Just Another Meeting Night

My congregation has been in a pastoral transition for about a year now, which poses its challenges, creates opportunities, and -- may I say -- also causes me, occasionally, to be surprised.

Our congregation, like many other congregations, has meetings.  We have Leadership Board meetings.  We have Worship Planning Meetings.  We have Committee Meetings.  We have Global Mission Meetings.  We have Education Meetings.  We have Stewardship Meetings (sometimes).  Lately, since we are in a pastoral transition, there have been other sorts of meetings as well.

You get the picture. 

As associate pastor, there have been places where my input has been welcome, and other areas that I haven't been much involved. One of the places I haven't been involved has been a group called the "Nominating Committee."  Their job has been to help fill the positions on the Board and other committees as they come up for election.

Like many jobs involving regular meetings, there hasn't been a long line of people waiting to do this job.

But about a year and a half ago, I had an idea about doing something different with this group.  And, since no one told me not to, I started doing it.

Using some principles from the field of organizing, I made the former "Nominating Committee" into a "Leadership Development Committee" instead, with these objectives:

1.  Create connections and get to know other people in the congregation.
2.  Learn more about them as people:  their stories, their interests, passions, concerns.
3.  Help them to find places in and out of the congregation to develop their gifts.
4.  Find out who can be developed as a congregational leader and help them find places to serve.

I didn't get this out of a book I read, and, even now, I wonder if this will work.  We are coming up to the Congregational Meeting at the end of the fall, and will need to have people willing to serve in congregational positions.  That's the criteria I imagine the congregation will use to judge whether this "system" works.

In the meantime, we try to have "one to one" conversations with two other people very month and report out on them.  Recently we discovered in a conversation a retired woman who really wanted to be involved in a Social Service ministry -- so we're giving her the opportunity.  We're making lists of people who like to do "hands on" ministry and hate meetings, who play instruments, who like to sing, who like to clean and to cook.  We're finding out about people who are passionate about being a more diverse and inclusive faith community.

(Now we could use a good method to keep track of all of this information for us.)

When we do ask people to do a task, or lead a group, or be involved in something, we do it in the context of a relationship we are building, and after knowing something about the person we are talking to.  We HOPE that we are asking them to be involved in something that they care about, and that will help them grow in their discipleship.

Every month when we meet around the table, I'm amazed:  what we are doing feels strategic, holy, and risky.  I go away every month impressed by the leadership of the people around the table, the people they are meeting, the circles that a rippling out from six people into the congregation.

As associate pastor, I often had ideas, sometimes ideas that I didn't really have the power to implement.  It's always safer to have an idea if you don't ever had to try it and see if it works.  (something like being a political pundit.)

But here I am, putting an idea into action, experimenting with my congregation, rallying the troops, not really knowing whether what I am doing will succeed or fail.  I do think that this organizational principal will bear fruit, but that we will have to be patient.  But I don't KNOW it.   What I do know is that I am discovering (by experiment) more and more of who I am as a leader.

I'll let you know how it goes.  Okay?

On Labor Day: Respecting All Kinds of Work

The other day, I was doing a little "internet checking" and went into a website called "Viewshound", where anyone can publish their views and opinions on almost everything.  I actually got an article published there once, a few weeks ago; I wanted to check out their religion section, which is listed (interestingly) within a larger section called "Real Life." 

There I was pleased to find an article by a man who took the time and trouble to write about his faith as a Christian, in response to an atheist who had posted earlier.  I resonated with the inclusivity of his faith and his witness of "total dependence on Jesus." 

Then, at the end, came the zinger.  He doesn't go to church, because the churches make him mad.  (Ok, so I kind of get that.)  And, to top things off, pastors make him mad as well, with their "easy jobs and cushy pensions." 

Well, all righty then.

After the defensive knee-jerking (you think my job is easy?  Just try presiding at the funeral for a still-born baby, or coordinating moving help for the woman who's losing her home, or talking to the people who come in looking for cash, or talking to the couple who won't talk to each other, or just standing in front of people every Sunday and looking into their eyes, and knowing they are all expecting a good word for their lives, and for the battles they face....)

After the defensive knee-jerking was done, what I was left with was the understanding of what it feels like when your vocation has been dismissed as something relatively easy and without much value.

I think that pastors are also guilty of doing this, although in more subtle ways.  Sometimes it's not understanding what it's like to work eight hour days, with 1/2 hour for lunch.  Sometimes it's not understanding that there are a lot of other vocations where people need to work evenings or take work home, or where the hours are erratic.  Sometimes it's not understanding that the people who are our church leaders are doing this volunteer work on top of their other work.

But lack of respect for different kinds of work is everywhere, not just the man who thinks that I have an "easy job", but in the people who like to think that teachers and other public employees are the cause of our problems, in the people who think that those who work with their hands have easy work, or that those who use their brains more than their hands have easy work, or that those who get to go home at 5:00 have easy work, or that those who have a flexible schedule have easy work.  Lately there has been disturbing rhetoric that I think tries to elevate certain kinds of work (some people are "job creators" and others are not) without understanding the value and the challenges and the necessity of all kinds of work.

Professional musicians I know sometimes complain that no one really understands the complex set of skills and physical challenges of their work -- after all it looks so fun, and some people do it for fun.  But the same thing could be said about the landscaper who is coming to beautify our front yard, or the hairdresser, or the homebuilder.  And what about the clerk who rings up your purchases, or the waitress that serves you, or the janitor who comes in the night and cleans the building where you work?  I will come right out and say that though I have typed for a living, I have never worked a cash register, or waitressed.  I have known for almost all of my life that I would not be good at waitressing.  I bow to those who are.

So this Labor Day, I give thanks for the garbage collector, the clerk at my grocery store, the teachers and nurses and doctors, secretaries and administrators, those who work on assembly lines, musicians and artists, the landscaper and the person who repairs the roof, I give thanks for those who run companies and those who work for the companies, those who work in the private sector and those in the public sector.

And I invite you to share your own stories of the unique rewards and challenges of the work you do.

Church-y

Lately, I've been thinking about this thing called "the church", and what it means, and its many forms.  Someone recently intimated that I might be a tad or more invested in the survival of this "institution" we call "the church". 

Maybe she's right. 

I've been a church person since way back.  Can't do anything about it.  I was kind of geeky about it, just liked going to church, singing the hymns.  I even did the "put you hands in the air" thing for a few years. 

There was a while when I kind of wished that I had a terrible past, and a dramatic conversion story.  Perhaps I was reading too many paperbacks at the time. 

Be that as it may, I suppose since I am a pastor, and I do the work of leading a congregation, I can't totally get by with saying I'm not interested in the church as an institution.  That would be disingenous.

However, what I am really passionate about, what I really care about (I think) is not so much the church as an institution as the church as a gathering. 

You know, "where two or three are gathered...."  I really do believe that disciples of Jesus need to gather.

It can be at a high Mass on Sunday morning, or it can be four people in someone's basement on Wednesday evening, practicing Lectio Divina. 

Just being with two or three other people and the Word sometimes has the ability to help me see beyond my own self-importance or my own self-negation.  Sometimes it's despair I need to find a way out of.  Sometimes it's the pride to think I'm always right.

Long ago, I called my blog "faith in community" because I really thought that.  It doesn't mean the community has to be so big, or formal.  You don't have to sing the songs I like.  You don't have to sing at all (although I do like to sing.)  It also doesn't mean that I think that community is perfect, or easy, or that there's no fighting, or hurting, misunderstanding or meanness.

Maybe that's the reason we need his promise, "where two or three are gathered, I am in the midst of them."  Not just for comfort or for prayer, but for reconciliation.

Where Two or Three are Gathered

I'm preparing a sermon about this short passage of scripture for this weekend, which means that so far I'm reading and thinking and day-dreaming but haven't put pen to paper -- yet.

I confess a certain fondness for that last verse of the passage, not the whole passage, just the last verse, which says, "Where-ever two or three are gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of them."  I am so fond of this passage that I often use it in the beginning of prayers at hospitals and with shut-ins, a reminder of God's promise to hear our prayers, even if there are just two of us.

But that's just one verse, not the whole passage, which I like to wrest conveniently out of its context, a context that includes instructions for dealing with conflict, and promises that seem too exaggerated to possibly be true (If two of you will agree on anything, I will do it:  really?  Really, Jesus?)

The problem with verse twenty, "where two or three are gathered," is that it's so comforting, so comforting that, by itself, as a verse, it can contribute to a sort of romantic notion of community.  Get two people together in a room, praying, and somehow, Jesus is among them.  No doubt, that can't be a bad thing.

But for the first time, when I heard that verse read, I asked, "Yes, but to what end?  Jesus is among us, but to do what?"  To hold our hands, and dry our tears, and hear our prayers? 

Or maybe more than that:  to hold us together, to send us out, to give us a wider vision when we feel like giving up.  Or maybe to bring us back together when we're fighting, to help us learn the truth, to give us power.

This whole passage of scripture, not just verse twenty, is about two:  two people fighting and two people reconciling, or not; two people agreeing, and two people (or three) gathering in Jesus' name. 

I think what I like about the passage is that it's not about hundreds of people and it's not about one.  And we often skew so often one way or the other, thinking that, on the one hand, something is only really worthwhile if thousands of people are doing it (megachurches, the State Fair, huge concerts, big box retailerers), or, on the other hand, that the most powerful, most virtuous position is that of the rugged individualist, pulling himself up by his own bootstraps, standing alone against the mob.

Instead, where two or three are gathered -- could be more but it doesn't have to be -- is the most powerful position.  Not alone, but not a mob.  The basic unit of discipleship is a relationship.

But, what kind of a relationship is it?  What kind of community will we be?  What kind of a community do we want to be?

That's the question.

"It's Complicated"

You ever see this phrase on the "relationship status" of people you know?  Rather than "married," "single," or "in a relationship", they have chosen to describe their relationship status as "It's complicated."

It does make you wonder what could possibly be going on in that person's life.  There are things they can't talk about.  There are things they probably feel like they can't explain to outsiders.  So they just say, "It's complicated" and leave it at that.

Sometimes I think, "It's complicated" could sum up my relationship with the church.

I just read a little article by Lillian Daniel about people who are spiritual, but not religious.  She seems to sit next to a lot of people like that on airplanes.  As a pastor and a life-long church church member, someone who was both raised in the church and intentionally decided to keep belonging to this community, I resonated with her critique.  How much easier it is to have deeply spiritual thoughts and never have to sing next to someone whose deeply spiritual thoughts are very much different than yours.

In faith communities, it happens.  There are people in my community who are probably relieved that we might have a believer back in the White House in 2012.  And others who are pretty sure we have a believer in the White House now.  And still others might be tempted to remind us that Martin Luther once said that he'd rather be ruled by a "smart Turk" than by a "stupid Christian." 

In my church, though we are all Lutheran, I'd bet we have some pretty firm believers in Christian Universalism, as well as some who would perish the thought.  We also have some people who think that the pipe organ alone is God's instrument, as well as others who think a jazz piano, or an electric guitar, or even an accordian would be nice. 

So, I resonate with Lillian Daniel, at least at first.  I mean, I get tired of the people who think things have to be perfect, and they won't ever be.  The music won't be perfect.  The preaching won't be perfect.  The people won't be perfect. 

But then, on the other hand....

I actually know people who won't step inside a church, and not for all of the usual reasons, like, "it interferes with my football games."  They won't go any more because they have been deeply wounded by people who claimed to be representatives of Jesus.  They won't go because they were abused.  They won't go because they were driven out.  They won't go because they didn't experience much, or any, of the grace we talk about, and that some of us can't live without.  They won't go because they've been at a church that everyone said was so "friendly," and no one talked to them.

Sometimes, it is true about the church, "We have met the enemy, and he is us."

The thing is, if the church isn't perfect, neither am I.  And if I am honest with myself, I have to admit that sometimes I have been the one who has said the wrong thing, I have been the one who has sung off-key, I've been the one who didn't welcome the stranger.  I've been hurt sometimes by the things people say and do, and I've been the hurt-er too.  It's tempting to go someplace where my flaws and vulnerabilities don't stick out so much.  Maybe a cave.  Or a beach.  Or something.

But then, like Peter, I end up saying, "Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life."

Like I said, "It's complicated."

What I Like About the State Fair

We seem to go to the State Fair every year, for some reason.  This was not the case when I was growing up.  We went to the State Fair occasionally, although my dad told us stories that seemed to imply that he was a regular as a child.

But, we seem to go to the State Fair every year, even though it's mostly the same every year:  same food, same rides, same layout.  Every year I feel a little nostalgic for Machinery Hill, which is not the same as in the old days when my grandpa would go over to kick the tires on all of the John Deere (green) tractors.

We considered not going this year (it gets expensive, crowded, my feet hurt, and I don't really like the midway).  But I think we are going to end up there, anyway. 

Here's what I like about the State Fair:

1.  People watching.  Everybody, it seems, is at the fair.  They say it is the "Great Minnesota Get-Together", and that's what it is.  There are a million stories happening right before my eyes.  I love to watch the people, read the T-shirt slogans, listen to the children.
2.  Free Stuff.  I love getting pencils, booksmarks, free bags and other Educational and Promotional Items.  I know, I'm a little nerdy.  Buy I like it.
3.  Politicians Shake your Hands.  I got a great Paul Wellstone T-shirt there many years ago.  I still have it, even though it has holes in it.  (there are lots of little faces on it, with the slogan "many voices, one message.")
4.  Baby Animals, some being born. I love to go to the animal barns, imagine the rural kids who have been living here for ten days, competing in contests, taking care of their animals.    I like that new life is happening every day at the fair, the most amazing and ordinary thing. 
5.  Remembrances of  Fairs Past.  "Remember the time we were dating and we took the Olde Mill Ride?"  "Remember when we were walking down the street and we saw a Llama?"  "Remember the year we got caught in the rain and the kids all wore plastic bags to stay dry?" 
6.  The Old Buildings with their Art Deco Architecture and Design.  I love some of the buildings that have been around for years and years:  like The Horticulture Building.  I don't garden, but the Horticulture Building makes me wish that I did.  I leave the fair thinking, "next year I will garden."

The fair is a place of abundance and possibilities.  It's a place to buy stuff, eat stuff, get free stuff, talk to strangers, do something new, do the same old thing.  It's a place to hold hands,  hear music, walk around till your feet fall off, and realize that you are a member of a community.  Some of the members of the community wear really weird T-shirts, some of them work at Jehovah Lutheran's diner, some of them are old, and some of them are young.  Some of them stop in the FOX News booth, some of them wouldn't miss WCCO.  We are many voices, and we have many messages, and lately we sneer at each other's opinions more than is necessary.  But we're still one community.  At least at the Fair.

You know, in some ways, it's like church.  The same every week, the same food, the same place, the same basic layout.  Now why that's working so well for the State Fair, and not always for the church:  that might be a subject for another post.

What We Offer

There was a brown bag with handles sitting by the door when I arrived.  They wanted to make sure when I left, I would take a few things back to the church with me, things they were sure the church could use. 

I came, as I usually do, for conversation and communion.  Sometimes I think I could spend all day driving from house to house, praying and talking and sitting in rockers, drinking coffee.  I find out about secret joys and griefs, sometimes answer a burning question or two, ask a few myself. 

Today before communion, I prayed for our country, for our community, that we would learn to see each other as brothers and sisters and work together, despite our differences.  They said "Thank you" for that. 

The wife always washes out my communion cups.  She did the same today.  And before I left, they reminded me about the brown bag with the things they knew the church could really use.

Yarn for our prayer shawls, that's what it was.  It was still in the package, too. 

So I took it with me.  It wasn't heavy at all, no trouble to put it in the car, and no trouble to bring it into the church either.

Except that it wasn't at all the kind of yarn we use for prayer shawls.

In our house, we have an extra microwave.  It works, but we don't need it.  We were just going to throw it away, but found out that the city would charge us to take it away.  Maybe we should give it to the church? I thought.  I can understand why people want to give things to the church, cast-offs, used items that aren't useless, but aren't exactly what they used to be.    Maybe it's because you don't have room any more, and you are sure that if any place has room, the church does.  Maybe it's because you want to think this item of yours is still useful to someone.

In a culture that seems to have less and less use for the Church, and less and less idea about what we are about, perhaps this is who we are:  the place you bring your cast offs.

Old tongue depressers, balls of yarn.  Wrapping paper, tin cans, pipe cleaners.  Cast-offs, used goods.  Faded or new. 

Bring it to the church.  We'll find room.  And if we don't, God will.