ole way or believe just any doctrine. You can’t just be a good person. The Baptists are wrong. The Methodists are wrong. The Episcopalians are really wrong these days. The Catholics are super wrong. The atheists are going to take over. And if you dare disagree or even ask a challenging question, you should get on your knees right now and beg forgiveness for doubting God.

I’ve walked in both these camps and I’m amazed at how often I could unintentionally say things that shocked, offended, or frightened them. The liberals wanted to fight. The conservatives wanted me to surrender.

I was amused most of the time. Sometimes I picked a fight just to entertain myself. Other times I didn’t want to fool with them at all. Still other times I wanted to tell them all to go to the hell the conservatives threatened me with and the liberals didn’t believe existed.

Then there are the discussions I’ve had on some atheists blogs. Most of them are very smart and morally responsible. Some of them I’ve grown to love and depend on (you know who you are). Many of those blogs focus on the absurdities of the church, which I admit is hard not to do. But shouting about what is false does not go very far in finding truth.

I’m tired of discussing what isn’t true. I want to hear about what IS true.

I want to find goodness and become a more loving person. And I long for more glimpses of God. I assume that goodness, love, and God are all part of truth.

For the most part, I’ve had to make my own way in this search—maybe that’s true for everyone.

Here’s what I’ve decided is true: If I have extra, I need to share. If someone near me is in pain, I need to help. If someone is grieves I will hug them. Lonely people need love. The fearful need encouragement. Battered people need defending. Enslaved people need to be free. Hungry people need to eat. Sick people need healing.

I can see Jesus, the real Jesus, muscle his way past the scriptural verbiage and cultural bias into my consciousness. This Jesus emphasizes the need to help the hurting and harassed. They were his greatest priority. If it made him unpopular, created scandal, and ticked off the professional religious guys, he didn’t care. He helped others.

He had no patience for religious and/or intellectual banter of the day.

He fought with those who oppressed others with their religion.

That’s why, in spite of my doubts, disillusionment and confusion, I am still his disciple.

And that’s the truth.

Things Come Together

2010-02-23T10:21:00.001-08:00

I was wondering early Sunday morning about how I could pull it together to do my job that day. How do you lead when you're on empty?

But some things happened that filled me back up.

First, attendance is up. The efforts to reach out to some of our wayward young adults are actually working--go figure. So I'm looking at a full sanctuary.

Second, the funerals I've done have helped some of the conflicts that some of the families had with me. I was able to help them and whatever gripes they had appear to have faded. I got hugs from some of them.

But it was the children that helped me the most. I lead the Sunday night children's activity--I was showing them a movie, mostly for entertainment. While it played, three little girls crawled up into my lap at the same time. One of them kept kissing me on the cheek. Another one snuggled close and told me I was the best preacher--and she was the daughter of one of the couples who had a problem with me.

The children of a congregation are my best barometer as to how the congregation feels about me. If the adults are happy with me, their children are too.

I don't expect it to last because this church is somewhat mercurial, but it was a wonderful break in the grimness that I usually experience in this church.

Gathering Myself on a Sunday Morning

2010-02-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

Parents, this might be too hard to read and I wouldn't blame you if you skipped it. However, I had to write it.

I did another funeral yesterday (third one in a week, which is a lot).

Again, it was the grown child of sad, tired parents. The daughter had been sick for many years. No one would have blamed the family if they had put her in a nursing home, but she begged them not to, and Mom and Dad just couldn't do it. So they took care of her as this capable grownup became a needy child again. She suffered so much for so long that everyone was relieved when her time came. Her parents are strong but devastated and exhausted.

I've had to bury too many sons and daughters . Sometimes I remember them all at once.

Many years ago, I ministered to an older couple as they watched their handsome grandson deteriorate from leukemia. With today's treatment, he may have been able to survive, but not back then. I remember that the boy had just hit puberty. Even with the cancer taking him, he was still growing and I could tell he would have been a handsome young man.

I think of my own sons who are tall and strong, looking even handsomer than I imagined when they were a babies (just yesterday). After I do a funeral like the one yesterday, my heart shrieks a silent prayer: Please don't take them, like you took her.

I remember another time I sang at the funeral for a little girl of about five years. I saw her lying in the casket and she looked beautiful, as if she was sleeping. The mother was also beautiful . She couldn't talk or even cry at the ceremony.

I sang at that mother's funeral less than a year later. They found her dead in her home. Her own elderly mother cried out during the service, "God, I can't stand this."

Not long ago, an old man (the one I wrote about before), had to sign a consent form for his grown son to be removed from life support. "I can't do it," he told me. "How can I sign that paper?"

I usually have no answers for these occasions but I considered this thought out loud with him:

"We have to usher our children through difficult times. When they steal from the store, we march them back and make them hand over what they took to the manager. When they're sick, we hold them down so the nurse can give them a shot. We insist they face their fears and then we stand beside them as best we can. Your son has one more thing to face and he's scared. He needs his dad to help him. Can you do it?"

"I don't know, but I'll try," he said honestly.

It's early Sunday morning and it's still dark outside. Some people will come to church glassy-eyed with grief. Others, the young ones, will come feeling hassled, wondering if it was worth wrestling with the kids to get them dressed and out the door. Several will be there harboring private turmoil. And one or two may come with an evil plot to somehow exploit all of them in a bid for some kind of power.

I will stand before all of them and hope to God I'll say something helpful and not stupid.

THE CAFÉ: High Plains Conversation

2010-02-18T05:45:00.001-08:00

Many important things are negotiated and decided in the town café. This is not one of those occasions.

Note: spurious details have been edited out to maintain the substance of the conversation

Wooden faces. Smoke drifts from their noses. Preacher's here. Watch the language.
"Sure is hot."

"Supposed to rain tomorrow."
"Sure could use it."
"Was that you tried to call me?"
"When?"
"Smornin"
"No."

"Well, don't matter what they call me, 'slong as they call me to dinner."
"Huh."
Someone flicks a cigarette.

"Smitty's crop's gone."
"How?"
"Hailstorm."
"Damn."
"Sorry, preacher."
Some drift in. Others leave.

"D'ya hear what Bill said?" The call-me-to-dinner punch line is repeated.
"Huh!"
"Gotta git back to it."
"Ain't gonna git done by itself."
"D'ya leave a tip for the senorita?"
"Next time."
They'll meet again in two hours.
Two hours later.
Wooden faces. Smoke drifts from their noses. Preacher's not here. Conversation is saltier.

"Hotter'n hell."
"Supposed to rain tomorrow."
"Drier'n a bastard."
"Was that you tried to call me?"
"When?"
"'Smornin"
"Hell no."
"Well, don't matter what they call me, 'slong as they call me to dinner."
"Shee-it."
Someone flicks a cigarette.
"Smitty's crop's gone"
"Damn."
"Hailstorm."
"Shee-it."
Some drift in. Others leave.

"D'ya hear what Bill said?" The call-me-to-dinner punch line is repeated.
"Huh! Shee-it."
"Gotta git back to it."
"Damn sure ain't gonna git done by itself."
"D'ya leave a tip for the senorita?"
"Hell no."
"Preacher's comin"
"Shee-it, I gotta go."

They'll meet again in two hours for more of the same.

Preacher sees them sitting there, turns around and gets back in his car. Tells himself, "I gotta get the f--- outta here."

Too Many to Remember

2010-02-06T10:38:00.000-08:00

A longtime friend and colleague called me the other day asking if I remembered an incident that must have happened twenty-five years ago, where we called on someone who had recently attempted suicide. Turns out that guy is still alive and still remembers us with gratitude. He wants to have lunch with my friend.

The thing is that neither one of us could remember the actual occasion. My friend is not a minister, but he is in a caring profession—he has helped hundreds, maybe thousands of people suffering from mental anguish. And I have too.

After so many years, it’s hard to keep them all straight At the time each encounter is significant. Each person we help is important. And each occasion gives me some satisfaction that I did my job that day.

How is it that I can’t remember a specific one?

Oh, I know it it’s buried in the brain cells somewhere. And I understand that as I get older I can’t keep it straight in my convoluted mental files. After all, there really have been so many. But I don’t want to forget.

After I wrote my last post I realized I also forgot how many people have helped me. I don’t have any right to complain when I think about the people who have done some wonderful things for me—acts of love, kindness, and generosity. Words of encouragement and friendship. Some of them read this blog. Thank you.

What causes such searing loneliness within me? I am inclined to blame the ministry for it, and there’s some legitimacy to that, but I remember feeling this isolation as a child before I went into the ministry, so maybe it’s more a part of my personality makeup.

Regardless of how I feel, when I think about how, because of the sheer number, I can’t remember the exchanges of grace I’ve had, I should not let myself be mired in bitterness.

WANTED: a Friend

2010-02-03T09:50:00.001-08:00

I know I get awfully negative on this blog, but it's the only place I have to let loose. Maybe the following will make it clearer as to why.

I didn't get into ministry for the money, but I can't work for free. Although some preachers do it, I don't know how to work another job that also allows me to minister to a church.

I spent a major portion of my life preparing for the ministry. I underwent many years of expensive formal education and I have never done anything but ministry, so it's not like I can change careers easily (although I sometimes daydream about that).

I once worked with a church that was still grieving for their last pastor. Many of them were bound and determined not to like me. Grudgingly they'd tell each other, "The new preacher is friendly." Then they'd add, "But of course, that's what he gets paid for."

My reply was, "Not enough," and I moved on.

We clergy people get into the ministry because we love the church, but it doesn't take long before we become angry with them. In many dysfunctional families, the person who tries hardest to help the others is blamed for all the problems. It happens a lot in churches too.

I actually like to work hard. But what would it be like to not be tired? I can only remember brief moments of peaceful energy. Every moment of rest or recreation feels like I stole it. If I take off, someone dies, gets divorced, or plots some kind of childish coup at the church.

Okay, it's hard everywhere. There's no such thing as an easy job. I'm lucky to have a job at all. But when one of my church members encounters difficulties with his job, he can turn to the church for support. The preacher has to go elsewhere as far away from his church as he can in order to discuss his struggles. And if he loses his job, he can't ever go back even to visit the worship service—makes everybody too uncomfortable.

The minister's family suffers the same isolation.

When I was young, I needed and loved the church, and the church loved me. I thought it would be wonderful to serve the people to whom I was so close. But as the minister I have often been the most isolated person in that church. Some people put me on a pedestal and make me into someone they need. Others use me as a target for their irrational hatred. Almost no one really wants to know me

All of this could be manageable if I had friends outside of the church. Some ministers can do that, but I seem to have forgotten how. That's a shame, because I think I'd be a good friend.

Perspective

2010-01-30T17:30:00.001-08:00

"Is my son dead?"

"Yes," I said. "Just a few minutes ago."

The man is old, somewhat older now than a few hours ago. He had been expecting it, but there's no way to get ready for this.

The family called to ask me to go tell him the dreadful news. They were far away. Because of his health, they did not want him to hear the news on the phone while he was alone.

He's a tough talking man with an outrageous sense of humor and a tender, as well as a fragile heart. He's never been to church but he's one of my people. I've only known him a year, but I love him deeply.

"You want some coffee or tea? Maybe some milk?" he said abruptly.

"No, I'm fine."

I sat as he told me stories of a son who'd done some bad things, but the father knew his grown child was good.

"It ain't RIGHT!" An old lion's brief roar.

"No." I whispered.

I have no magic words at a time like this. Nothing can be said that will make this better. It isn't right.

There are too many people in my church who've had to bury their children.

I just got back from his house. My back aches like I've been doing heavy lifting. I can't help thinking about my sons. If they were taken from me, how would I go on? And how will he?

It puts the other problems I have with this church in perspective.

This is the work I've been called to do. It's dreadful, but there's beauty. I can't explain it but this is the work I'm honored to do, and it's why I'm still a minister.

Still in the Saddle

2010-01-26T05:53:00.001-08:00

The little girl stared at me thoughtfully while she rested in her mother's arms. The mom was telling me of her daughter's difficulties. "I think she may be a little scared of big men." I don't think the girl nodded but she was listening.

I'm a big man (loud too), and I knew she wasn't always too sure about me, although she had drawn two pictures for me the week before, of which I reminded her.

"You may not know how you feel about people sometimes," I told her. "But here's one thing you CAN know, and that's that I like you."

It got a hint of a smile.

Things have been easier at the church since the meeting I described previously. Several felt bad about how my wife had been treated. One individual paid to replace a large faulty appliance in the parsonage and told me to tell my wife to pick out exactly which one she wanted. When I asked this benefactor what the price range was, she looked at me with mock severity and said, "None of your business."

I've changed a bit toward them. I have seen their insecurities and I've come to understand how much reassurance they need. Instead of wondering how they feel about me, I'm conveying that I like them.

I don't always--like them I mean. But that's what I'm conveying.

And they seem to be responding. Maybe things will improve. Or maybe some of them will wait for another opportune time to nail me. We'll just have to see.

It's hard to describe how I feel. Perhaps its like riding an unbroken mare. I'd been waiting for her to bolt and buck. She finally did, then settled down, and I'm still in the saddle. Maybe a little more settled and in control.

But like I said, we'll see when (not if) she breaks loose again.

Calmer

2010-01-17T14:09:00.001-08:00

Things have calmed a bit this week. I met with some of the same people again and gave them a chance to clarify themselves. I also apologized to the guy I came close to killing last week and I gave him some room to save face.

Why so nice? This is a power struggle I can't win outright. However, if we can be calmer, perhaps I can put a more systematic process in place that will allow us to work out our conflicts. And if most folks are reasonably honest, we can still work together.

And if we work together better, then those who are truly malevolent will be revealed more quickly and clearly.

The group had a chance to reassure me. "Those people who got mad at your wife will get over it. Don't worry. We'll get them back."

I appreciated the reassurance, but I straightened some things out in their thinking, I hope.

"Misunderstandings happen even when people are trying to do good things," I said. "I understand that and expect it. But I also expect people to come to me promptly to give me the opportunity to clear things up. If this had been done, we would not be having this meeting now.

"You assure me they'll get over it. But nobody meant to hurt them in the first place. However, somebody set out to hurt my wife and me. Of all the people referred to here, my wife was the one who was attacked. The difference is that we're grown ups. We won't go tell forty of our closest friends about this. And we won't stop serving even in a church that has not shown much caring for my wife.

"She has been sick. Her mother died. And she had to move to this new place where few people have come to know her. Yet she has continued to serve here because it was needed."

The room was stony silent at that moment. They looked sick and a bit betrayed, as if I had not adhered to some implied rules of engagement.

Clinically, I can tell you we have identified where this group needs to grow up. I know that some of them feel bad about how my wife was treated. Most of them feel chastised, like they've been scolded. But none of them have said the necessary words of reconciliation.

I have been charged by God to care for these people. Some of them I have grown to love. But at the moment, I sort of hate them, too.

War Has Been Declared

2010-01-10T06:37:00.001-08:00

It has been a while since I've written, and I'm hoping someone will read this and will offer up some prayers, or as my friend Sistermoon says—positive energy—my way.

It always happens to the preacher at one time or another. At some point, the element that is dissatisfied decides to attack the preacher when he's vulnerable. It has happened again. I wasn't surprised. It can hurt my feelings, but really, it's part of the job.

But they got to me pretty good last week. They caught me by surprise by criticizing my wife. I was meeting with the leadership to discuss how we can get back some of our young marrieds who are MIA when someone suggested that some of them weren't coming because my wife offended them. If this is true, it is for baseless reasons.

My wife is beautiful (like a model) and shy. She is lovely and quiet—sort of my counterpart. It has not been easy being a minister's wife, but she has rarely been criticized herself. In past churches the people saw that she works hard and they recognized her talents. The men sort of fall in love with her though she doesn't seem to notice it, and the women like her because they feel safe around her—somehow they do not feel competition with her.

The first time people meet her they look me over and wonder how a big clumsy guy like me rates someone like her, and my stock usually rises.

She has had to sacrifice a lot to be married to a minister. She could have easily had someone handsomer and more financially successful, but she chose to make her life with me.

My family has had to do without things because I serve the church. Not just things. How many birthdays and holidays have I had to be gone? How many dinners have I missed to take care of someone else? How many evenings have I not been at home because of the demands of a low paying job?

But this latest experience is not something the family should have to take. They don't deserve it.

I'm not hurt.

I'm mad.

I'm enraged.

The guy who spoke is lucky to have walked away that night—I wanted to leap across the table and grab him by the throat. I am disgusted with the other people around the table who simply looked down and did not speak up in her defense. I realized this had already been discussed between them.

Upon reflection I realize they criticized her because they knew it would get to me.

They were right.

This morning I will go and preach a sermon on love and I'll use many entertaining anecdotes. I'll be kind to all the unknowing people who need help. I will not use any angry words or commit any physically hostile actions.

But war has been declared. They have some advantages. But I've been in this business a long time. I know how to fight this kind of campaign. In the past, I've disciplined myself not to use my skills for personal reasons. I have been restrained.

But not anymore.

Now We can Get to Work

2009-12-28T05:31:00.001-08:00

It's interesting the difference a good night's sleep makes. On Sunday afternoons, right after church I'm in a really bad mood. Every little noise bothers me. Every conversation I had that morning comes back and I put the most negative interpretation on them.

I felt that way again yesterday, and I felt like I did an especially good job. Afterward, I felt especially bad.

This church is falling apart and everyone's going to blame me, I think.

Well, they do have problems. I actually saw them when I first got here and everyone was telling me about problems that weren't really there.

Now, people are beginning to see them and they're getting scared.

I caught their anxiety yesterday, but this morning I'm thinking, It's about time.

And I don't think they're blaming me, although they might in the future. Perhaps they're in the mood to listen more.

In any case, they're at a crisis, and realize it. Now, maybe we can get some work done.

As it so happens, this is the kind of work I'm best at.

We have a new dog.

2009-12-18T04:51:00.001-08:00

We already have a cat that I don't like, and I didn't care to add to the count of incontinent creatures at my casa. But we have one now. And I'll tell you why.

My son asked for one.

He didn't beg or plead. In fact, his tone was very quiet and polite. I've learned that it's desperately important to him when he speaks that quietly.

We looked for a dog that needed a home. The first one was too much. Too big. Too excited. Too enthusiastic. She knocked the boy down right off the bat. He laughed. I didn't.

This was not going to be our dog.

"I think we need to keep looking, son. What do you think?"

"I think I would like this one," he said in that same soft tone.

"Can you help me get this beast in the car?" I ask the vet's attendant.

Pushover? Not me. I told him he had to vacuum the car when we got home.

The thing is, he's a good boy. He knows we don't make a lot of money and he never asks for big things. I already know he won't shirk the responsibilities required of a dog owner.

But mostly I gave in because he's lonely.

He's smart, articulate, and creative--qualities that are not abundant around here. And this is not an easy place for any of us to make friends. He sits too much with a book or a sketch pad or he stares at the TV.

But yesterday, he spent all afternoon playing tag with his new dog who already worships the boy.

They say that preachers' kids are the worst ones in the community. It's not true about mine. And it wasn't true about me or my siblings when we grew up in a preacher's family.

My kids are some of the best. They're honor students and they win awards in everything they participate in. They're never in trouble. They're creative, articulate, and kind.

And isn't because I've done a stellar job raising them.

I sometimes think about how my children bear the consequences of life choices that I have made. Being a minister can be lonely and frustrating but I chose to do it. They didn't.

So if a dog makes my child less lonely and a little healthier, of course he's going to get one.

Just Shut Up and Gimme Some Help

2009-12-15T10:09:00.001-08:00

Is there anything as boring as intellectual discussion in theology?

I'm talking about my liberal friends who usually say things like, "What are the ramifications of the cosmological model of theology?" Or, "Is there any way to reconcile the Anselmian model of atonement theory with current Feminist theology?"

Sometimes they want to be more practical so they talk of social justice issues. Whole denominations will discuss the wording in a resolution concerning their position on global warming that they will send to a government entity that will throw it in the shredder.

I have enough education in the field to add to the discussion but I usually refrain because I just don't give a crap.

I'm a small town clergy guy. Real respectable, but not real remarkable. I'm up to my armpits in domestic violence, sexual confusion, grieving parents, and hungry children.

My theology consists of trying to connect with a supposedly compassionate God. I'd love for him/her/it, as well as every mush mouthed theologian to come down from on high and lend a hand.

The Right Moment

2009-12-08T12:13:00.001-08:00

I was visiting with the man and his wife in the hospital room when the doctor entered with the bad news. The tumor had returned. There was nothing else to be done. The man had only a short time to live.

He took it with a graceful calm. The woman cried softly and I held her.

They commented on how good it was that I happened to be there right at that time. I reflected on how this used to happen all the time in my ministry. I would be there with the person right when they needed the minister the most. I attributed it to the Holy Spirit

And maybe it was, but it was also due to my hyper vigilance. There was a time when I was always available, alert, and could anticipate when I was needed. It seemed mystical , but in fact it was exhaustive--which sort of gave things an ethereal feel to it.

I can't do it anymore because I'm too tired and my family needs me, too. So the Holy Spirit will just have to be a little clearer as to when he wants me to step in. And maybe He was that day.

I was glad I was there. They were a brave couple, accepting bad news with grace. They are why I do what I do.

On Your Mark. Get Set… Be Friendly!

2009-11-24T13:39:00.001-08:00

It's has been going on long enough in enough churches that it has become a ritual.

"Let's take a moment to greet one another," the worship leader says. Then the music begins, the people stand up, move around, shake each others' hands, and say how glad they are to see each other.

They call it "Passing the Peace" or "Meet and Greet." I like "Trap and Rap" but it has yet to catch on--I'm hoping, though.

I hate it. It reminds me of when I was a kid attending a party and when it came time to leave, my mom would say, "Be sure to tell them you had a nice time."

"I had a nice time," I would mumble with deep sincerity.

A lot of people seem to like it. If I try to skip it, I get complaints, especially from the guys who consider it a religious experience to hug a good looking woman.

I had occasion to visit another church not long ago and it came time for that precious moment of fellowship. I saw a handful of people working the crowd like salesmen and politicians and I thought for a moment I was at a used car lot.

It depresses me to realize how often I have done that same aggressive glad handing myself, working the crowds and noting the visitors for future cultivation.

I can remember when I worked a crowd to see who was especially needy. But there are two things different now. First, in this crowd, no one wants to let on that they're needy. And second, I'm too tired to care as much.

By the end of Sunday night, I'm tired of shaking hands and beaming my big mug into other people's faces. I'm ready to go home to hug my two tall handsome sons and kiss my pretty wife.