Katherine von Bora: A Reformation Life

            I am glad to be here today -- I have to say that I was quite surprised when I arrived to see the word “Lutheran” – in your name. Since Martin always said we should not call ourselves ‘Lutheran.”  We are followers of Christ – not Luther, he said.    But “Grace”!  I like that! You have a good name!    We do – live – by grace – and only by the grace of God.

            Oh!  I forgot to tell you – my name is Katherina – or “Katie” as my husband calls me, “Katie” – my rib, he would say, reminding me of the story from the Bible, from Genesis. I don’t know if you have heard of me, but I’m sure you know my husband, Martin Luther.    

            And I am here today with you because of him, because of what he did – on October 31, 1517, when he nailed 95 statements to a door in Wittenburg Germany – and then later, as he wrote about the gospel, and taught people about the Bible – translated all of the scriptures into German – the language of the people – and taught people that they were free in the grace of God 

            In one way, Martin and I were alike – we were both brought up in a monastic life. Martin chose to be a monk – he believed that God was calling him to a religious life – but me – at six years old my family sent me to a convent.  I don’t know why they did it – but I tried my best to follow God – I prayed and earned to serve God and I finally took my vows.  

            It’s true.  I was a nun.  

            But there came a time when we started hearing about the teachings of Luther – even in our convent, there were whispers about this new teaching.    We were taught that there were two kinds of life – and that if you wanted to pray and serve God, you had to do it in a monastery.  That was a religious life.  And that those who were not in convents or monasteries lived secular lives.   But the new teaching of Martin Luther was that you did not have to live in a convent to serve Christ.  Our ordinary lives were service to God.  And Martin Luther told us that we had freedom – freedom to read Scripture for ourselves – freedom to pray – freedom to be confident in our salvation and confident in the love of God for us.  It was Jesus in his death and resurrection that set us free.  Nothing else was necessary.

            So – I decided that I wanted to escape, to go and live in the world, to serve God in the world, and not in the convent.  But I will tell you – it was not just me – there were twelve of us in all who wanted to leave the convent.  And we wrote to our families, and we wrote to Martin Luther, asking him to help us.

            Dr. Luther agreed to help us in whatever way he could – and so we decided to make our escape.  It was on the Vigil of Easter– because on that evening we were up later than usual – and so after the worship and when it was dark – we made our escape --  we waited in the darkness for the sound of the wagon – and when we heard the crack of the whip – we knew it was time.   On Easter, we were going to be free.    But what would freedom be like? 

            Well – even when we were free – we all needed to find a place to go.   Most of us quickly found husbands.  But – as for me – it looked like there would not be a husband for me, at first.  Dr. Luther found one – who I turned down. And I remember that I happened to say, “I would rather have Luther than that man!”

            And that is what happened.  It is true that at first we were not ‘in love’, like so many of you are now.  But we grew to love one another – and – even more important – we respected and grew to like one another – and I believe we helped one another fulfill God’s calling for us.  We lived in a great, old, drafty monastery called “The Black Cloister”, where we raised children, hosted so many students and guests, cooked and gardened and taught the Bible and – yes – brewed beer.  

            It was a good life, although not always an easy life.  We had such joy and laughter, but also hardship and sorrow.  We rejoiced at the birth of children in our home – Hans and Elizabeth and Magdalene, Paul and Martin – and finally Margarete.  We grieved at the loss of children, Elizabeth who was just a baby, and Magdalene – when she was thirteen years old.  And of course there were always those who hated us because of Martin’s work – because of they thought he was turning the world upside down.

            Well – maybe he was – and maybe the world needed to be turned upside down.  Maybe it still does.  You can tell me what you think about your world today.  Do people know that they are free – free to serve God in everything they do?  Do they know how much God loves them – so much that he sent his son to die?  Do they know that it is not only the great and the wise and the important that are important to God?  But it is each and every one of us who are important?  Do they know that the work of changing a baby’s diaper is every bit as important as inventing the internet?  (someone told me you invented the internet.)  

            In whatever we do – we sing God’s praises.  We tell of his goodness.  In so many ways – my life was extraordinary.  But in so many ways my life was ordinary – just like yours. And – just like you – I live and serve God by grace alone.

            May my life – and yours – give him praise.

            Alleluia!

      

            

Doorkeeper in the House of the Lord

Today I got up earlier than I usually do, even earlier than I get up on a Sunday morning.  It was still dark when I went out to walk the dog, put on a fresh skirt and clerical collar and drive over to the church and pre-school where I work.

It was the first day of school year, and children with their parents were arriving for the very first time.

I remembered that two years ago I was the new pastor at the school.  I came over early that morning too, and got to shake hands and meet many of the parents.  That year there was a registration table, and I also got to help check in parents and children, and make sure everyone had complete information.  Since then, I thought it was important that I come early on the first day of school, that my presence was important.

It started raining almost as soon as I got in the car:  torrential, blinding rain.  Not a great start to the new school year, I thought.  It was raining hard when I arrived, but it was a slow trickle of parents and small children, some infants-in-arms (we offer infant care through Kindergarten.)

This year there was not a registration table.  To be truthful, I wasn't sure what I should do.

Then, I saw a mother struggling with an umbrella, a toddler, and an armful of equipment.  I opened the door wide to let them in, and called out, "Welcome!  welcome to Grace!"  The little family scurried in and found their way to their class.

That's what I ended up doing this morning:  holding open the door for moms and dads and children and grandparents, helping with their umbrellas and their rest mats and (once or twice) helping them find the right teacher.

For an hour and a half, I held the door open and said to everyone, "Welcome!  Welcome to Grace!  Welcome back!  It's good to see you!"  I admired raincoats and new tennis shoes and fancy umbrellas.  I heard about baby brothers and birthdays.  I remembered a few names and learned a couple of new ones.  I probably didn't need to go to seminary and get a Master of Divinity to do this work, but it was good to be there.

At one point I thought about that one line, near the end of Psalm 84, and wondered if this was what it was like, to be a "doorkeeper in the house of the Lord."  "Better to be a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord than to live in the tents of wickedness," says the Psalmist.  I've never thought that much about that line, focussing instead on the lovely introduction, "How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!"  

I'm not sure if the "doorkeeper" is a real job, or if the contrast is that even to stand at the entry of God's house is better than being on the inside, if the place you are inside of is the 'tents of wickedness."  Just let me be near the door.  I don't have to come all the way inside.  I don't need much.  Just let me  be near the door.

But today I thought about the being the doorkeeper in a different way.  It's a kind of grace, to be the one who gets to open the door and say, "Welcome!"  It is a grace to open the door as wide as you can, so that the umbrellas and the children and the parents can scurry out of the rain.

It is not a hard job, being the doorkeeper.  It is harder to be the director, or a teacher, or even a cook who makes sure the children have nutritious food.  I would be honored to have any one of those jobs, to share grace with the children in one of those ways.

But I will take the job I have:  just let me be a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord.  Let me be the one who says "Welcome!  Welcome to Grace!"  Let me be the one who tells people first of all that they are beloved and that they belong, that nothing can separate them from the love of God.  Let me be the one to tell them that their worth is based on God, and not on anything the world can give them.

Just let me be a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord.

Back To School

Yesterday was the first day of school at the pre-school associated with my church.  It was also the first day of first grade for a small group of students, as we have decided to venture just rung up into grade school this year.

The school offers day care as well as school, so parents begin arriving early.  I had committed to be over at the school to welcome children and parents by 7:00 a.m., although after a busy Sunday morning and evening, that seemed more difficult to achieve.

I walked in a few minutes after 7:00, looking "casually pastoral".  I remembered last year being hectic, with many new students needing signatures and forms.  It seemed much more laid back yesterday morning, and I was wandering the hallways and wondering what to do when the skies outdoors opened up and it began to pour.

I watched as beleaguered parents arrived, trying to juggle children, umbrellas, diapers, mats for napping and assorted accessories for the school year.  It then became clear what my job was going to be this morning:  opening the door.

It was a simple, and as necessary, as that.  I picked up fallen items on occasion, held some hands, greeted people and held the door open.  I recognized old friends, cheered for the new first graders, pointed a few people in the direction of the school administrator, who could give directions to the right classroom.  And once (and this made my day) I got my picture taken with a new kindergarten student.  (Really, that moment was worth showing up for.)  But mostly, I just held the door open, and smiled.

It was enough.

Maybe that's what I do, after all:  hold the door open.  Maybe behind all of the fancy theology and studying, what I am called to do is to hold the door open so that people can walk in to the grace and goodness of God.  It's not me:  it's something beyond me and behind me, although I hope the Holy Spirit is also within me.  When I open the door to the pre-school, when I open my communion kit and take out the little cups, when I open up my own flawed life and share a a testimony, when I open my hands to serve -- I am holding the door open.

I'd like to say that this is uniquely part of my vocation as a pastor, but I know it isn't true.  We are all called to do it, although in different ways.  We are all called to hold the door open for one another, so that we can walk into the grace and mercy of God.  And we all need to have the door opened for us -- no one can do it on their own -- even me.

As it turns out, I never stop going back to school -- and the children are my teachers, who hold the door open for me.

Why I Go Over To the Pre-School

Because it is summer, I have not had as many chapel services at the pre-school, and I have been missing my regular dates with the children there.  I try to work in some free time visiting the classrooms, but it's hard.  We are working on so many things at the church right now:  getting people ready to visit homebound members with communion, working on a small group program for the fall, welcoming a group of new members to the congregation, planning worship and some new "All Ages Learning" for the fall.

But today, I took a break, and I went over to the pre-school for a little while.

It is in my letter of call, after all.  Right there in black and white, one of my responsibilities is "relating to the pre-school."

But that's not why I go.

It was lunch time when I walked in the door.  A couple of the classrooms were in the middle of their lunch.  As I approached their table, one little boy jumped up and ran to hug my legs.   A little girl came over and tugged on my skirt.  "I got so big!"  she said.  Two or three others said the same thing: "I got so big!"  they told me.  I agreed.   They are growing all the time.

I admired ribbons and new tennis shoes and t shirts with dinosaurs.  Students told me about baby brothers and puppies and everything they were excited about, which was everything.  When one group was done eating, another group arrived.  Their teacher asked if I would say table grace for them.

Some younger children came in as well, following their teacher like ducklings following their mama. When one little girl saw me, she waved as if I were her long-lost cousin.

I don't go over to the school as often as I should.  There are so many lists of things to do, strategies to accomplish, goals to achieve, and I forget that knowing the children is as important as any goal, task or strategy.

But today I remembered.  I remembered that my work is Grace and Grace is my work.  My work is loving the children and the shut ins, saying prayers and bringing bread and wine, and being there.  All of my lists and strategies are worthless if I forget.   I walked into the school and got hugged around the legs, and I remembered the grace of being known and loved for no particular reason, just because you are.

There are mysteries in the universe, and I am called to make them known, as they are made known to me.  It's not a strategy.  It's just love.  It's just the grace of God, which is being loved, just because you are.

The First Day of Advent

It was the first day of Advent today, in my new congregation.  There were shades of blue everywhere, some deep, some aqua, and there were pink and blue candles, and I chanted the liturgy.  In some ways, the sense that it is advent again is comforting for me.  It is advent, and there is a deep resonance of familiarity, like opening the door and seeing an old friend.

So much is different this year.  I am in a different state.  It is raining, not snowing.  I am in a different sanctuary, one with a balcony up to the choir.  The rhythms of the contemporary service are different as well, with some songs I know well and some that are new to me.  We are all learning, including me.

It was the first day of Advent today, in my new congregation.   It still feels new, to me, and perhaps, to them, as well.

For some reason it seemed like a good idea to use the stories of Luke, chapter 1, for the preaching texts this month.  It's not what the lectionary says that I should do, and I know that the lectionary is wise.  But I have always loved the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth, and how Zechariah was struck dumb when he didn't believe the Angel Gabriel's message.  All of Luke 1 is about being pregnant -- being pregnant with hope, bearing God into the world.

I want my congregation to be pregnant with hope, to believe that they are bearers of God to a weary world.

I tried something new today:  well, two things, really.  They were not my ideas, actually.  We gave out crocus bulbs to everyone in church today.  I told them to plant them in a pot, or in the ground, and wait, and watch, and hope.  Besides lighting candles, it is something we can do at Advent.

The other thing we did was make a bookmark.  The bookmark had a word on it:  Expecting.  On one side of the bookmark was a definition of the word "Expecting."  On the other side of the bookmark was a short prayer.

Next week's word is "Trusting".  In case you are curious.

It was the first day of Advent today, in my new congregation.  And I am so busy doing things, and I heard the message that it is God who is doing a new thing -- in us, and in me.  I am so busy trying to figure out what the next right thing might be, and I heard that it is God who is bringing new life to us, and in us.

There was a baptism this morning.  A little boy was splashed with water and the word, received the burning candle.  "Let your light shine," we told him.

Light your candle.  Bury the crocus bulbs.  Walk in the rain, or the snow, and pray, and do the next thing, and find out if it is right, or not.

Ask for forgiveness.  Start again.  Open your hands.  Rest.  Play.  Sing.

God is making all things new.

Why I Have A Clergy Coach

I am just a few months into a new call (my third, but who's counting).  I have also moved to a new community in a new state.  In the location to which I have been called, I learned that it is possible to apply for a clergy coach, so I did.

I do have a number of years in ministry under my belt, and a fair amount of experience.  So, why get a coach?  Why would I need a clergy coach?  Isn't it a sign of weakness, admitting that I might possibly need help?

1.  Ministry is hard.  I think that every single one of us needs all the help we can get.  Though I have a church full of people who are pretty invested in my success, it is great to have people outside my parish who are also praying for me, and who care about me as a person and a pastor.  Ministry can also be painful.  Besides the thrill of new experiences and successes, there is also the loneliness of being in a new place, and the pain of experiments that crash and burn.  At these times, it is good to have outside resources who will give a different perspective, and who will help me get back up and do it all again.

2.  It is a Defense against Isolation.  Ministry can be a lonely profession.  There are not many people that it is appropriate to confide in, to test perceptions, and with whom I can process what I am thinking about.  I also think that pastors sometimes get caught in the trap of thinking they are supposed to be "the resident expert."  No one is an expert on everything, and I hope that my coach will help me remember that, be another source of wisdom, and also remind me that i have other sources of wisdom and experience around me, if I can be humble enough and curious enough to ask.

3.  Good leaders are not just born; they are made.  You can be the most awesome natural musician and still have to put in 8 hours a day of practice in order to hone your craft.  You can have natural gifts for writing or cooking or gymnastics, but still have to study, to try different recipes, to stretch your legs and your skills.

4.  I Want to Build on My Strengths.  One thing I have learned:  I'm always tempted to try to improve in the areas of my weakness rather than recognize and build on the places where I am strong.  A good leader plays to her strengths.  My coach knows this.

5.  I Don't Want to Stop Growing.  I want to invest in my own leadership.  I love learning, and I want to be intentional about adding new tools and growing in leadership skills, not thinking that I know it all or have learned everything I need to know.  A clergy coach will help me to learn by practice and encouraging me to stretch myself, to develop new habits instead of staying safe.

What are some other reasons a seasoned pastor can benefit from a clergy coach?  What would you add?

Being Here, Not There

On Saturday, I met one of my cousins for lunch.  She has lived in this state for most of her adult life.  I have lived her for about one and a half months.  We've been meaning to get together, but even though we are in the same state now, and even in the same urban area, it takes some coordination to get together.

Her father and my father were brothers.  My dad was the youngest, the baby, they called him.  Her dad became a pastor.  My father looked up to his big brother, and was always very active in church, at least in part due to his brother's example.

I've only seen my cousin a handful of times in these last several years.  But we're family, and we had wonderful conversation and catching up.  In between stories of family and her work as a school counselor, we shared some theological convictions and differences with grace and good perspective.  ("Are you Calvinist or Arminian?" she asked.  There just aren't that many times that question has come up in conversation.)

I felt blessed to be here, to be able to get to know my cousin a little better in this place new to me.

Afterwards I found the local Christian bookstore.  I was searching for just the right gift for a young man from my church who would be confirmed the next day.  I was inwardly congratulating myself for not getting lost while I was standing in the checkout line with my items.

Somehow the location of my home state came up.  The clerk said that her aunt and uncle were from there.  I asked where.  It was my town.  For some reason (perhaps because I was in a Christian bookstore), I suddenly asked which church they went to.  She described the church.

It was my church:  the church I had served for seventeen years.  I knew her cousins.  I confirmed both of her cousin's daughters.  Her cousin's wife was my children's ministry coordinator, had worked with me on the contemporary worship service.

Suddenly, my heart was filled with so many competing emotions:  surprise and joy, grief and homesickness, so many other things.  I was remembering the beginning of my ministry at that other congregation, with relationships and dreams and planning just beginning.  And I was thinking about the beginning of ministry in this new place, wanting to be there for a new family, to be present and walk with them and dream with them now.

I was here, not there:  sitting across the table from my cousin, buying a tie for a confirmation student, praying for him -- not from a distance, but right there behind him in church, with his whole family.

A long time ago I lived in Japan.  I was twenty-five years old, seeking adventure, wanting to follow Jesus and love people.  It turned out that the particular people that God wanted me to love were far away from other people that I loved.  I went and I learned some Japanese and I knelt down to talk to children and I ate with chopsticks.  I learned new places and directions:  to take the train, to take my shoes off, to read, to listen.

And every once in awhile it occurred to me:  I am here, not there.

This morning I got up early and went to the pre-school to greet the children there.  It was the first day of school.  And at first it felt awkward, and I wasn't sure what to do.  But after awhile I realized that it was all right just to be there today, to say hello, to help make a few name tags:  to be there.

At all times one of the tasks is simply to be present, to be fully where you are.  It's not as easy as it looks.

Listening to the Rain

I am listening to it rain outside.  It sounds a little beautiful, for some reason:  not too hard, not too gentle.  We need the rain.

I am surprised to hear myself say that.  We came here just after a season of torrential rain.  I thought that I would never say "We need rain" again.

I am listening to the rain and reflecting on the fact that I have been here just over a month now.  Tonight, I'm a little down because I thought that I would be bringing my car home and it would be all fixed up and I could check that off of my list.  But they told me that they got the wrong part and I would need to bring the car back tomorrow.

For some reason, tonight, I am thinking that ministry is hard.  I am not whining about it.  There are a lot of hard jobs in the world, and they are hard in different ways.  But ministry requires skills and also trusting God, which is tricky for everyone.

There are different kinds of hard, of course.  There are the hard times of ministry in tragedy and grieving.  There have been times when I thought my heart could not bear it, when I held a stillborn baby, or heard a terrible diagnosis.  There are the hard times of ministry when your congregation is struggling and there do not seem to be any good solutions.  Faith is not magic.

Then there is the hard work of starting, of not knowing people yet, of finding my way. There is the hard work of feeling the weight of expectations, some of them my own. There is the hard work of being patient, even with myself, of trying to find my own pace. There is the hard work of learning to fail, and to succeed. There is the hard work of trusting God, trusting that God has given us the gifts we need. There is the hard work of listening, listening to God, listening to each other, listening to the rain.

I need rain.

Beginner's Mind

I am about three weeks into my new call, in a land and to people who are still pretty unfamiliar to me.  I just got an email from my former colleague asking me for the names of people who worked with me on an adult faith formation vision process.  That simple email reminded me of how well I had gotten to know my congregation, at least in some ways.  Then of course I thought again about the geography that I left:  the landscape of my home community and state.  Even the places I had never been, I considered that I knew well.

Here I have preached two sermons, have played with the children at Vacation Bible School.  I have had dinner at a couple of people's houses.  I have co-led a pre-school worship service.  I have found some grocery stores, and a local veterinarian for my dog.  I have held one communion service at a local assisted living residence, and I thank God that it was pretty easy to find, and that the residents were hearty singers.

Often I feel disoriented.  A friend counseled me that a lot of what I am doing I know how to do, which is correct.  I tell myself that when I begin to meet the shut-ins (and find my way to their homes), when I do a few more of the familiar tasks, when a few more of the roads become well-known to me, I will find my sea legs.

On Sunday afternoon I was officially installed as pastor here.  On Sunday morning I presided at the early service.  On the way out, I greeted one woman, who said (I thought conspiratorially), "I'm new here."

I don't know what got into me, but I found myself saying, "I'm new too.  Let's be new together."

I'm not sure that was an official line for a about-to-be-installed pastor to say.  It didn't sound like the resident expert that I suspect some in my congregation hope that I will be.  And yet I'm sticking with it, for now.

I just re-read a sentence from the classic "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind," by Shunryu Suzuki.  I had read it long ago and forgotten most of it.  But this sentence stuck out, 'In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities, in the expert's mind there are few."

It is not simply expertise that a new pastor brings to a congregation.  It is openness and a willingness to learn:  stories and streets, geography and grace.  It is that tension between expertise (the things I know how to do) and curiosity.  I suspect that to be successful, a new pastor will bring a sort of Beginner's Mind to a congregation, a belief that there are a lot of possibilities and that we can uncover and discover them together.  I'll be honest:  this is part exhilarating, and also terrifying.  It is like an invitation to go sky-diving (an invitation which I recently received, by the way).

Even so, I'll say it again, an invitation:

"Let's be new together."

Claiming the Space

So, I moved.  I moved a few states south of the state where I grew up and where I have lived most (but not all) of my life.  I suppose that I moved for a lot of reasons, but I suppose one of the most compelling ones is that I have have a sense the the Holy Spirit wants me to be here.

The dog and I are here ahead of my husband, who will join us a little later.  It has been a rough couple of weeks for both of us, at least in some ways.  There was some howling and barking, at first, whenever I left.  There has been some Hiding in the Closet and Not Wanting to Go on Walks.

You know, you can't reason with a dog.

And then one day, I came home and she was lying on the bed.  I mean, she was really stretched out.  She took up almost the whole bed.

In all her life, she never looked so comfortable.  It was as if this has always been her place and she belonged here.

She has claimed that space as her own -- at least until I kick her off.

If only it was that easy.

As for myself, I have a couple of roads down, but I know I have a lot to learn, still, both about the community and about the congregation I serve.  Two weeks ago, I stepped behind the pulpit in the sanctuary for the first time.  This last Sunday, I stood at the altar and lifted the bread and cup.  The morning was not without glitches.  At the first service, the ushers had to remind me to give them the offering plates.  At the second service, I was not quite sure who was doing what during the distribution.    But everything came out all right in the end.

When I was getting ready to leave my last congregation, the executive committee asked me if I would do an exit interview with them.  I wasn't sure what the purpose of the exit interview would be, but I agreed to get together for an informal question and answer session.

Someone said something there that I had heard before, and never really appreciated.  This person said (and I had heard it before) that my sermons and worship presence, while always good, got a lot better after the new senior pastor came.  I have never known exactly what to say when someone has said that.

But during the interview, something occurred to me.  I realized that what people were naming as "improvement" was simply this:  sometime during the time before the new senior pastor arrived, I learned to claim the worship space as my own, to believe that I belonged there, even to stretch out.

Now I am here, in so many ways, in a new space, and the Holy Spirit has called me here.  And I realize that what I need to do, in small ways and in large ways, is to learn to claim the space -- not just the sanctuary, but the deserts and mountains and all the yet unknown places.

It is holy ground, not just for me, but for us, together.

Singing Harmony

I went to church on Sunday.  I am not settled into my new call yet, but somehow I just wanted to worship with people, so I went to a church service where I knew the musician, and sat by myself in the middle of a row.  It felt a little odd, and I will confess that I wasn't entirely sure that I belonged, sitting alone in the middle of a pew like that.  I will also confess that while I felt a little lonely, I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to be noticed, either.

It was the late service, not particularly full, but not too empty either.  Respectable, for summer.  Instead of preaching, I listened to someone else's sermon.  Instead of leading worship, I prayed the responses, sang the hymns and liturgy, listened, reflected, meditated.  Okay, maybe my mind wandered a little at times as well.  But I did all right, for someone who hasn't sat in a pew much for many years.  I even sang harmony on some of the hymns.

Back in the day, that was one of the things I did.  As soon as I learned how to read music, I used to try to sing the alto parts on hymns, sometimes.  It made things more interesting.  Later on, I tried singing the tenor part an octave higher.  During my time of evangelical fervor in college, I made up my own harmonies sometimes.

My sister and I used to sing together.  She played a little guitar, and we had a few songs that I could sing harmony on.  Sometimes she sang alto, and I sang the melody.  At my dad's funeral, we were sitting together and she was singing the harmony parts, just like we used to.  I tried it too, but the lump in my throat got in the way.

We all have a place in the body of Christ, and I used to think that mine was singing harmony from my pew.  It turns out God had a couple of other things in mind.  But singing harmony from your pew is not a small thing, even though it is not as flashy as some other gifts.  Back when I sat in the pew, I also used to be one of those adults who would make eye contact with babies, and make faces at them until they responded to me in some way.  Often, they would end up fussing.  (I have occasionally wondered whether God thought I should be a pastor so that I would stop annoying babies and their parents in that way.  Who knows?)

On Sunday, at the end of the service, the woman sitting one row in front of me said hello, and said she enjoyed listening to me sing the harmony.

It was a small thing, but it made me feel glad that I came.  It was good to be there, not just to receive, and not just to 'be fed', but also to give, and to lead, but in different way.  There are leaders hidden all around the congregation, and in the world too, doing important work, even though only a few ever hear or see or touch it.  They are singing harmony.  They are showing a stranger the right page for the hymns.  They are speaking up for the children.  They are making sandwiches for the hungry.

It is important work.

Soon, I'll be standing in front of a different congregation, finding my place, looking out into new faces, singing the melody with them.  But I hope to get a chance to sing harmony sometimes too, and to give thanks for the gift of all of our voices.

Silence

Once a month, on Monday evenings, I have been worshipping at a new service at my husband's church.  There  is no sermon at this worship service.  There are no hymns, but the service does open and close with a meditative chorus.  There is instrumental music in the background.  There are two or three short scripture readings.  There is plenty of silence between the scripture readings.

The point of the service is prayer:  prayer and silence.  There are prayer stations and candles and places to write down your prayers and invitations to pray with one of the pastors.  When entering the sanctuary, each worshipper gets a page of worship and prayer helps, including some printed prayers and some quotes regarding the value of taking time away from the noisiness of the world for a time of intentional silence.

Every time I go, I am confronted with this quote from Meister Eckhart:  "Nothing is so like God as silence."  And every time I go, I have a little argument with these words.  I don't know exactly what it is.  Maybe it is that I am just a contrary person by nature.  I love arguing, especially with saints.  Yes, Meister Eckhart knows a lot more about God than I do.  He has experience.  And yet….

Silence is good, and also counter-cultural.  I will give you that.  There is not really a lot of silence in world.  But when I see the saintly quote, I get all Lutheran and Word-y and I think that Silence is good, but it's not enough.  There is the space for silence, the space we do not fill with words.  It is a space for trust that God will, somehow, and in some way, speak.  The silence of our listening is not a strategy or a feat.  It is the pause while the conductor raises the baton.  It is the silence before the curtain rises.  It is the silence of trust and expectation.  At least, that is the Christian confession.  We listen because God will speak.  It's not that God will give us all the answers, or solve our problems. But God will call our names.  God will ask us questions.   God speaks.

But if we are honest, this is also the problem.  I remember reading Shusako Endo's historical novel Silence many years ago, when I was a missionary in Japan.  The novel was about the early Christian movement in Japan, and what happened, and what did not happen, when Christians were imprisoned, tortured and killed for their faith.  The title of the novel refers to what the author calls the Silence of God in the face of the suffering of Japanese Christians.

So perhaps Meister Eckhart is right.  Perhaps God is really like silence.  But that would not necessarily be good news.

The world needs silence, but not just silence.

The world also needs a word -- not "the answer", not a strategy, not a user's manual.  The world also needs a word, the right word at the right time:  a question, a name, an invitation, a light.

Colette

Colette started coming to our congregation several years ago.  She came to our early service, which was traditional and liturgically Lutheran.  She came every week by herself.  I didn't get a chance to do more than say "hello" for awhile, but I noticed her right away.

Colette is African American, so she didn't really fit the demographic of our early, traditional service.  Well, actually, she didn't really fit the demographic of any of our services.  Before I had a chance to get to know her, I remember wondering if perhaps she came from an AME (African Methodist Episcopal) background.  One of my friends in seminary was AME, and he told me that they had a 'traditional' vs. 'contemporary worship' divide in his congregation too.

Later on, Colette brought her daughter and grandson with her to worship, and they switched over to the later, more contemporary worship service.  There are more children at that service.  Her grandson was in 5th grade and hadn't been baptized.  Both Colette and her grandson started taking pre-baptism classes.  They asked good questions.  Both of then were baptized at Easter-time,  Colette at the Easter Vigil.

It was wonderful.

Throughout the years, I've had the opportunity to get to know Colette a little better, hear a little of her story.  I learned that she is a woman of courage.  She left her home and came to a new city to make a better life for herself.  And she came to our congregation, and she stays.  For a long time (being clueless, myself), I had no idea what an act of courage that was.  I love how she comes up sometimes on those Sundays when we invite prayers for healing, and simply asks for prayers for the church.  She cares about the congregation and wants us to be faithful and light-filled.  I wish we realized what a gift she is.

Colette has said, more than once that she believes that God sent her here, that she is supposed to be here.  I believe that she is right.  And what if congregations believed that about the people who come?  Those people who visit once, who return, who stay -- what if we believed that God sent them to us, both to receive and to give?  What if we were always on the lookout for the ones that God is sending to us?   I like to imagine that if we began to believe this, we would enter into holy conversations, realizing that we have so much to teach and learn from each other, believing that God has a plan for our lives, together.

What if each one of us believed, like Colette, that God has sent us here?  What if we believed that when we come to worship, when we gather, that we are supposed to be here?  And what if we also believed, when we go, that we are going to the place where God is sending us, to heal, and to be healed?

Kairos

Sunday was Confirmation Day for eleven young people in my congregation.  It is just two weeks before my last Sunday as pastor here.

Because my time here is winding down, and because the pre-confirmation retreat was the same weekend that I had both a funeral and a wedding, I was not able to be with the confirmation students at their retreat.  I missed being a part of their day writing their faith statements, creating their banner, designing their worship service.

But on Sunday morning, I still got to be there, to be with them, to speak some words to them, to say their names, to witness their promises.

I saw them as they processed in together with their parents.  They each stopped in front of the baptismal font, where their parents marked them with the sign of the cross.  I saw tears.  And I felt tears.

Before the service, I was checking over parts with the other pastor, who was preaching.  I asked who was reading the lessons, and discovered that the parts were open.  I asked three of the confirmands if they would read, and they each said yes.

So, that morning, we heard so clearly and so passionately that for everything there is a season.  We heard that we were buried and raised with Christ in baptism, and now walk in newness of life.  We heard that we are light, and that our purpose is to shine.

The message that morning was about Kairos time -- not the same as the time on our watches, not chronological time, but the right time, the acceptable time, the time of opportunity.  "it is your time," he said to the confirmands.  "It is your time to serve, your time to follow Jesus, your time to say yes to the grace and beauty and love of God in your life."  Those aren't the exact words, but that is what I heard.

This is your time -- the right time, the acceptable time.  That's the message that the confirmands heard, but not just those eleven students.  Is it the right time for us as well?  Who is Jesus calling us to be?  How is Jesus calling us to follow?

In two weeks my time here in this congregation will finish.  I will not be their pastor any more.  I will go to be pastor in another place, to other people.  I will help them dream dreams, follow Jesus, grow in grace.  It is the right time.

At the close of the service, the eleven young people processed down the center aisle to the back of the church.  I followed them.  A woman in the back of the church, someone I didn't know, grabbed my arm.  This was her first time in our church, and she asked if I would pray for her, and for her mother, and for their relationship, and for all kinds of healing.  I asked her name, and her mother's name.  She told me.  We took each other's hands.  And there were tears.  She said, I'll be back.

In the meantime, I am here.  Here with the water and the word and the tears, and the names that I know, and the names of strangers.  Here where we pray and heal each other in the power and compassion of Jesus.  It is the right time.

The Destination, Not the Journey

So, I have been called to a new congregation, in a new city, in a new state, some distance away from the city and state where I live and serve right now.  I have a few weeks left in my current position, a handful of weeks of vacation (so to speak), and then I begin.

I begin to meet people and drive on roads I have never driven on before.  I begin to write new sermons and ask new questions and meet a community and probably get lost.

In the meantime, I am here.  I am calling moving companies and figuring out what will go first with me and what will go later.  I am getting pictures and imagining apartments and trying to make decisions.  I am making lists (fix car, get new glasses, close checking account).

And the lovely sentiment, "it's the journey, not the destination" occurs to me, except that on this occasion I do not consider it lovely.  I am not loving the journey.

I want to be there.  I want to be there, with the furniture all moved in and the washer and dryer hooked up and all of my books on the shelves and the vase from Japan in the entry.  I want to be there, meeting the children and reading them stories, going to the hospital, drinking sweet tea with a new friend, asking questions, finding a new road.

I want to be there.  And, I want to be here.  I want to be here, doing crossword puzzles and going to restaurants with my husband,  seeing my friends one more time, having coffee with my mother, going up to the Falls with my dog, getting left-handed knitting help at the shop that I love best.  I want to be here, making sure I notice the beauty that I have taken for granted, because I was always on the way somewhere.

Is this "journey, not the destination" thing in the Bible?  Oh, I know, there are a lot of journeys in the Bible, including those forty years in the wilderness, where the Israelites ate manna and quail and prepared to enter the promised land.  But the promised land WAS the point, wasn't it?  It was the destination, not the journey.

Or, maybe the wilderness was a destination too.

So, I breathe deeply (my new spiritual discipline) and try to be there, in the mess, in the lists and the packing and the coffee with friends, in the crossword puzzles and conversations:  here, there, and in between.

Hidden With Christ in God

There were just a handful of people at the visitation and funeral, but two of them were adults with Downs' syndrome.  One was a member of our congregation who was 101 years old.

Her family was small:  just two children and their spouses, four grandchildren and their significant others, a few cousins.  She was well over ninety, so many of her friends were already gone.  Her husband had preceded her over forty years ago.

Her family was small, but it had been bigger.  Her tall son and smiling daughter told me that she had borne five children, actually.  One of them I knew about:  a daughter born with cerebral palsy, who lived in a facility for adults with disabilities.  She had died just a few years ago.  I remember that she would speak of her daughter.  The other pastor officiated at her funeral.

She had had two other children.  One was born with a hole in her heart, and died when she was 9 months old.  The other had Downs' syndrome, and died when he was four years old.  "It seemed like he was always sick," her daughter recalled, with sorrow.

She loved piano and singing, and especially men's voices.  Her husband had a wonderful singing voice.  She was proud of her Norwegian heritage, and her Korean grandchildren.  She loved to cook and bake, and she always made too much.  She had a good sense of humor, and could laugh especially at herself. She had a calmness and a light about her.

She always wondered why.  Why did she have so many children who died, who had special needs?  Did God ever answer her question?

She was an elementary school teacher.  It was her vocation, her calling.  Being a mother was her calling too, a mother who laughed and cooked too much food and made her children take piano lessons and go to college.  She took time off when her children were young, and when she went back to teaching, she decided to study Special Education.  She taught many children with Downs' Syndrome.

Did God ever answer her question?

I don't know if she would ever had said she was passionate about her work, her vocation.  I know she loved the children, and she was good at what she did.  We often use the word passionate to indicate the fire and enthusiasm with which we work.  But there is another side to passion.  Passion also means suffering.  Her suffering was a part of her vocation.  She loved her children who had died, and she loved these children who lived.

There were just a handful of people at her funeral.  She was 90 years old, after all.   And she had a small family.  At least the ones you could see.

Now I am sure, though, surer than I am of many other things, that her life is hidden with Christ in God. And that her family is so big, so much bigger than the eye can see, so much bigger than the heart can hold.

Treasure

On Tuesday, I went over to visit with a family to plan a funeral.

We picked hymns, planned the funeral lunch (they wanted bars, not cake), looked up possible Scripture readings.

His wife and two adults daughters reminisced about their husband and father, a quiet man who was not demonstrative, but clearly well-loved.

"He was not a hugger," they said, "but we knew he loved us."

He worked nights, for Ford, as a maintenance engineer.  He worked for thirty years, and then he retired.  He was retired for longer than he worked, he liked to say.

He could fix anything, they said.  He loved his tools, and to garden, especially roses.

And he loved the neighborhood children.  He would play stickball with them anytime they asked.

Sometimes the children would come over, knock on the door, and say, "Can Glen come out and play?"

Then they told me that he made jewelry, beautiful jewelry out of scraps of hardened paint from the Ford plant where he worked.  The scrap was created because of the way they painted the cars long ago, and how layers of different colors of paint would accumulate.  I'm still not sure I get it, how they explained it.  But they showed me some of the scrap material, and some of the jewelry he made.

And I tell you, I would never have guessed that those beautiful gems were inside of those thrown-away scraps of hardened paint.

But he saw it.  He saw treasure there.

It turns out those scraps are a thing.  They are called "Fordite."  (It is also known as Motor Agate.) You can google it and find out what it is.

It takes a special kind of insight to look at scraps of painted metal and see beauty inside them.

They said he didn't talk about his faith much.  He just lived it.

I can't help thinking that this is one of the ways he lived it.  Looking inside.  Seeing the beauty.

There are many ways to speak about what it means to live as a disciple of Jesus.  Here is one:  to look inside another person, and see the treasure inside.  To be a disciple of Jesus is to learn to recognize the image of God in one another.

Maybe that's why the neighborhood children loved him so much.  It was so simple.  He saw them.

Maybe that's why they stood at the door and asked him, "Can Glen come out and play?"

In 1991 I Wrote This About My Call

I was looking for some old Lenten monologues I wrote based on Mark's gospel, and I came upon the "Endorsement Essay" that I wrote for the seminary and for my denomination.  Here's what I wrote:


SINCE childhood, I have been nurtured by many stories from the Bible.  There have been picture Bibles at bedtime before prayers, stories told by Sunday School teachers, lectionary readings preached from the pulpit.  A few of these stories have stayed with me and become mine, to comfort as well as afflict me.  He is a story about some of the stories that have become companions with me on my journey.

Story #1
It was a dark and stormy night, and the little boat was rocked by waves.  The disciples had all they could do to keep afloat, for the wind was against them.  When they saw Jesus walking across the lake to them, it was somehow not so reassuring, but just another eerie thing in the middle of the night, the kind they would have nightmares about sometimes after witnessing Jesus cast out some particularly terrifying demons.  "Don't be afraid!" he called, and it was about as easy to stop being afraid as it would have been to stop breathing.  Impulsive Peter, however,  put all sense behind him.  The man knew no fear.  He leaped from the boat and found himself, to his surprise, walking on water.  It didn't last, however; it couldn't last.  Peter feared he fell; he failed.

It was August 30, 1981.  My palms were sweaty, my mouth was dry, I felt somewhat numb.  I was in church, being commissioned as a missionary to Japan, and I listened intently as the minister told this story.  I identified with Peter.  I was leaving for Japan the next day, and I was not packed yet.  I felt ignorant, foolish, unprepared.

"But I never feel prepared!"
It was at a winter retreat
that a student said it,
I was pleased when a counselor replied,
"But we walk on water all the time."

It is well to be prepared,
but we dare not forget that we are never fully prepared
for the tasks that are most worth doing.
The tasks that are worthy of us, as persons,
are often beyond us.

--Gerhard Frost, "Bless My Growing"

As I prepared for ministry of service in Japan, I feared that I had gotten in "over my head" as Peter did, and was about to drown.  But I also began to suspect that "over my head" was just where God wanted me.  I began to suspect that a life in response to God's grace was a life of risk, a life of continual dependence on the Voice that calls out over the waves, and the strong Arm that reaches us when we are drowning.  We are continually drowning and being raised to new life, and since that first drowning, we need not fear the others.

It was May 19, 1957.  I was only one month old, and this time, I did not jump in.  I was pushed!  When my parents brought me to Augustana church that day in obedience to God's Word, I'm sure they did not suspect what adventures would follow.  But as the minister poured water three times over my head in the strong name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I was assured a lifetime of getting in "over my head."  It is a lifetime of grace for all of our a ventures, of daring to risk because of the God who dares to go with us.

Story #2
Job was a Good Man, God had said so Himself, so it came as somewhat of a shock when he found his fortunes turning from good to bad and from bad to worse.  He lost everything; first his fortune, then his family, even his wife, last his health.  No one understood it, least of all Job, although some of his friends who thought they had it all worked out came over to try to enlighten him.  "Comforters," they were called, and some of their responses sounded reasonable, though none of them were very comforting, and Job did not find them compelling.  In the end, Job demanded an explanation from God himself, and though he didn't get one, he did get God, the creator of the Universe, right there, at this bedside.

I first read the story of Job, all 42 chapters of the Revised Standard Version, the first day of my senior year of high school.  It was an assignment.  I didn't understand it much then.  But by the end of my senior year, I had begun to take a liking to this gutsy questioner.  By the end of this year, I too was beginning to question God.  Confronted by issues of human suffering, the Holocaust, the Atomic bomb, I found it difficult to believe in an all-powerful but all-loving God.  Trips to the library to learn more about Jesus did not bring answers but still more questions.  In the church, which I continued to attend despite my doubts, I found no answers either.  But I found something.  I found God who promised to be with us "where two or three are gathered."  I found that the Christian response to suffering was not an answer, but a presence.  As Job discovered, answers did not sustain me.  But God has sustained me and continues to sustain.  Within the bread and the wine, within the gathered community which sings, prayers, confesses together, God is present.  Sometimes the community believes for me when I cannot believe.  Sometimes another is weak when I am strong.  I know we don't always get answers, but I know that the Creator of the Universe has come right here, among us.

Story #3
Jonah went to Nineveh to preach repentance, but it certainly wasn't his idea.  In fact, the indentations in the sand were pretty long and deep where God dragged him kicking and screaming.  In case you had forgotten, the first thing Jonah did when God called him was get on a boat going in the opposite direction.  After that, he ended up spending three days in the belly of a great fish, reconsidering his original plan.  That's what you get for trying to run away from God.

I like Jonah.  I think I am a lot like him.  He was stubborn and resistant, pretty convinced that he could not preach the Word, especially to Nineveh.  Jonah knew his weaknesses and used them as excuses to run away from God's call.  I find I have been the same way.  "I can't serve you, God," I have argued.  "I am not a leader.  I am not assertive enough."  (Indeed, I will have to learn to be more assertive as I grow in ministry.)  But my argument, unfortunately, did not impress God.  "You're crazy, God", I countered, "I am too much of a people-pleaser to preach your Word prophetically."  (And it's true, I do need to learn to be less concerned about how other people see me.)  But God was as stubborn as I was, and this argument did not work either.  "O God," I persisted piously.  I am not disciplined enough in my own life of prayer and Bible study to lead a congregation's spiritual life."  and God granted that it was a true confession, but did not give up calling me.  I began to hear another voice beneath all of my excuses, and this one was a still small voice, reminding me that along with all my weaknesses, I also had gifts to bring to ministry.

One of these gifts ironically, grows out of my own stubborn delay in recognizing Gods call.  Because of that, I have had many experiences as a lay person, struggling to integrate faith and life.  I have often sat in the pew on Sunday morning and thought, "That's nice for you, Pastor, but how do I live out my Christian faith in my life and at my job?  What do I do on Monday?"  I want to hang onto that experience as I plan worship and preaching.  I have also sat on church councils and know the good, the bad and the ugly about church politics.  I believe that lay people can teach me as well as learn from me.

Another of these gifts is a love for stories and for writing.  Clarity of expression is important to me.  I know that words and stories have power.  I also know that people are stories to be read and enjoyed.  I want to learn to read people and learn from them and be sensitive to their struggles.  I know that the Word is not just words on a page, but the word of speech, of touch, of sight and of sound.

Another gift I bring is my nurture in the Lutheran tradition, with respect for the power of baptism and the Triune God who commands it and acts through it.  Yet I have grown through a variety of religious experiences, Lutheran and not:  summer campfires, charismatic worship, reading in mysticism, cross-cultural experiences, and insights through art, music and literature.  I have learned that God speaks to us in a variety of languages to different people.  All these resources I might bring to worship, preaching, teaching, and counseling, now that I have gotten out of the belly of that great fish.

Story #4
In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was in the Beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made.  In the Beginning was the Word.  And the Almighty Word leapt down from heaven, took on human flesh, eating and drinking and laughing and weeping with us.  In the End the Word was crucified by us and for us, but that was only the Beginning.  In the Middle the Word healed and forgave, spoke in riddles and walked on seas, multiplied loaves of bread and divided the house of Satan, and wear generally misunderstood and underestimated.  In the Middle, almost nobody understood until the End.  But that was only the Beginning.  In the Middle was the Word, and the Word is in the Middle.  In the Middle, we continue to misunderstand, get it wrong, trip over our shoelaces and miss the point.  And in the Middle we continue to hear the Word, "Given and shed for you, for the forgiveness of sins, who is, in the middle of our middle, still eating and drinking and laughing and weeping with us, although we often don't understand until the End.

And that is only the beginning.

The Space Between Water and Light

On the last day of our after-Christmas vacation, the weather finally became closer to what you might expect from a Southwestern desert climate.  It was a sunny afternoon, and finally warming up enough so that we didn't need our jackets.  So, on Sunday afternoon, we took a little drive out into the desert.

My sister and brother-in-law had found the ruins of an old ghost town where they thought it would be fun to hike.  We drove down a road that I would have sworn was actually not a road ("No, that's it; that's where we are supposed to go," my sister said).  We got out of the car and stared out at the spare beauty of the desert, not seeing anything but varieties of cactus and palo verde trees.  There were no houses, no buildings, no roads that we could see.

When we got closer, though, we saw bricks, the remains of walls, some old pipes still sticking out of the ground, the last vestiges of the town that used to be there.  We hiked a bit, pointing out the clues to the former times, the times when humans prospered here, until my sister started insisting that we go and find the path to Queen Creek.

We knew it was near; we could hear it.  But the trick was finding the right path, the safe one that would take us there.  We even once looked down at the creek from a hill, but knew we could not get down to the water from there.

My brother-in-law wanted to go home; we had seen the ruins, after all.  That was the most important part.  But my sister kept talking about the creek; we couldn't go home until we found the creek.  At one point she disappeared for a little while; we thought she was lost.  But she knew where she was.  She was looking for the path to the water.

When we found it, it was just a little stream, tucked away in the middle of the ruins.  It was just a little stream, but once you saw the place, you couldn't help but notice -- in the middle of the desert, everything was starting to be green.  Green was sprouting up there.  We couldn't help it;  we just started taking pictures.  There was something shimmery there, where the light touched the water and bounced back.   It made me feel like this could be a place where secrets are revealed.

We started taking pictures of each other.   I took one of my sister, standing just in front of the creek, with the light reflecting off the water and a finger of the creek in the eeriest shade of blue.   I thought then that I knew why my sister liked this place.  She is an artist, after all, and I thought she must be attracted to the way the light and the shadows and the water all work together to make everything beautiful.

Even us.

On Sunday it be The Baptism of Our Lord, the 2nd Sunday after the Epiphany.  We hear the same gospel story every year, although a different variation.  This year the variation I am hearing is from Matthew, where Jesus is baptized by John in the river Jordan, and John doesn't want to do it.  Somehow,  in the River Jordan, the secret is revealed, and John can see it:  "I need to be baptized by you."  But Jesus knows something else, and he insists.  Somehow his being baptized will "fulfill all righteousness" whatever that means.

In my imagination I have sometimes thought that Jesus had a list, a list of all of the things he had to do to effect our salvation.  "Be baptized" was there, at the top of the list, even though, as the story goes, he had no sins to repent of.  That is what 'fulfill all righteousness' meant.

Today, though, I am imagining something else:  I am imagining Jesus and John, standing in Queen Creek.  "I need to be baptized by you," John says.  Somehow in the space between the water and the light he sees something about Jesus, something about himself.  But Jesus insists.  He insists because there is another secret that the world needs to know.

When he comes up from the water and the Spirit descends, the voice speaks.  "You are my son, the beloved."  And the Words shimmer in the space between the water and the light, and it all works together to make everything beautiful.

Even us.

Even us.

He has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, ¹as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.  (Ephesians 1:9-10)

"What's A Pastor?"

This week was Vacation Bible School at my church.  I love this week, with children I know from Sunday School all year, and children I don't know, because they have been invited from the community.  It's a good mix.  We are all learning stories about Jesus together.

On Thursday, I went with the children to the zoo.  I got assigned to be one of the leaders for a group of eight boys and girls.  We took pictures of monkeys and tried to get the sea lions to jump.  We were having a good time.

At one point, one of the boys turned to me and said, "Who are you?"
"I am one of the pastors," I answered.
"What's a pastor?" he asked.

There was this momentary silence while I considered what to say.  Could it be that he didn't know what a pastor was?  Or (more possible) did he know a different word (minister, preacher, priest) for what I called myself?

During the second moment of silence, I considered the word "Pastor."  It makes a lot of sense if you are a shepherd, which is not a common occupation these days.  The word "Pastor" calls to mind the one who leads the sheep to pasture, makes sure they have food and water and protection from danger.  My first parish, a set of three small rural congregations, had very little trouble imagining me as their pastor, their shepherd, the one who led them in the way of God.   I like the word Pastor, but it probably does not animate imaginations the way it used to.  Maybe it isn't even a good description for what I really do.

During the third moment of silence, I considered how to describe what I do.  I realized that it was not that easy.  I do a lot of things.  I visit people in the hospital.  I lead worship.  I talk in front of people at church.  I go to the zoo with children.  I hold the hands of people who are dying.  I pour water on people's heads, and say, "Now you belong to Christ."  I place my hand on the hands of two other people, and say, "Now you belong to each other."  I listen to people's hopes, fears, and secrets.  I study the Bible, and other things too.  I pray and I dream, and try to gather people together to make some dreams come true.

I could say that I am a representative of God, but I realize that I don't believe that.  Or rather, I believe that we are all representatives of God.  I could say that I am a theologian, but I actually think that most of us are theologians too.  I have known a fair amount of people who were great theologians but who were not pastors.  I could say that I tell people how to know Jesus, but I really truly believe that all Christians are called to this work.  We all help people know Jesus.

Maybe I will just say this for today:  It is my job to help people remember who they are.  That's what I do when I stand up in church on Sunday and talk, or sing, or pray.  That's what I do in every part of my life.  I remind people that they belong to God.  It is also my job to help people remember who God is. It is my job to help people to remember that God is the one who walked the earth, whose hands held children, who broke bread, and multiplied it, who forgave people, set them free.

"What's a pastor?"
I lead worship.  I visit people in the hospital.  I go to the zoo with children.  I pour water on people's heads, and say, "Now you belong to Christ."  I pray.  I translate Greek and Hebrew.  I dream.   I do odd things, hoping to jog a memory or two.