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.

Unrealistic Expectations

As part of my work, I have meetings and conversations with couples prior to their weddings.  We don't just plan the ceremony.  We also use an inventory which purports to measure the couple's "Strengths" and "Growth Areas".  The inventory gives us many possibilities for conversations that we can have about their relationship.

Some of the possible strengths (or 'growth areas') named are:  Communication, Conflict Resolution, Relationship Roles, Family and Friends, Spiritual Beliefs, Children and Parenting.

You get the idea.

Then there is this one:  "Marriage Expectations."  The idea is that if your expectations for marriage are "realistic", then this is a strength for you.  If your expectations for marriage are "unrealistic", then this is a growth area.

I've been using this inventory for a long time, and I'll tell you what:  I can't think of one couple who scored well on "Marriage Expectations."  Not one.  They all thought that their partner would never disappoint them, that nothing could make them doubt each other's love, that the romance would never fade.

I've taken to reporting these results with a preface:  "Marriage Expectations is a growth area for you," I explain.  "But as far as I can tell, it is for everyone.  Maybe no one would get married if they had realistic expectations."   We laugh about that a little, and go on to discuss their results, bursting their marriage pre-conception balloon, but as gently as possible.

I can't help thinking that the same dynamics could be applied to pastors and congregations.

I realize that there are a number of problems with this analogy.  No, I am not married to my congregation.  We aren't even dating.  But it is a kind of relationship, and I think that congregations have expectations of their pastors, some based in hope, and some based in tradition, and based in some sort of mythic golden age.  They might have expectations of what their pastor will look like, or what kind of a personality she will have (or even whether their pastor will be a 'he' or a 'she').  They might have expectations of what kind of leader their pastor will be, or how he will pray or sing or preach.  They might have expectations of what their pastor can or will do:  bring back the fifties, attract young families, be great with youth or old people, evangelize the neighborhood.

Some of these expectations will (possibly) be unrealistic.

Pastors have expectations of congregations, too.  They have expectations of what their congregations might look like, their piety, their worship life, their eagerness to come out to a Bible study or help with soup suppers or go on a mission trip.  They have expectations (perhaps) about a congregation's faith or their doubts, their neediness or their strength.

Some of these expectations will be unrealistic.

Maybe that's natural.  Maybe it's part of all of life, or at least, every relationship.  We do our best to tell the truth, and to hear the truth about each other.  But in the end marriage, friendship, and entering into every kind of community is a leap of faith.  We love each other and we hurt each other.  We soar and we fall flat on our faces.  We blame each other during the rough patches.  The romance fades.  We are bound to disappoint each other, sometimes.

So we continue to harbor unrealistic expectations.  That's just the way it is.  Only one thing is needful:  not to lower expectations, but to take another leap of faith, and practice forgiveness.

A Particular Story

A year ago last June, my husband and I traveled to South Dakota to help celebrate the Centennial of one of the three churches I pastored back in the 1990s.

I had not been back in 14 years, though I had thought about them often since leaving.  They were a good parish, a farming community out on a prairie unfamiliar to me.  It was a gracious place to begin ministry, though sometimes I had critiqued myself, thinking that I had not done enough "big" things while I was there.

I wondered what it would be like, to see them again.  I wondered what the community would be like as well.  It's not so easy for rural communities these days:  with farms getting larger, towns get smaller.  I remembered the many funerals, the handful of new members and baptisms, and wondered what it would be like when I returned.

I was pleasantly surprised to see this church, still small, but teeming with children.  Some of them were the children of my former confirmation students.  Some were faces I didn't know.  There was a sense of hope and vitality, a sense of health.  Later on, someone told me that in this small congregation (membership is just under 200) there are 57 children in Sunday School this year.  The church attracts:  particularly young families.

Ever since that summer day, I've been thinking about this congregation, and about the sense of vitality that I found there.  I've been thinking about what makes a congregation resilient, able to bounce back when their are challenges rather than continue to contract.  I have also been considering that growing congregations are not all necessarily large:  there are growing congregations in every size.  I wondered if it was DNA or habits, or something else that mattered.

Here is what I came up with.

1.  This congregation sees each of their pastors as uniquely gifted, and uses each pastor's particular gifts.  Even mine.  So someone came up to me on the Sunday I visited and showed me a copy of a contemporary worship service I wrote while I was there.  They wanted me to know that they still use that service, although they had added to and expanded to what I first put together.  Every year they purchase a couple more copyrights to favorite songs.  Every year the book gets a little thicker.  They took the gift I offered them, and they made it their own.

2.  This congregation has necessarily become lay driven.  This reality is borne out of the challenge that they often got new and first-call pastors who did not stay very many years.  But because of that, they have become a lay-driven congregation.  I never had all of the ideas.  I was just one of the leaders, adding my vegetables to the soup.  I had the idea that we should help serve a meal to hungry people at "The Banquet", but there were plenty of other things that happened that had very little to do with me.

3.  This congregation is inter-generational by nature.  There is no nursery.  The children belong to the congregation, and everyone supported and looked out after them.  The largest service of the year was always Easter Sunrise, which the youth group planned and executed every year (no sermon).  I was also impressed when the leadership board decided that they should cash in some savings in order to build a lift.  They wanted their church basement to be handicap accessible.  The impetus for this move?  a child in the congregation who had Muscular Dystrophy.

And, most important....

4.  This congregation has a Particular Story.  Well, I suppose that every congregation has a Particular Story, a story that makes them who they are, whether everyone in the congregation even knows it or not.

I didn't learn the story for a long time, and I didn't learn it all at once.  I learned first about the cemetery four miles west of the church.  Then I would hear references to "The Pleasant Church."  Finally I learned that there had once been two churches -- the one in town that I knew, and a beautiful, old country church west of town, founded by Norwegian immigrants.

One terrible day the country church burned to the ground.  I don't know if there is anyone alive yet who remembers the story of the fire, but there were some people who remembered it still when I was pastor.  Their voices fell still when they told the story of the fire at their beloved church.

Both churches were still lively and bustling at the time; yet even so, the congregation made the decision not to rebuild, but to create a whole new congregation, together with the people of the church in town. The town church was re-named to reflect the belief that they were now a new community.

My telling does not do justice to the Particular Story of this congregation:  the hard work, the hope, the persistence, the joy.  It is a story of death and resurrection.  It is a story of what happens when the worst thing you can imagine happens -- and you find out that it is the not the worst thing that can happen to you.

Last fall, a house two blocks from my current congregation burned to the ground.  Almost everything was lost.  Our faith community, along with others,  took a door offering for the woman and her family.  When I talked to her on the phone, she said the fire was, "the worst blessing."  It was an odd thing to say, but I think I know what she meant.

A particular story.  That is what this congregation has.  It has a particular story of "the worst blessing."  It has a story that tells them that when the worst happens to them, it is not the worst that can happen to them.  It is a story of death by fire.  And it is a story of life from God.