A Nice Person, and Racist

At my last congregation, I often preached at a small Saturday evening service in our chapel.  I came to call it affectionately, the "early edition."  One of the occasional attendees was a nice older woman who I came to know pretty well.  Sometimes she came early and we had an opportunity to visit.

Did I mention she is very nice?  She liked my sermons.  She said I gave a good "Lutheran" sermon. Sometimes she worshipped with the Methodists on Sunday, but she was a Lutheran at heart.  I think we have pretty awesome theology, what with radical grace and the reality of brokenness and the paradox of being a saint and a sinner at the same time, so I would take this as a compliment, although every once in awhile, I am not so sure.

A few years ago, well, 2008, to be exact, I remember a conversation I had with her, either right before or right after the worship service.  I remember because it was about the presidential election, and she was afraid.  Very afraid.  She was afraid that Barack Obama would become president.  She was afraid of what would happen if he became president, and she was also afraid of what would happen if he did not become president, because if he lost, she was sure that "the blacks would riot", and terrible, terrible things would happen.

I could tell that she was genuinely afraid, which made me sad.

I like to think that I said something to her.  After all, I had just read a book that traced the history of race riots back to the early part of the last century.  Growing up, I remember hearing about Los Angeles, and Detroit.  But I never knew about Tulsa, or Florida, or all of the other places where whites rioted and destroyed African American Communities.

I like to think that I said something to her, but whatever it is, I am certain it was not awesome.  It was not enough.  I can blame the fact that I was too shocked to have a cogent response.  But I think it was an excuse.

A number of years later, I was preaching the "early edition" again.  My sermon topic was prayer.  I used an illustration from a book I had purchased when my husband and I visited Martin Luther King Jr's home in Atlanta.  The book was called "No Turning Back", and was about a white seminarian who worked with Martin Luther King Sr. in the early days of the civil rights movement.  There was a lovely story about the white seminarian learning to pray from one of the African American teenagers in the congregation.  As a sideline, I got to say something about the struggle for civil rights.

My friend, the occasional visitor, was there again that evening.  I had a conversation with her about the book, and about our visit to Atlanta.

She told me that she had been to the South once, long ago, as a young woman.  She loved it.  She loved the people there.  In the summer, she told me that they felt so safe that they could sleep out on the porches at night.

She felt so safe back then.  You know, during segregation.

My heart sank, a little.  I like to think that I said something this time.  I think it did.  But in my heart of hearts, I know it was not awesome, what I said.  If I had said something awesome, I would have remembered.

I also knew then that whatever I thought I was saying in my sermons, when I thought I was being brave, when I thought I was communicating clearly:  I wasn't.

Racism doesn't just live in the Ku Klux Klan, or in segregation, or in hateful words of violence.  It doesn't just live in the fear of this nice woman, but in me, and every one of us who have not, for some reason or another, spoken out clearly.

Maybe even more.

Leadership and Flying

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

Then I noticed the fine print.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Here I Stand

I went to church yesterday.  Actually, I am one of the pastors, so saying that "I went to church" is a bit of an understatement.  But, that's my story, and I am sticking to it.

It was Reformation Sunday.  Even though we are in the Narrative Lectionary this year and the Bible story featured the wisdom of Solomon rather than The truth that will set you free (John chapter 8) or the  grace that justifies (Romans 3), it was still Reformation Sunday.

Sort of.

We were instructed to wear red, and many of us did, although those who did not wear red were not turned away.  Somehow it seemed like the crowds were a little bigger this Sunday, although I don't think it was because everyone suddenly remembered that it was Reformation Sunday, that great festival of grace, faith and Scripture alone (at least for Lutherans).  I saw some people I hadn't seen for a few weeks, and that always feel good to me.

So it seemed festive in worship.  We had a a great choir anthem based on words from Psalm 46.  I even got to sing this week.  (I am sure that is why we sounded so good.)  A parish member gave a wonderful reflection about why she gives, and testified to why our congregation has been such an important place in the life of her family.  The other pastor gave a heart-felt sermon on the wisdom of Solomon, and what it means to be wise.

The bells played.  I prayed the prayers of the church (and, to be honest, stumbled a little.  Everything was not perfect).  We offered ourselves to God, in one way or another.  We shared bread and wine.

At the close of the service, I invited people to come forward if they would like individual prayers for healing and anointing.  A few people did come forward.  We do this every month on the last Sunday or the month, and sometimes the lines are really long.  Sometimes there are just a few people.

But I have come to love this practice.  It is not because I am the best heartfelt pray-er in the world.  I am heartfelt, and I do my best, but I imagine that there are others who are better than I am.  It is not that I don't love the other parts of worship, either, especially the songs.  I do love the songs.  I love singing, all together.

I have come to love this practice because of the little tiny glimpses into people's lives, joys and struggles, the secrets people trust me to pray for, and not to share.  I pray for small things, and big things, for grandchildren and grandparents, for relationships, for health, for comfort in grieving.  Sometimes the word I can speak is just the tiniest word, but it is something.  I say my tiny words, and give everything to Jesus.  That's all I can do.

Some people come for themselves, but many people come requesting prayers and healing for someone else.  I put the oil on their head, and give thanks for them, and then we pray for the other person, or people who are on their hearts.

I have come to love this practice, perhaps because the tiny little glimpses I see there give me hope.  The tiny little glimpses are glimpses of faith, hope, and love.  I see faith and hope and love in the eyes and words of people who stand in line, waiting for a word from me, the tiniest word, sometimes.  There is faith and hope that something can change, our words and actions can make a difference, that salvation is real and takes many forms.  Faith and hope.

But the greatest of these is love:  Love that draws people forward for the sake of someone else, to ask for prayers on their behalf.  Love that hopes for healing, comfort, reconciliation.

The greatest of these is love.

Here I stand.  I can do no other.

The Courage to Sing

Tomorrow it is what is known as "Rally Sunday" in our congregation.  It's not in the liturgical calendar, but it's a sort of "unveil-the-education-year" and "have-a-party" sort of day, particularly in our denomination.

For part of the "party" tomorrow, we will have a dunk tank.  The Senior Pastor is one of the people who will sit in the dunk tank.  I am not going to sit in the dunk tank.  There is something about a dunk tank that makes my inner shy person kick in.

A couple of people tried to tease me into doing it, and part of me wonders why I am so reticent.  The Senior Pastor is really looking forward to it.  I have always called myself 'courage-impaired'; perhaps that is it.  I don't downhill ski, hang-glide or jump out of airplanes.  I have been on roller coasters, but they are not my favorite thing.  I have a not-so-irrational fear of falling down, as I actually have fallen down a lot.  So, perhaps, 'courage-impaired' is the right diagnosis.

This is not a good trait for a pastor, because it takes courage to lead.  It takes courage to tell the truth, make a decision, put yourself out there, set a course of action.  It is not good for a pastor to be 'courage-impaired.'

However, I do sing.

I chant the liturgy, when called upon, and I sing sometimes in nursing homes, and at gravesides.  I will sing a snatch or two in the pulpit, on occasion.  One summer I ran a summer program for children in a local church.  Every day I led a time of singing.   A capella.    I didn't think about it at the time, but it occurs to me that this was a courageous act.  Why I would rather lead a bunch of 2nd graders in a capella singing than sit in a dunk tank is beyond me.

I do not have an incredible voice, although I did take some piano lessons, and I sang in the choir some, too.  But not everyone who sings in a choir is willing to stick their voice out, solo.  It takes courage.

I have always thought of courage as an innate trait.  You are either courageous or you are not.  But maybe, just maybe, I am wrong.  Courage is not innate.  I learned a little about singing:  how to breathe, the sound of some notes, a few tunes (okay, actually a lot of tunes).

Courage has something to do with trust, it turns out.  You open your mouth, and you trust that the notes will come out.  You trust the lilt of the tune, the meaning of the words.  You open your mouth and you trust that people will sing along when you invite them.  And that even if it is wrong, it will be all right, in the end.

Leadership and singing have something in common, too:  You have to put your voice out there, sing a line, and ask people to follow you.  It's good to learn a few tunes, so you can know the moves, and have an idea where the song will go.  And sometimes the people follow you, and sometimes the people sing with you, a song you have all learned to sing together.

As it turns out, leaders are not the only ones who have to have courage.  And trust.

Uncommon Conversation

I remember not too long ago listening with interest to a radio program about -- of all things -- plane crashes.  What fascinated me most about the program was that the studies were dealing with crashes caused (at least in part) by pilot error, and how communication patterns between the pilot and copilot might have contributed to the crash.  Sometimes, the pilot found, the copilot found it difficult to speak directly to the pilot when he found a problem or an error that he had to speak up about.  He either didn't speak about it at all, or spoke in an oblique, roundabout way, trying not to offend the pilot.   Even in a situation of an emergency, sometimes it seemed like it was impossible for the subordinate to speak up.

That was fascinating to me. 

It sometimes seems impossible for the subordinate to speak up. 

I thought of this when I read the story of Naaman from 2 Kings again.  Naaman is a great general but he has a problem -- he has leprosy.  Though he is not an Israelite, the prophet Elisha is called to come to him, so that he can be healed.  The problem is, Naaman is not wild about Elisha's directions:  go wash in the river Jordan.  "Aren't there many fine (actually, better) rivers in my own country?  Get real!" 

We often focus on Naaman, the general who finally sucked it up and went and washed in the river Jordan.  It didn't make sense, but he did it, and he was healed.  But lately, when I've read this story, I've noticed someone else:  Naaman's servants.

Do you know what they did?

They spoke up.

Sometimes it seems impossible for a subordinate to speak up.

You have to wonder about a servant who dares to talk back to his Master.  "Come on, what's the problem?  This isn't so hard.  You just don't want to do it!  What's your problem with the river Jordan, anyway?"  You might even call it an "uncommon conversation", when a servant talks back to his master.

But this was a serious matter, a matter of life and death.  Naaman had leprosy. 

You have to wonder about a servant who dares to talk back to his Master.

Maybe they knew it was a matter of life and death, and that somehow, Naaman's fate and their own was linked.  You have to wonder.  Because, sometimes it seems impossible for a subordinate to speak up.  It's an "uncommon conversation."   Maybe they think, "What do I know?  The experts have it all figured out."  or maybe they think, "No one will listen to me anyway."  Or maybe they think, "It won't make any difference anyway.  People go wash in the river Jordan all the time, and no one is ever healed.  It's just a dirty little river."

In our faith community, we're having some uncommon conversations this fall.  They are conversations about the future of our state and the future of our communities, and even (dare I say) the future of our faith community.  And they are also conversations about race, and about the racial disparities in our state, and I think that they are a matter of life and death.  Our futures are linked, and our hopes are linked.

But we need to speak up, to believe that we can make a difference.  We need to speak up, and we also need to listen:  and to go down to the river Jordan, where God can heal us, where God will give us courage, where God is waiting, waiting for us, to raise us from the dead.

The last shall be first

Do you remember, 6:00 P.M., August 1, 2007? It was the day that the 35W bridge collapsed. Thirteen people died.

Today at 5:00 a.m. the new bridge opened.

There was a lot of fanfare: a sort of mini-parade across the bridge to open things up. On the radio I heard the voice of a man from our congregation. He came on his motorcycle, because he wanted to say that he had been the first motorcycle over the bridge.

At my bag lunch Bible study on Wednesday, we had the opposite reaction. We discussed the parable of the laborers in the vineyard, and paused over the curious detail that the workers who were hired last were paid first. Think about it. The vineyard owner would not have run in to any problems if he had paid the early workers first; they would never have known that he had paid everyone the same.

But that's not what he did.

And then there is that curious line: "The last shall be first, and the first shall be last." We talked about why it is we all want to be first in line. We're in a hurry, maybe: that's one reason. Or, it is a shame to be at the end of the line, sort of like it is a shame to be the last one chosen to be on the softball team.

Or, maybe we are not sure there will be enough. Supplies may be limited, you know. So we don't want to be last in line, stuck with empty hands and dashed hopes.

Yep, we all wanted to be at the front of the line, not at the end.

Except for the bridge. We all decided we could wait and not be the first to go over the bridge. We would gladly let all those other people test it out, and make sure that it worked.

So, tonight I'm celebrating: the new bridge, put up in record time. I'm celebrating the motorcyclist from my church, brave enough to be first across. I'm celebrating the last who will be first, and the promise that supplies will not be limited.

And I'm wondering: why can't all bridges across chasms be so strong, so quickly built, so bravely crossed?

Throwing Caution to the Wind ...

... and posting the award Ruth gave me. It may not be the exact words I would use, but I agree with the sentiment, anyway, and I'm ready to pass it along. I read the meaning of the award as those who are good writers, honest, insightful, but also couragoeus in some way. That's my take anyway. Now, I need to post these rules:

1) Choose five other bloggers that you feel are “Kick Ass Bloggers”

2) Let them know that they have received an award.

3) Link back to both the person who awarded you and also to http://www.mammadawg.com/

4) Visit the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky and leave a comment.

And here are five bloggers who I believe fit the criteria of the award:

1) Mompriest over at Seeking Authentic Voice. She is not afraid to write about both her hopes and her fears. She writes with honesty, integrity and well: authenticity. Mompriest, you kick ... well, you know what.

2) Fran at FranIam also courageously blogs both about her personal life, and her passions for spirituality and politics.

3) Border Explorer is a relatively new blog for me. She's not afraid to explore the edges of life. She doesnt keep to the safe subjects.

4) Choralgirl is honest and passionate about her work, and about her faith, and about life in Christian community. Plus, she plays a mean cowbell!

5) If you will just read Sue's blog over at InnerDorothy, you will know why I think she deserves this award.

Now, back to writing my own kick*** posts. more or less.

Reader Poll

Just yesterday I got this award from Ruth over at Ruth's Visions and Revisions. I will have to say that I am flattered and flustered. I'm not so sure that I'm as courageous as the award seems to imply. I do think that I try a little too hard sometimes to be nice, and senstive to everyone's feelings. However, I do think that sometimes pastors are called to "Kick XXX." I'm just not sure if we can SAY it.

Ruth seems to feel similarly. In telling me about the award, Ruth seemed to wonder whether, as a clergyperson, I would be able to post this on my blog.

So, dear readers, what do you think? Is this award appropriate for a pastor?

If there are any congregation members out there, I would be particularly interested in your point of view.

But of course, everyone is welcome.

In the meantime, I'm pondering my next post. Hmmmm.