What to Preach

To tell the truth, I was looking forward to preaching about Mary and Martha last weekend.  Just plain old unvarnished Mary and Martha and Jesus, five small verses that I could turn over in the palm of my hand, ruminate over, shine the light on.

I was looking forward to getting back to the gospel stories after six weeks in Galatians, even though the last week in Galatians was pretty much pre-empted by the shootings in Baton Rouge, Minnesota and Dallas.  Who is my neighbor?  Whose burdens am I required to bear?  Those are uncomfortable questions, but nobody said that preaching should be comfortable.

But this week seemed like the promise of the gospel came out of a different kind of discomfort.  This short story of Martha and Mary and Jesus spoke to me of the importance of hospitality, and of sitting and listening:  listening to God and listening to our neighbor.  Coincidentally (or perhaps not coincidentally), our congregation is embarking on a mission initiative that involves listening to God and to our neighbors.   And the discipline of this kind of listening will be a challenging and will make us uncomfortable and will also yield a blessing.

So, Listen.  It seemed clear that this was what to preach this last weekend in my congregation.  Listening is the beginning of mission.  To listen is to put the other person in the center, not us.  It is a holy activity.

And then there was violence in Nice, and an attempted coup in Turkey.  Sunday morning, while we were in worship, three police officers were killed in Baton Rouge.

And I had this sermon which wasn't wrong, but somehow seemed like flecks of dust tossed into the air.

Listen.

Was that all I had? Had I made the wrong decision?  Had I preached the wrong thing?

All I know is that I am back at it again, reading the scriptures, asking questions, imagining the people in my congregation, and especially a young man who will be confirmed on Sunday.  I am looking out at the world, and wondering what to say.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Listening Between the Lines

My first congregation was a three-point parish in rural South Dakota.  Three points meant that there were three churches.  Two of them were in tiny towns, and one of them was out in the country.

I lived in one of those tiny towns, in a large parsonage across from the church.  According to the sign on the way into town, the population was 90, but a few of us counted one day (on election day, I think) and we came up with 63.   There was a main street, which held the remains of a bank, the post office and Gizzy's bar.  There were also several open spaces where buildings used to be.  A little farther up there used to be a school.  There was no gas station, and there was no longer a grocery store.  There was still a park and a town hall.  We held Vacation Bible School there.

The town used to be bigger.  I heard stories, and I read some.  I saw old pictures of the glory days.  Four railroads used to intersect in this town.  There were once four churches, too.   The community was settled by Bohemians and by Norwegian farmers.  It was a lively place.

I used to go and visit people who were members of my congregation, but didn't live in town any more.  Some of them lived in nursing homes, or had moved to a slightly larger town nearby.  They often asked me how the town was doing.

"I guess there's not much use for the small towns anymore," they would say.

I heard this sentence, almost exactly the same, so many times, until it finally occurred to me that perhaps they were not just talking about the small towns.

Perhaps what they really feared was that there was not much use for them any more, that the things they valued, that the work they did, that the life they lived would slip away, and mean nothing, in the end.

"I guess there's not much use for the small towns any more."

What do you say?  It seems to be true that there is not much use for the small towns any more.  But I am listening between the lines, now, and I want to tell them that there is still a use for your life, that there is use and a value for your life that goes beyond this life, that lasts forever.  I want to hold that old man's hand and tell him that all is not lost, that what he did and who he was had meaning, that his name is written in the book of life.  I want to tell that old woman that her life has borne fruit, even though the town she loved is mostly gone.

In ministry now, in the midst of change, I am wondering about what it would mean to begin listening between the lines more often.  I wonder what it would mean to listen to what people tell me, and wonder what their real fears and hopes are, what they are really saying.  Perhaps it would mean to listen with less judgment and more grace.  Perhaps it would mean to acknowledge the fear and walk right into the darkness, carrying a light.

Other Voices

Holy Week is one of those aerobically challenging times for pastors, a marathon of liturgies to plan, sermons to preach, services to choreograph and to lead.   I remember back to past Holy Weeks:  frantic calls to people to request that they consider getting their feet washed or read a portion a scripture, rehearsals for midweek worship services, nestled in the midst of communion visits with shut ins and occasional emergencies.

So it was a bit of a surprise to find myself sitting at our Good Friday service at 3:00, listening to members of my congregation read portions of Matthew's story of the passion.  I had not called any of the readers, assigned the readings or helped rehearse the readers.  My assignment for the service was to pray, to listen, and occasionally, to sing.

I could do that.

I have been in this congregation for a long time.  I know these voices, having heard them for years.  Some of them have been reading and assisting in worship for a long time.  There were a few who I had never heard read scripture before.  I recognized quiet intensity, faith, passion and pathos in their voices as they read.  They each, in their own way, inhabited the scripture reading.  

I heard one man's voice crack as he relayed Peter's denial.  Another woman's voice rose as the crowd roared, "Let him be crucified!"  

I sat, and I listened, less encumbered than usual with a sense of responsibility for making worship happen.  I sat and I listened and tears collected in the corners of my eyes, partly because it was Good Friday and partly because I could allow myself to be in the story, listening to other voices, voices I knew so well, as they told it.  So well.

Your voices, I want to tell them, your voices are more powerful than you even know.  You can do it.  You can embody the love of God.  You already do.  You have.  For me.

Ash Wednesday Ashes

After our noon service today, we got a phone call from a woman who had missed the service, and would not be able to attend in the evening because she had to work.

She told us her name, and wondered if she could stop by in a little while for prayer and to receive the ashes.  I said that I planned to be around and would wait for her.

At the appropriate time she came by the church.  We went into our small chapel, sitting in the narrow pew nearest the chancel.  A small shiny black teacup with ashes sat between us.

I had brought one of our bulletins and decided to read the poem that opened the service.  It was so beautiful, evoking the frailty of our mortality and the ashes of our lives with the fire of God's love and promise for us.  Afterwards, she opened up and her life poured out:  her desire for a clear purpose and work that mattered, her care for a troubled child and grandchild, other grandchildren that she never knew.  As she shared from the depths of her heart,  I looked down at the cup of ashes, and I thought, What good are these ashes?  Does she really need today to hear that she is dust, and to dust she will return? 

Then, it was time to pray, and just as I opened my mouth to begin praying for her, as I thought she wanted me to do, she broke out in prayer herself. Seeing my surprise, she stopped momentarily, and said, "is it all right?" When I nodded, she continued.

And oh my word, this woman could pray.  She prayed for a friend who had experienced loss.  She prayed for her family, and she prayed for her work.  She prayed for purpose and she prayed for strength.  She prayed citing scripture with ease, words she knew by heart.  She prayed until I wondered if there was anything left to pray for.  She prayed for me, and that God would bless me, and my work.

Later, I prayed too.  I prayed for her, especially, although she interrupted to make sure I included someone else she prayed for.

Then I made the sign of the cross on her forehead, saying "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

"Amen", she said, as if it was the best piece of news she ever heard.

"Wait," I said.  I wanted to read one more thing for her, something from our bulletin.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation
That we may show forth your glory in the world.
By the cross and passion of your Son our Lord
Bring us with all your saints to the joy of your resurrection.

"That's beautiful," she said.  Then, "Tell me, when you came to faith, did you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and savior?"

"Every day," I said.  "In my tradition, it's not a one-time-only thing."

We walked together back down the hallway from the chapel.  "Where do you go to church?" I asked.  I couldn't imagine someone who knew scripture by heart like she did was not going to worship somewhere.

"I haven't been to church for a long time," she told me.  "I always have to work on Sunday.  I usually work Saturday night, too.  I haven't been to church for a long time.  But they told me that I might be able to start getting Sundays off now."

"Thank you for praying with me," she said.  "Bless your ministry.  You are a blessing."

O my heart.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation
That we may show forth your glory in the world.
 

Mary, Martha and Me

I was a freshly minted pastor living in a newly painted and repaired parsonage.  In July I had moved in, and I heard stories of how proud the congregation was of its parsonage.  I could tell that they had modernized both of the bathrooms and redecorated the guest room upstairs.

Once fall hit, I began to hear a few people say it was perhaps time for the new pastor to host an open house.  Some Sunday afternoon invite everyone who wants to come from the three churches.  They will want the chance to visit with you informally.  They will be curious about what the inside of your house looks like.  They will want to see how you decorated it.

It was a small parish, but not that small.  There were three congregations.  There was the potential for a lot of people to walk through my house that afternoon.  I needed to be able to serve them.  I needed to have food and coffee (these are Lutherans after all) and other refreshments.  And I was a single pastor:  there was no pastor's wife to pay attention to what was running out and to replenish.  I started to plan and fret and think about logistics.  I wanted to be generous.  Though I am not an accomplished baker, I wanted to bake something.

In the midst of my fretting and caring, someone from one of the churches took me aside and said:  "If you want to make something, Pastor, you go right ahead.  But don't worry about doing all the cooking. And don't worry about serving.  We will also bring treats, and we will serve.  We want you to be able to spend your time visiting, not serving."

It is something a freshly-minted pastor needs to hear, sometimes:  ministry is not just about how much you do, how you rush around and serve and create programs and make things happen.  Ministry is about how you sit and listen.

I wanted to show hospitality:  that's the truth.  I wanted to be a good pastor:  that's also the truth.  What those women were telling me was that their first priority for me, as their pastor, was to know them.  They wanted me to know their names, hear their stories, and listen.  They wanted me to begin to know what the rhythm of their lives was like.  That is as much hospitality as staying up late making brownies and running around filling coffee cups.

These past few days I'm thinking that these lessons apply not just to pastors and parish members, but to whole communities.  I'm thinking that while most of us want to be smart and in charge and running around with the answers, but the first thing we often need to do is sit and listen.  In communities I'm thinking of the conversations we need to have around race and privilege, around profiling and fear.  And I'm especially thinking that those of us who are white need to sit and listen to those communities of color in our neighborhood, to know their names, to listen to their stories, to hear their perceptions and their reality.  But for us it means not being in control.  It means being attentive to someone else's agenda, not just my own.  It means shifting our perceptions.

I think of the women of the church, who wanted me to sit still and listen.  Here I was, a freshly-minted pastor from the big city.  What did I know about the rhythms of rural life?  To truly serve them I needed to sit still and listen.  I think about the pain and fear in our communities, the things we don't know or won't believe because we don't sit still and listen.

There is more than one kind of hospitality:  that's the truth.  But true hospitality always puts the other person in the center, in some ways or another.   Sometimes the greatest gift we can give someone is to sit still and listen.

Holy Conversations, if we can have them

I just started reading a book recently.  It's called "Holy Conversations", and it's about strategic planning in congregations.

You might think, "why write about a book that you have barely started reading?"  That would be a good question.

We will be embarking on a strategic planning process in my congregation soon.  The other pastor thought that this was the book we should use to go through the process at our church.  He wanted me to get ahead on the reading, so that I could be help discern the right mix of people to be a part of the conversations.

Coincidentally, I already had a copy of the book.  I've been thinking about strategic planning as a spiritual discipline for awhile.

So, while beginning to read this book at the end of last week, one sentence struck me, and made me think:  "The plan does not transform the congregation; the conversation transforms the congregation."

I'm not sure that I've ever really intentionally thought about it this way, but I immediately realized that it was true:  Conversations transform us.   Conversations change the way we think and feel, and affect who we become.  It isn't always or necessarily and positive transformation, either.  I remember the conversations I overheard as a young girl -- the arguments between two of my uncles:  one a staunch Democrat and proud 6th grade teacher, and the other an extremely conservative Republican (he used to remind us that the founding fathers only intended landowners to vote).  Listening in on those conversations affected my politics, made be both fascinated by politics, but also anxious about political fights.

Of course, the more powerful conversations are the ones in which we are active conversation partners, listening and speaking, telling and hearing stories.  Perhaps these are the ones called "Holy Conversations", where we dare to take time to find out what it important to one another, what we agree about, where we disagree.

When I think about it, I realize how seldom we really have a "Holy conversation" with one another.  I wonder why it is, and the first thought that comes into my mind is this:  we don't have time.  We are busy people, and it's hard to find the time to sit still, look into each other's eyes, see the image of God in each other's faces, and know who we really are.

But I don't think that's the only reason we so seldom engage in a Holy Conversation.  I think it's also because it is risky to find out that we don't all agree with one another (and I'm not just talking about politics, here, not even mainly).  Perhaps it's easier to assume that we all agree: about which hymns are the best to sing, which way we should pray, how we should reach out and serve, which community issues should most define our discipleship.  There's a risk to finding out that your community contains a diversity of pieties as well as politics.

But even riskier is this:  I suspect that in a truly Holy Conversation, all participants are open to being transformed.   What will happen to me if I listen to an older person tell me of their experience of the liturgy and how it has formed them, or if I hear a new member talk about what it means to feel welcomed, or excluded, by the way we worship?  I just had a conversation with a woman who brings her granddaughter to church with her on occasion.  She told me that her granddaughter would like to go to church more often, but it's hard because "she doesn't know what's going on."  This statement cuts me to the quick, which is the beginning of transformation.

So we're going to do this thing called 'strategic planning,' and I don't know much about what it will look like yet.  But, as we move along, I will be reminding myself again and again that it is not the plan that will transform us.  It is the conversations, the holy conversations that will transform us, turning us again and again, back to God, and back to one another.

What To Do When You Don't Know What To Do

A long time ago, when I was studying to become a pastor, the husband of one of my colleagues gave me this gem of advice, "A professional is someone who knows what to do when she doesn't know what to do."

At the time, I didn't know what to do.  I was just out of my first year of seminary, running a summer program for kids in inner-city Minneapolis.  One day the refrigerator broke down and all of the lunches spoiled.  Another day one of my counselors (a fifteen year old African American) was yelled at by one of the parents (white), and the counselors were divided about whether the angry exchange was a legitimate grievance or an example  of racism.

Clearly, I didn't know what to do.

But, that experience was a good training for me.  Because, as a pastor, I have often been in a position where I didn't know what to do.  What do you do when you don't know what to do, if you are a pastor?

1.  Ask questions.  One of the traps of ministry is thinking that you have to have all of the answers.  Other people sometimes think this, but sometimes we think it too.  Therefore, asking questions is a good thing to do.  I don't mean just asking questions to which other people will have the answer (although sometimes that is the case).  Ask questions to help you remember that the right question is as important as the right answer.  Ask questions to keep yourself humble.  Ask questions to cultivate a sense of wonder.

2.  Pray.  I mean it.  Pray alone.  Pray with other people.  Pray without words.  Pray with words.  There have been times when I have been visiting with someone, and I'm not sure what to say, I will say, "Shall we pray?"  I remember meeting with a young mother one day.  She was about to have heart surgery to repair damage she had sustained as a child.  But our conversation ranged over many topics.  At the end, for some reason, I said, "Shall we pray?"  When she had her surgery later, she did not recover.

3.  Listen.  Listen to God, listen to respected friends, listen to parish members.  But then, find some quiet.

4.  Sin boldly, that grace may abound.  Make mistakes, that forgiveness may abound.  Fail, so that you can learn from failure.

and finally,

5.  Sing.  I'm not sure why, but it's about the most radical thing you can do if you don't know what to do.  I still remember one of the first times I went over to a nursing home, because someone was dying.  I was a new pastor, and I was even filling in for another pastor.  I didn't know the person who was dying.  I didn't know what to do, and that's a fact.  I had my prayer book, I had my prayers.  But the person I didn't know who was a child of God was simply dying:  not talking to me, not asking questions.  So I sang.  I sang "What a Friend we Have in Jesus".  I sang "Beautiful Savior."  I sang "Amazing Grace."  I still sing when I visit people who are dying and I don't know what to do.

At the heart of it, that's the truth:  we are all dying, and we are all being born, and we don't know what to do, professional or not.  And of all the things we can do when we don't know what to do, this is the most important:  Sing.

That's what I do, anyway.

Tools for Missionaries

Recently I had a conversation with one of the young parents in my congregation.  We were talking having a far-reaching discussion that included Sunday School, next summer's Vacation Bible School Program, and the changing nature of our culture and church attendance.  When I offered the idea that "going to church" is not as culturally normal now as it was when I was growing up, she replied, "That's right!  I think we are the only ones who go to church among all of our friends."  She continued that she knew that her friends had a wide variety of opinions and emotions regarding faith, from some who clearly were not interested, to others who were more ambivalent. 

I blurted out, "So, you're sort of like missionaries to your friends."

I immediately regretted the statement.  In my experience, the word "missionary" can have several negative connotations.  The rigid, judgmental missionary of James Michener's Hawaii comes to mind, along with images of people who pass out tracts on street corners, coerce people to conform to Western standards of behavior, and fail to learn cultural languages.  I was a missionary myself, once (long ago), so I know all of the stereotypes.  They have sometimes been deserved.

But instead of recoiling, this parent responded, "yes, we are sort of like missionaries," which made me wonder if we are equipping the people in our congregations to be missionaries, in the best sense of the word.

I thought about the missionaries I knew, long ago.  They were passionate that people know Jesus, certainly, but they were also passionate about justice.  They immersed themselves in another culture and learned another language.  They talked about transforming lives, but their own lives had been transformed by the people they met and by the experiences they had. 

What would it mean for us to do faith formation in our churches as if we knew that all of the people in our congregation were missionaries, in the best sense of the word?  What sort of practices would we teach, or engage in?  What would we do differently if we believed we were teaching people to be missionaries?*

1.  We would teach people how to listen first.  Listening evangelism, that's what I'd call it.  Teach people to listen, truly be curious, ask good questions about their friends and their friends' lives.  Teach parents to listen to children, children to parents.  Teach people to listen to the strangers who visit our congregation, to their neighbors and coworkers and the immigrants who move in across the street, to the spiritual but not religious friends. 

2.  We would teach people that they each have a faith story, and help them learn to tell it.  The story has something to do with grace, something to do with love, something to do with forgiveness, everything to do with God.  It might be big and dramatic or small and ordinary.  I will always remember hearing Lauren Winner (author of "Girl Meets God") say that she had a hard time writing her memoir, until she realized that the main character was really God.

3.  We would teach people that they don't have to know everything to know something about the love of God.  They don't have to defend, just invite.  Teach people to be gracious inviters, able to deal with both a "yes" and a "no". 

4.  We would create safe places of invitation in our churches, whether that is a Sunday worship, a day of service, a shared meal or a time of fellowship.  What would you be proud to invite a friend or neighbor to participate in with you? 

Tools for missionaries.  Here are just a few.  What are some other tools that you think modern-day "missionaries" should have?

*if you can think of a better word than "missionary", please feel free to tell me.  I won't be offended.

The Privilege of Being a Pastor

I know one of the big perks of being a pastor is getting to speak.  I have the privilege of speaking God's word on Sunday, and in many small interactions throughout the week.  I have the privilege of speaking and reminding people of God's mercy.  I get to open up the Scriptures and I have an opportunity to share with people what I find.  I don't take that privilege lightly.

But you know what?  Here's a secret:  the real privilege of being a pastor is listening.

I get to hear stories.  I hear stories about people's life with God.  Sometimes they know the story is about their life with God.  Sometimes they don't.  I hear stories about people who came out on the other side of terrible tragedy, and are still here.  I hear stories about parents and grandparents and children and how they influence faith.  (One woman told me about her great-aunt, who lived with them, and used to talk to God all day while she was vaccuuming.) 

I also get to hear questions.  I get to hear questions from children, and from teenagers, and from adults.  "What does that Scripture verse mean?"  "What does it have to do with us?"  "Why did that boy have to suffer?"  "Why do we pray?"  Sometimes I can answer the question, sometimes I have to say "I don't know." 

I get to hear singing.  I love to hear us singing together in worship, whether that music is an old hymn accompanied by organ, a new song accompanied by piano, or a song unadorned by any instrument.  I remember one Saturday night, at our small chapel service, that the substitute organist stopped short of the final verse of "Lift High the Cross."  The congregation just kept singing.  We sounded great.

I get to hear prayers.  I get to hear people murmur a name during the petitions on Sunday, I get to hear children as they are learning to pray, I get to hear confirmation students as they pray for their friends, I get to hear people in nursing homes and in hospitals and in coffee houses share their concerns and offer a prayer. 

It is a privilege to listen, as much as it is a privilege to speak.  But now that I come to think of it, it's not just a privlege for pastors.  It's a privilege for all of us who are called to be witnesses to God's mercy and grace in our lives.  It's a privilege for us to listen to God's word, to listen for what God is saying to us.  And it's a privilege to listen to one another, and to our neighbors.

It's possible that Listening could be the fundamental outreach strategy, for individuals, and for congregations.  "Listening Evangelism."  What would it look like?  As we share the mercy of God in Christ Jesus with our neighbors, the first task, and the first privilege is to listen.