Leadership and Flying

On Tuesday morning I opened my emails and saw an invitation.  It was from the administrator at the pre-school associated with my church.  I had just met with her for a one-to-one conversation and I thought the invitation was a good sign.  I thought I should probably say "yes."

Then I noticed the fine print.

This was an invitation to do something called "indoor sky-diving", which I had never heard of before.  I consider it sort of a bad sign when the invitation is to something I have not heard of.  Also I have never ever heard anyone put the words "indoor" and "skydiving" in the same sentence, let alone right smack dab next to each other.

I thought about it some more.  I mentioned the invitation to our office administrator.  She thought it was 'really cool", so I went ahead and said "yes", although I will admit to having a few misgivings when they asked me to sign a number of waivers.

Whatever 'type' it is that thrives on adventure and taking risks? --  I'm not it.  I thought coming to Texas was risky enough.  But, like public speaking, once you get up in front of people and open your mouth, you can't run away.  I had signed the waiver, so I was in.

We carpooled down to the iFly center (that's what it was called) where we were all going into a wind tunnel and learn to fly, or float.  We had to have a short training, and learn a few hand signals.  We needed a helmet, and a special suit (like real sky-divers wear).  We were going to get two 'flights':  one where we stayed near the ground and basically learn to float, and the other where we would fly higher up into the wind tunnel.  Both times our instructor was with us, holding onto us and guiding us around. No one flew alone.

A few of us expressed misgivings and wondered what we were doing there.  But, in the end, almost everyone decided to try it.  There is safety in numbers, and the good instruction at the beginning didn't hurt, either.  We all sat together and waited our turn, clapping for each other and giving each other high fives when we were done.

When it was time for the woman right before me to try her first flight, she looked at me and motioned for me to go ahead of her.  I hesitated for a moment.  She was just afraid, and she wanted to delay.  But she motioned to me again, so I got up.

But you know what?  Our instructor pushed me back.  He wouldn't let her back out.  And he wouldn't let me let her.  He probably knew that if she delayed she might back out entirely.  He may also have suspected that she would ultimately regret it.  He knew she was afraid, but that fear shouldn't stop her.

I thought about that.  I thought about my impulse to step in, because she asked me to.  I understood her fear, and felt the same way.  But it was actually a good impulse.  It also wasn't a pastoral impulse, although I might have mistaken it for one.

Pastoral leadership isn't about stepping in with the answers.  It's about letting people wrestle with the questions, actually giving people the opportunity to wrestle.  It's about giving people the opportunity to fly, even if they will also sometimes fail or fall.

For a long time I think congregations thought that the pastor's job was to go into the tunnel and sky-dive, while they watched.  I suspect a lot of pastors thought that too.  But actually I think that the pastor's job is a lot more like our sky-diving coach's:  To teach:  here are the hand signals.  I will teach you.  I will be with you.  And then to invite us to go into the wind tunnel, with some skills but without all of the answers,  to not know exactly what is going to happen, and to trust God.

What I Learned From a Baby Today

There were two baptisms at church today:  a little girl and a little boy.  I didn't get to baptize the babies, but I did get to hold one of them, afterwards, which is almost as good.

Before the service started, I checked in with the parents of the little girl to let them know I was going to be the pastor carrying their little one down the aisle while the congregation sang our baptism lullaby.  They warned me that their baby was sort of a mama's girl at this stage, and she might not go to anyone easily.

So we devised a plan that mom would walk right beside me when it got to that part of the service, partly so that her daughter could see her and see that everything was okay, and partly just in case we needed to do a quick exchange due to extreme anxiety.

When the babies were baptized and the song began, I took the little girl from her mother's arms.  Her big sister, concerned, wanted to walk with us, so she did.  There was a little scrunching of the face and a few squeaks, but then I started to introduce her to her new brothers and sisters, her big and totally enchanted family.

When she looked them in the eyes, and they looked into hers, she calmed down and forgot her anxiety. Some of the congregation members even reached out and touched her balled up fist, or her shoulder.  They sang the lullaby right into her eyes, her hands, her heart.

A couple of times we looked back just to make sure her mother and sister were still there.  There were a couple of brief moments when we thought she might give way to her fear again.  But she didn't.

"Look at what a big family you have!" I said to her.  "Meet your new sister in Christ!" I said to them.

When we finished our short walk, and I returned the baby to her mother, she looked at me with a sort of pride.  "She did well!" she said.  Somehow I thought that all those small interactions with the congregation had something to do with it.

When I am anxious, I am tempted to look more deeply into myself, and feel my inadequacies, my doubts, my failures.  But what if, instead, I looked around, looked outward, took time to look into other loving eyes, took time to touch and be touched, to hear the singing around me?

My Uncle Roger's Arms

On Tuesday, I officiated at the funeral for one of my beloved uncles, my dad's brother-in-law, Roger.  He was 90, so he lived a good long life, just the past few years in a local nursing home, confined to a wheelchair.  He and my Aunt Norma were married for 65 years, which is a pretty good run, in my book.  My aunt and their three children and families were there, at the funeral, and I was honored, and a little nervous, to speak to them.

I have officiated at several weddings for family members in the past, but have never been asked to officiate at a funeral.  I think that I would, in some ways, prefer to be one of the mourners, to be able to hear the promise of the gospel from someone else, to hold my memories and weep and rejoice.  I would like to hear the insights of another preacher, reminding me of all the things I knew, telling me things I never knew.  But when my cousin called me last Thursday evening, I found that I couldn't say no.  I was honored that she asked me, but still, a little nervous.

I knew my uncle Roger as a child knows an adult.  I remembered how much he loved the water, his silly jokes, the way he would tease me or give me a kiss on the cheek.  He taught me how to surface dive, when I was afraid to dive instead of jump from the deep end of the water.  He had polio when he was young, I knew that, because he always walked with a limp.  But I did not find out until just before his funeral that he had polio as a teenager -- at 17 -- and was in the hospital for a whole year.  According to his family, he never complained about it, always found something positive.

Some things I remember about my uncle Roger in part because of the family movies my dad took.  They have been spliced together and, although they are not in order, I still will force my husband to watch them with me, on occasion.  When I was looking through the movies before I preached on Tuesday, the first image I saw was my uncle Roger in a boat on the lake.  I also saw a clip from Christmas.  Whenever the camera came to him, he would turn and give my aunt a kiss on the cheek.

But the clip I was looking for I could not find.  It's a clip of my uncle Roger on the floor, playing with the kids.  Actually, he is lying on the floor, on his back, and he is lifting us up in his hands, up into the air.  If the clip is as I remember it, I was hesitant.  It looked scary.  He kept coaxing me, while all of the other cousins took turns going up in the air, up in his hands, higher than they imagined they could go.  It was as if he was saying, "Don't be afraid.  It'll be fun!  Trust me.  I can hold you."

On Tuesday, I took Isaiah 43 as one of my texts.  "Do not be afraid; for I am with you.  I have called you by name; you are mine."  I started out thinking about the promise, "I have called you by name, you are mine."  But I kept thinking about my uncle and how he always appeared fearless to me.  He wasn't afraid of the water.  He wasn't afraid of life.  He wasn't afraid of anything.  And I think he wanted to teach us to be fearless too.  I kept thinking about my uncle and his strong arms, and how I was afraid, but I didn't need to be.  I kept thinking about how if we trusted him, we got to go higher and higher in the air, and then I started thinking about how strong his arms must have been.  His legs were weak, but his arms were so strong they could hold us.

"Don't be afraid."  That's what my uncle Roger taught me, or tried to, anyway.  "Trust me.  I may have weak legs, but I have strong arms."

On Tuesday, I did not remember that the weakness of God is stronger than human strength, and the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom. I remember today, though.

Today, I am imagining my uncle Roger, going up in the hands of God, higher than he has ever gone before.  I am imagining him going high up in the strong arms of Jesus, up to the place prepared for him in the love of God.  I am imagining how strong the arms of Jesus can be, even though he was struck down, maybe because he was struck down.

And my uncle Roger?  He is not afraid.  He never was.

May I someday learn to be so foolish.  And so fearless.  And so wise.

Every Sunday is Easter

It has been a long time since I have gotten to preach regularly on Easter Sunday.  For the first four years of my ministry in rural South Dakota, I preached every Sunday.  But since coming to my current call, Easter has usually been the senior pastor's gig.  I have had mixed feelings about that.  I have felt wistful at never getting the experience of preaching to the large crowds at the first light of Easter morning every year; and I have felt (occasionally) a sort of relief that I didn't have the pressure of meeting my own extremely high expectations of an acceptable Easter sermon.

So, this year, the new senior pastor told me that I would be preaching on Easter.  Excitement gave way to apprehension as Sunday drew nearer.  I wrote and re-wrote, and thought and re-thought.  I considered the large crowds.  I am not proud to admit it, but I was having a mini-breakdown about my sermon, and how excellent I thought it ought to be.

I was doing a little pep talk with myself about it, trying not to think about the large crowds, and rationalizing, even.  "it's just like every other Sunday, really," I told myself.  Someone overheard, (perhaps even the senior pastor) and said:

"Every Sunday is Easter."

I've heard that before  Every Sunday is Easter, a little celebration of the resurrection.  Yep.  That's why we don't count the Sundays in Lent as being "of Lent".  That's why the early Christians designated Sunday as their day or worship in the first place.  All right.

But that's not what we meant.  At least, it's not what I meant, the more I thought about it.

Apart from the large crowds, what is it that makes the Easter sermon seem so daunting for some of us?  Is it what we imagine is the more diverse crowd, perhaps containing more skeptics than usual?  Is it that we might feel the need to prove the resurrection, somehow?  Is it the sense that, just as the choir has been practicing and building up for this day, we also need to save 'our best stuff' for this occasion?

"Every Sunday is Easter."

There might not be large crowds every Sunday; in fact yesterday's diminished crowds have already proved that at my congregation.  There might not be large crowds, but I'll wager that every Sunday you will have skeptics in your congregation.  Every Sunday you will have people who don't want to be there, are wondering why in God's name they are there, and are daring you to say something that will make them think, or feel, or change.

Every Sunday is Easter, and there will be skeptics every Sunday, some of them daring you, and some of them praying that you say something that will make a difference.  Every Sunday is Easter, and it is never possible to prove the resurrection, but it is always a good idea to testify to the difference that the resurrection makes in your life.  Does it?  That is the question to wrestle with, every day, every sermon, and in every part of our ministry.

Every Sunday is Easter, and you can't prove the resurrection, and there will always be skeptics, and sometimes the skeptic will be you.

And sometimes, the music is enough to get you through.

Not just on Easter.  Every Sunday.

Mending

Today, and yesterday, I have been doing a little mending.

I don't usually do any mending.  I have a pair of pants, missing a button, that has been languishing in a drawer for almost a year.  It would be in my best interests to be able to wear those pants.  But I haven't sat down with a needle and thread and fixed them.  I also have a pink shirt with a little tear in it.  It would not be so hard to fix, but I would need to find the right color thread, you know.  And thread the needle.  The older I get, the harder it is to thread the needle.

But a couple of days ago, my mother in law asked me to put a button on a shirt for her.  She is temporarily residing in a nursing home, and we've been helping her with a few things since she has been there.  We can't help her with her therapy or serve her meals, but we can do her laundry and help her get stamps for cards.  And I can sew on a button.

I have never been much of a sewer, but I can sew on a button, in a pinch.  And I can repair a hem, if I have to (but I haven't had to, lately.)  But, left to my own devices, I don't seem to get around to it.  It doesn't seem that important.  I can work around wearing that pair of pants.  I can put the pink shirt in the drawer and forget about it.  But my mother in law asked me, so I have gotten out the small mending kit and threaded the needle, however difficult.  I sewed on the blue button, and I am working on the pink shirt, and also the pair of pants.

Today, and yesterday, I have been doing a little mending.

And, it seemed to me, when I was straining my eyes and my hands to thread the needle, that there are more things that need mending in my life, more tears, small or large, in the fabric of life, or of community.  Some of the tasks are hard, and some are not really so hard, but the older I get, the harder it is to thread the needle.  So I'm tempted to put off doing things that really need doing.

Mending.

It is one of the calls of the church.  Perhaps we have forgotten that.  We come to worship on Sunday, and we can work around wearing particular garments and forget that they have to be mended.  But we are not the church if we don't do the mending that God has called us to.

Some of the mending is personal -- the rifts and tears in particular lives, the holes in hearts overflowing with grief and loss.  And some of the mending is community wide -- there are so many tears among us, so many holes, and so much fear.

I have been thinking about this the past few days as I have thought of the boy Trayvon Martin and the man George Zimmerman.  And what I have been thinking about is this:  they were afraid of each other.   And this is not just true in Florida, it is true in other neighborhoods as well.  We are afraid of each other.

How can we mend this?

All I can say is this:  it is not easy work, threading this needle.  And there is not a neat and near ending when there will be no fear in communities any more.  It is hard and constant work, and perhaps some of us find it easier to put it off, put it in a drawer, and go back to church and sing hymns.  But we are not the church if we don't do the mending that God has called us to do.

Today, and yesterday, I have been doing a little mending.

And tomorrow, by the grace of God and with the help of persistent friends, I will continue.  I will find a place where I can help with the mending in my community.  I will admit my own fears, and listen to those who disagree with me, and I will sew a few stitches together where the garment has unraveled.  I will thread the needle (even though the older I get, the more difficult it becomes).  Someone told me recently that you can thread the needle if you will hold it up against a contrasting color.

Today, and yesterday, and tomorrow, I am doing a little mending.

One garment at a time.

The First Thunderstorm of the Season

Yesterday we woke up to rumblings in the sky.  It was a dark morning, thunder and lightning, the first spring storm.  Scout was sitting on the rug at the end of the bed -- not too bad yet, although when I asked her to come, she wouldn't.  My side of the bed is near the window, a dangerous place.

Through the early hours of the morning, as the sounds got louder and scarier, our dog got more and more worried.  She paced, she panted, but what she did most of all, what she always does during thunderstorms, is try to find a safe place to hide.  At one point she ended up in our small bathroom (who told her this is really the safest place in the house?), at another time she wedged herself between my husband's easy chair and the end table.  She is also partial to the basement.  There is a bed downstairs she can crawl under.

I try to comfort Scout.  I keep telling her that we won't let the bad storm get her, but she doesn't respond to reason.  Fear is often like that.  You can't reason with it.  You can only be there.

Inevitably, as I watched Scout and as I heard the sky, I considered the disciples, the Easter disciples hiding in their locked room after the resurrection.  They were afraid, the story says, and so they tried to find a safe place to hide.  And why is it that I imagine that room as small and cozy, with not much room for another person, not even a resurrected Savior? 

Despite the resurrection of Jesus, it seems we are often afraid.  The sky rumbles, the world changes, the signs and portents we do not understand.   There are many things going on in our culture that don't seem so friendly.  The things we used to do (at least in church) don't always work any more.  Some people don't come.  Others mock believers.  Some just ignore us.  We can keep saying and saying, "God is in charge.  This is Christ's church," and even know it's true, but still, we're afraid. 

It's tempting, at times like these, to try to find a safe place to hide: the basement, perhaps?  Any small space, where there is not much extra room, will do.  It's tempting, at times like these, to make our expectations as small as the space we are hiding:  to forget that Jesus rose from the dead and is still risen.  It's tempting to find that small space and stay there, with the people we know, doing the things we know how to do.  It's dark and cramped, but it's safe.  Right?

So Jesus walks into that small locked room, and you know what?  he doesn't say, "I'm in charge."  He doesn't say, "I won't let the big bad thunder get you."  All he says is, "Peace."  Peace be with you. 

And then he sends us out, not to do our puny little tasks, but to proclaim and enact his great mission.  He sends us out in the thunder and the lightning, to that dangerous world.  He sends us out to the world not to reason with people, not to tell people facts about God, but to love them.  To be there. 

Fear Itself

You can't reason with a dog.

During the past couple of weeks, there has been an odd development in Scout's temperament.  She's always been a little skittish when there are thunderstorms or fireworks.  But for the past couple of weeks of so, she has suddenly grown fearful about walking down our block.

It started when we crossed the street one day, on the way to our favorite pond.  We were going along nicely up the street, but there was some construction work going on around the corner, and as we got closer, Scout started to do her famous "walking backwards" dance, which signals not just stubborn "I don't want to go where you want to go"-ness, but actual fear.

You can't reason with a dog.

I know, I've tried.  I get her to stop walking backwards and just sit.  That does work sometimes, but even if I talk to her in a nice, bright, soft voice, and tell her there is nothing to fear around the corner, or just past that car that is running, or past that group of children that is shouting -- even if I tell her all these things -- she doesn't believe me.

In the past couple of weeks, she has started walking backwards a couple of times on our block, which is so disheartening.  I don't want her to become like one of those people who is afraid of everything, who hides in their house.  And though there is no sign of this happening, I certainly don't want her to become one of those dogs who growls and snaps at people because she is afraid.

You can't reason with a dog.

I'm working with her a little bit each day, not trying to force her to go where she doesn't want to go, but trying to increase her comfort, even if we just go a few more steps.  We're working on broadening her circle just a little bit, and hoping that she discovers that she will not get hurt.

You can't reason with a dog.

It starts me thinking about how fear can be irrational, which is not the same as saying that there is nothing to fear.  I certainly think there are plenty of things to fear in the world today.  It's not the great depression, but the economic situation is frightening, and the deficits are frightening, and the both the wars and the terrorists threats are frightening.

To be perfectly honest, though, I'm more frightened about the people running around, calling people they don't agree with "Nazis" or "Marxists" or "Communists."  I'm more frightened of some of the people who are afraid. 

I read a conversation between two conservatives.  One of them interviews the other, saying, "I don't agree with President Obama's policies and I wouldn't vote for him.  But I don't believe it's accurate to call him a communist or a socialist.  Why do you do it?"  The other one says that he's going to keep saying the same thing, because, of course, there's more than one way to understand the word "socialist".   (By some understandings, Medicare is socialist.  Perhaps by some understandings, Public Education is also socialist.)

But the words "Socialism," and "Communism," of course, elicit fear.   And fear can cause us to do many things, including snarl and bite.  You can intentionally make a dog afraid, and then set him loose on a victim.

A long while ago President Franklin Delano Roosevelt said that the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.  I don't think he meant that there was nothing to be afraid of.  There were plenty of things to be afraid of during those depression years.  But if you really want to be afraid, check out what scared, desperate people are capable of.  Over in Germany, someone used a whole nation's fear and desperation to rise to power, to create scapegoats and to murder people.  

In the meantime, I'm going to take a deep breath and admit that I'm afraid, too.  I'm afraid of the fear I hear and see, and the consequences it might have.  But I am trying hard not to snarl or growl, and not to start walking backwards either.   Instead, I tell myself that I have hope -- I believe in the love of God for every person.  I believe that in the end, Love wins.  I believe that hope is greater than fear. 

And I just go a few more steps forward, every day.