"A Shoeless Moment" - A Sermon for Coffeeson's Baptism

Exodus 3:1-15

Two birthdays celebrated, two birthdays remembered. Two birthdays very different from one another, far separated by time.

The first birthday was celebrated and remembered yesterday morning. Many gathered here to grieve the passing of one beloved by so many; who had died way too young. Members of her family repeatedly noted that Gloria was baptized close to a year ago.

September 30th would have been her first “new birthday.” It was the day she recognized and claimed for herself the presence of God in her life. Baptism is the act of marking that presence – a moment that she’d treasured and that strengthened her in her illness. It had been a moment that changed her forever.

This morning we celebrate as a church family--along with all these strange people sitting down front--another “new birthday.” But as we’ve gathered again around this font, I recall another birthday, now about 4½ months ago.

It was mid-afternoon, featuring two exhausted people who’d been up for 24 hours. Within the span of a few seconds, everything changed: one moment, there was nothing, and then suddenly, there was a new little person. The exhaustion evaporates because complete awe takes over. There wasn’t life, then suddenly there was life. It’s a moment that changes you forever.

These are the types of moments that mark you, and that you want to mark somehow. They’re moments when you know nothing is going to be the same again: not the way you live your life, not the way you think, not the way you relate to others. They can be moments of clarity, or joy, or peace. They’re moments that you can name later on. You can tell the story as if it just happened – it’s that vivid and powerful for you. You can speak of them with that same sense of clarity or joy or peace each time you tell it.

And at times, we have our own ways of marking these moments – not just memories, but at times real actions. We mark birthdays by throwing a party, being with friends, eating too much. We mark anniversaries by throwing a party, being with friends, eating too much. We mark other important milestones – graduation or retirement, the beginning of school.

These are the well-known ones, the easy ones. There are others, too – others that may be more personal; more unique.

The day you were cleared of a critical illness. The first day of a new job. Your first visit to a storied ballpark. The first time your partner said, “I love you.” A moment you experienced God – claimed faith as your own. The moment you said goodbye to a dying loved one.

They are moments that will mark you, have marked you. And they’re moments that you mark for yourself in the future. They, too, may be marked through celebrations with friends and family. They may be marked through photographs or some other artifact that somehow represents a person or a place. They may be marked through revisiting where it happened. They may be marked through scars or tattoos.

These moments have changed us, have defined us – we in turn mark them for ourselves.

Moses, for instance, is told to take off his shoes. It seems like a weird gesture. Here he stands in front of a bush – a flame burning from within, yet not appearing to even singe a single branch. You don’t see something like that every day – of course Moses stops to look. Maybe he’s fallen asleep or hallucinating.

No…it seems pretty real.

A voice speaks to him from the flame. It calls him by name, even. It tells him to take off his shoes – this ground is holy. It’s holy because God’s presence is so imminent – is right in front of him, around him, and under him.

He’s told to mark this moment by removing his sandals – told to let his bare feet touch this holy ground. He should fully experience this moment of clarity, of peace, of call.

That’s what this is about. This holy moment, this moment that he marks and that will mark him, is a moment when he will be told to do something incredible. He will be told to lead the Hebrew people out of Egypt. He will be told to begin the Exodus. And while we can read ahead and see just how hard all of this is going to be (and he already seems to know, judging by how much he tries to resist), it may be that he’ll need to remember this first moment. He may need to look back on this first shoeless moment, his feet one with holy ground, and remember why he’s doing any of it to begin with. But again, in this first moment, marked by bare feet while experiencing a moment of divine presence, he is forever changed.

For centuries, baptism has been the church’s “shoeless moment.” Whether named a “second birthday,” it is a moment that marks us. It marks the child in the sight of the church as one of God’s treasured ones. It marks the parents just as that first moment had months ago. It marks family and friends as witnesses to the divine presence in one child’s life. It marks the entire community of faith as partners in reminding him of this shoeless moment, praying that he will one day claim it for himself.

It also provides the opportunity to remember our own “shoeless moments.” It provides opportunity to remember when we ourselves have been marked by God along the way; to remember when God spoke to us out of the fire, called us by name.

We can remember when God provided reassurance through a doctor’s care, or when we could hear God speaking in between someone’s “I love you,” or in a moment of forgiveness or the struggle to forgive, or when we experienced a moment of grace and peace in a loved one’s final moments.

Oh yeah...God was there. God IS there.

We can remember moments that marked us and how they may have been infused with the divine. And what is it about our own "shoeless moments" that provide reassurance for us? When we're at our weakest, our most vulnerable, our most hopeless, how can our "shoeless moments" serve as ways to remind ourselves who we are and whose we are; to remember that God was somehow present in the fire?

Just as Moses may have needed to recall back to his being called out of the flame in the harder moments of his upcoming journey, we need these moments simply because revisiting them can provide comfort and strength. Baptism can be remembered as a "new birthday" by one suffering. One can remember the first glimpse of one's child and fall in love with him all over again. We can remember times before and since - times of clarity, or joy, or peace, or knowledge of oneself, or knowledge of God's closeness.

We experience something like this the first time, and it marks us. We mark it, and then revisit it out of a sense of longing or a need to renew our spirits. And we always must remember to take off our shoes and become one with the holy ground.

Give Me a Bit

Yesterday afternoon, as I am wont to do, I sat in an empty sanctuary. There's something about an empty sanctuary fresh off a worship service that adds to the silence. It's as if something had been building up all week and finally released...and in a way, it had. This room sits empty most of the week anyway, but just a few hours removed from it being filled (or as filled as it was for us, particularly on a Sunday in August), it always seems a little more empty. Know what I mean?

So there I sat, a bottle of Mountain Dew perched on the railing, my materials finally cleared from the pulpit (I went home and came back later for them). The grass out by the cemetery was still a nice bright green, though I knew that the fall chill is beginning to make itself known. It may have looked like summer, but it's slowly beginning to feel like something different.

Coffeewife and Coffeeson were off at a bridal shower, and of all places I'd chosen this spot to spend at least part of an afternoon all to myself. It seemed a little absurd, even though I knew why I like it there so much: the silence. Something finally being released. The culmination of another week. Add to it the realization that yet another summer is coming to a close and my favorite time of the year will soon arrive, and you have the makings of a meditative moment for one Coffeepastor.

I don't know if any other pastors enjoy empty sanctuaries as much as I do. I can't imagine that I'm the only one. I don't really worry about it, either.

This was before I shuffled off to Borders and do what I always do: browse for a book that maybe perhaps eventually I'll get around to reading. I'm a lot more picky nowadays when I browse the religion section...a lot of it looks the same. You can choose from a bunch of "Jesus is all about your personal fulfillment" books, or books that try to make the case that God loves this political agenda more than the other, or books that parse out some theological issue or other at great painful length, and a handful of emergent-of-the-week stuff. Browsing all these usual themes have made me tired lately. I feel the need to be more selective: I've either been there, done that in terms of the subject matter, or I want to find something that I'm really interested in, really going to stick with.

And then there's this blog, fresh off my admitting that I can't devote as much attention to 365 albums as I'd like. This blog, that doesn't feel as energized of late even though I've posted regularly enough to fool people. This blog, that has taken a backseat to so many things lately--important things, mind you. Real life things. This blog that I once had so much more time and energy for.

I press on, of course. I press on toward fall and through books that I want to read and posting blog entries. But it's all at a different pace now. I think that I'm still coming to grips with this new pace; still trying to understand it and accept it.

I'll figure out this different pace eventually. Just give me a bit.

Sometimes...

A story from Questing Parson...

The parson was changing the saying on the large reader board sign outside his church. Standing on the ladder he leaned back to ascertain if everything was centered. A voice caught his attention.

“Well, goodness gracious, parson, that’s cute.”

The parson turned to see Ralph. He stepped down from his ladder and greeted his visitor.

“Ralph, good to see you. What’s cute?”

“Your little saying there. My, my, ‘Honk Your Horn If You Appreciate Teachers.’”

“Oh, I see,” said the parson. “Well, Ralph, school started yesterday. I thought a little acknowledgement of the teachers might be appropriate.”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate at all, if you don’t mind me saying so, parson.”

“Why would this not be appropriate, Ralph?”

“Because this church paid good money for this sign and the purpose of it was to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ. You hardly ever put anything up there about Jesus and the marvelous love of God. You’re wasting our money.”

The parson stared at Ralph a moment. The sign had been a personal project of the parson. He’d raised the money from various members who agreed to help. Ralph had not contributed a cent.

The parson thought of some possible changes he could make to the sign. The parson thought of what a pain in the neck Ralph insisted on being. The parson thought of all the things Ralph had opposed over the years. The parson thought of all the trouble Ralph had stirred up with his constant complaining about the actions of the denomination.

The parson silently said to himself, Self, get a grip. Cool it.

Self replied, Why are you always putting it on me?

The parson folded his ladder. He started to walk away.

“Hold on,” said Ralph. “You’re going to leave that dumb appreciate teachers stuff up there and not change it to a message about Jesus?”

“I am, Ralph.”

“I don’t approve of that being on a church sign, parson.”

“Okay,” said the parson.

“Okay? What do you mean, okay?” asked Ralph.

“I mean, okay, Ralph.”

“You’re just blowing me off, aren’t you, parson?”

The parson had already begun to walk away. He stopped and turned around, ladder on his shoulder. “I am, Ralph. I am; praise the Lord.”

July, July

It's really quite fascinating how our own perceptions color our memories the way they do.

I had this blog post all planned out to gush over how thankful I am that July has finally come to an end. And mercifully so. I was going to write about how it just seemed to take forever. I was going to go off on how boring and long and dead it was; how it was the month that just refused to end and how every day was just another horribly slow experience in running on the hamster wheel toward the much more interesting month of August and season of fall.

On some level, that is true. July is not the most hopping month by any stretch at the church. In fact, it is the least hopping. There is no hopping. There is standing still. It made for some excruciatingly dull office hours at times. Planning ahead was what I used to invigorate my spirit. Creating deadlines and tension for myself really helped me through at times.

To aid in what surely was going to be this cathartic release of pent-up hostility toward July, I pulled out my calendar. I looked back over it to see what I could point to in order to help my cause. And then it dawned on me that my perceptions of the month vs. what I've actually been doing are two different things.

Here's how I'm going to remember this July.

I'll remember Coffeeson getting his three-month pictures. Yeah. He's three months old already. We have this one 8x10 shot of him on the wall: he's next to a baseball and smiling right at the camera. That was a one in a million shot. I'll remember how much he likes to giggle now. He giggles at all sorts of things. I'll also remember the ultrasound that he had last week for a...ahem...manly issue. He decidedly did not giggle during that. But for the most part, he's a pretty happy little baby.

I'll remember going to jury duty, only to be told that I didn't have to serve jury duty. The guy was being brought up on various charges related to drunk driving. He actually stood around in the lobby with the prospective jurors beforehand--unkempt hair, scraggly beard, shirt half-buttoned so that his chest hair could pop out in all its glory. I didn't know it was him at the time, but afterwards there was no doubt. Another juror said that you could smell alcohol on him. Good times.

I'll remember meeting with the Emergent Cohort at a little hole-in-the-wall Indian food restaurant in Cuyahoga Falls. The discussion of the day was weighing the views of "the city" in scripture. If you want me to really explain this, let me know. I remember being disappointed when I quickly ascertained that my crab masala was made with the fake processed crab. I hope we don't meet there any more.

I remember attending a church member's graduation party, and the wedding the next weekend, both instances when I was invited to celebrate significant moments in young people's lives. I was applauded before I gave the prayer at the reception. There was "woo"ing involved. Those were fun. I'll also remember the DJ, who reminded me of actor Scott Caan, only playing bootilicious songs so that he could try macking on all the single women.

I'll remember working the Indians game and our spot squarely behind home plate.

I'll remember the Dave Matthews Band concert that I was just at last night. I'll remember the opening act, Ingrid Michaelson ("The Way I Am"...you've heard it, go look it up) rapping "Ice Ice Baby." I'll remember how heavily they seemed to favor "Crash," Tim Reynolds destroying everybody with his guitar solos, Carter Beauford doing likewise during a drum solo on "Two Step," Leroi Moore's conspicuous absence because of a recent hospitalization and being replaced by Jeff Coffin from the Flecktones, who also ripped it up during "#41."

So July was not the black hole of a month that I'd convinced myself it was. Granted, there sure seemed to be a lot of filler in between. But if I said that July was a horribly dead month, I'd be ignoring all of this.

Sort of an Explanation

I'm really glad that my last entry, all of one line, evoked such a great response. I'm thankful for the feedback that people offered. Some got pretty passionate, which is always a good sign.

I attended a workshop a few years back when this quote was uttered. I certainly can't take responsibility for it. I've been pondering it ever since, questioning its truth, wondering how it applies to me.

The context of the quote was a discussion on "medium-sized" churches, or "pastor-sized" churches. For those unfamiliar with this term, a "pastor-sized" church is one where the pastor is the determinant of the congregation's rhythm, the central figure around which the rest of the church rotates. Contrast this with the "family-sized" church, where a few "power families" are the determinant, or a "program-sized" church where a ministry team is the determinant. The "pastor-sized" church is of a certain size (100-150 members or so) that it depends on the pastor for direction, motivation, initiative.

The danger for this pastor-sized church culture is that, in taking on each pastor's personality as it were (his/her strengths and weaknesses, emphases, passions, and yes, programming), is that there is the potential to hit Restart with every pastoral turnover. One pastor may be passionate about getting a senior high ministry off and running; the next may not want to come within 100 feet of anyone under the age of 35. And what happens in the meantime?

A lot of commenters mentioned "equipping the saints," which as I recall was part of this presentation. In fact, I believe that part of the context for the original statement had to do with whether a pastor can get others involved with his/her ministries and emphases; whether s/he is, as one commenter put it, only doing "his/her ministry" or whether s/he has equipped others to minister alongside him/her.

The other side, as several other commenters put it, is that programs (let's set aside the baggage with the term "program" for now) have a shelf life, and particular programs may come from the gifts of a particular pastor. Again, Pastor 1 may start a senior high ministry according to his/her gifts, while Pastor 2 has no business leading such a group.

Along with this, some simply don't want to be equipped. It's "the pastor's job," or everyone is too busy, or there's that special group of people who complain about how bad such-and-such is but strangely won't lift a finger to make things any better either. In some (many) "pastor-sized" churches, people are so used to the pastor taking initiative that they expect it...otherwise, some things might not happen.

This, I think, is the context of what some have identified as an inflammatory statement. I'm in agreement that "failed" is a little strong. It's also probably the crux of why this statement has been rattling in my brain for so long. But to finally read others respond to it, I have more perspective and more to chew on.

So thanks for that. It's not too late to weigh in if you'd like. Maybe with this entry, you even have more to work with.

Critique This Statement

"If all the programming that you start at a church falls away after you leave, that's a failed pastorate."

Weekend Fun

This was one of those weekends that I just had to write about.

I had a wedding on Saturday. And frankly, I've had a string of good experiences with weddings this year. This was no exception. I enjoyed working with this couple. They've basically known each other their entire lives, and there was little doubt in my mind that this wouldn't just keep getting stronger.

The ceremony involved a cast of thousands: six on each side besides the couple, three musicians, a humongous extended family. When I asked the families to stand in support of the couple, a good quarter of the packed sanctuary stood. I had a feeling that the place would be full - the family is well-known and loved in the congregation, and there were a number of friends presumably from college and earlier there as well (she was in a sorority, so that helped, too).

The other notable thing about the ceremony itself was that they requested that most of the chancel furniture be removed. Our chancel can be pretty cramped, and they wanted something more airy; more room to move for pictures and such. So we left the altar, and stashed everything else in various corners of the building. Keep that in mind for later.

As I stood in the narthex before the service, I was able to observe quite a number of the guests. As start time approached, a woman whom I'd estimate was barely in her early 20s entered carrying a newborn baby girl probably not more than a few weeks old. The way this woman was holding her, her head was just hanging upside-down. And then I overheard this exchange.

Guy: Her head is just hanging there.

Woman: Yeah, I don't know why it does that.

(Deep breaths. Very deep breaths.)

IT'S CALLED "PROPER HEAD SUPPORT." IT'S BABY CARE 101. COME ON.

Later at the reception, she was doing much better. I'd learned that an older couple from the church had approached her, so maybe that's what did it. I'm actually beating myself up a little for not saying something myself.

The reception was billed "adults only," and the CoffeeInLaws saw this as an opportunity to stop up and look after Coffeeson while his parents got to enjoy an evening out. It was held in the reception hall of a Greek Orthodox church, the second time I'd been to a reception in such a place. The Orthodox really know how to host a party, too. They didn't have the vermouth to make a Manhattan, but they did pretty well for themselves otherwise.

Okay, so Sunday morning. Remember how everything had been moved out of the chancel? Well, they did move everything back, so there was no issue there. But when the liturgist stepped up to lead everyone in the Call to Worship, it was clear that the smaller details--such as plugging the microphones back in--had been overlooked. So during the first hymn, I and another church member sitting near the front scurried to the lectern to locate the cable and plug it in. I'm sure it was fun to watch, as I didn't hear a whole lot of singing while this was going on.

The rest of the service, as far as I'm concerned, was pretty forgettable. My sermon didn't feel very inspired, even though Coffeewife later observed that I seemed pretty riled up. I preached on the parable of the wheat and weeds, talking about how there's no place for spiritually stifling and evil (yes, EVIL) things in the kingdom of God. I cited modern examples such as using religion to justify hatred, violence, and bigotry.

Nowadays, I find myself less and less tolerant of watching fundamentalists of any stripe calling for death and destruction, and in recent years I've greatly moved away from any sort of explanation that begins, "Well, you have to understand their culture..." Pardon me, but that's bullsh*t. There is no culture-based excuse for violence. Period. Thanks for playing. If we want to explore and dig at the roots at how the actions of our own country has contributed to feelings of anger in another, that's one thing. But implying that it somehow justifies innocent lives being taken...that's not gonna work for me.

So all that was weighing heavily on my mind while I wrote my sermon last week, and everyone else had the pleasure (or misfortune) of me spilling it out into their laps.

So after a marathon weekend for ministry, a friend and I went to see The Dark Knight. Coffeewife elected to stay behind with Coffeeson and let me have Guy Time, with the understanding that I'd take her to see it later. The best word that I had for it afterwards was "tense." Heath Ledger is excellent as The Joker, and I could see why I've read two separate comparisons to Al Franken. It was a pretty dark film, exploring the side of human nature that seeks self-preservation above the welfare of others, and humanity's need for someone to step up and be a symbol of optimism and hope. In fact, I didn't experience it as much of a fun summer popcorn movie at all. But I did enjoy it.

That was more or less my weekend.

Standing Inside a Concession Booth with a Hot Dog in My Hand

Note: if anyone can name the song referenced in the title, I'll mail you a cookie.

It was a weekend that put a few things into perspective.

Friday night, a group from my church ran a concession stand at Progressive Field. The Indians invite groups in to do this as a fundraiser - we get a base amount plus a percentage on what we sell. We're signed up for 12 games total; I think Friday was number four, and the first of four games that I'll help with.

The game didn't make it out of the first inning before it started downpouring. Our group was in a part of the park (nosebleeds along the third base line up in the corner) where we could basically watch it roll in. We had some steady business before the game and during the delay...all two hours and 43 minutes of it. We were finally told to start closing down our booth, even though the game hadn't been called.

Eventually, as our group was allowed to disperse, it was revealed that the game was scheduled to start back up again shortly after 10:00. As I made my way toward the exit, I thought to myself, "How awesome of a time would I have if I tracked down an open beer stand and just sat up in the nosebleeds, watching this game to its probable 1:00 a.m. finish?" What a summer memory that would have been.

Pre-Coffeeson, I probably would have. But I had to get home.

Saturday morning, I sit down to check my e-mail. I get one from the 20/30 Clergy Network, a UCC network of young hipster doofuses like me. There is a picture there from some gathering or other that includes two of my partners in crime from Eden, evidently taken at a pub someplace. And I think, "I remember those days, and I can even imagine these two interacting with whoever all these other people are." And I think back to when, at the drop of a hat, it was possible to head out and do that.

Pre-Coffeeson, I would have. Now, I'd have to make proper arrangements first.

The rest of Saturday morning was spent with Coffeeson in my arms. He actually has more and more to say, most of it variations on the word "Goo." He exclaims it, he sighs it, he yawns it, he says it conversationally, he squeals it. And over the past week in particular, I'll be sitting at the office or in a meeting or wherever else, and I can't wait for the next time to hear his little chatter. I think about those "goo"s a lot.

Do I lament missed opportunities, ones I could have taken before Coffeeson came along? Yeah.

Do I regret, in any shape or form, the fact that he's here? Absolutely not.

Am I more limited as a father? Sure. But "limited" isn't the best word, and I might even suggest that that word is used more by people dreading the thought of having children.

"Changed" is a much better word. Because for every outing that I give up, there's a smile, a "goo," a look of curiosity that I have the chance to see or hear. I may be limited in one sense, but at the same time I'm experiencing something else entirely. That's not to say that I miss these other things. It just takes some creativity and discernment about how to keep some of them around.

Some. Not all. Let's be honest.

But that's enough.

Something else that I saw at that game on Friday night while standing in that concession both were all the fathers and sons there together. These were kids 4, 5, 6 years old with their first mitts and their little Indians gear, perhaps getting their first taste of a ballpark hot dog and seeing the field in person for the first time.

And I sh*t you not, I teared up a little. Because it made me think of the day when that will be us.

No last-minute chance to stay for a late game, but there will be a chance in just a few years to come with my son.

"Limited" isn't the right word.

"Changed" is.

"Blessed" is even better.

My Weekend

I thought I'd write a little about my weekend.

I had a wedding on Saturday. Normally, this fact does not thrill me. Many couples treat weddings like big stupid Cinderella cultural events, and thus Getting The Church and Getting The Pastor become just two more items to check off a big stupid Cinderella list, and organizing the wedding party during the rehearsal is like herding deaf, greased-up cats.

I might be exaggerating a little. But sometimes, this is just how weddings feel for pastors.

Anyway, I said normally, this fact does not thrill me. This weekend's wedding was one of the exceptions that I've enjoyed during my ministry. I've become very close with this family over the past year, and really met the bride during somewhat of a chance encounter: she's been undergoing treatments for lung cancer, and her future in-laws asked me to visit her one evening while she was in the hospital. A few months later, I baptized both her and her 9-year-old son, ministered to her after her mother's death, and have continued to support the entire family during a poor prognosis. I was also able to come to know the groom--who hadn't been much for religion or guys like me beforehand--very well.

On Saturday, they got married. For insurance purposes, there was no legal document involved. It was solely in the eyes of God that these two were married, with all the genuine love that they both had in their hearts for one another. The ceremony saw a couple mishaps, but I could tell that these would simply become part of their history together rather than The Ultimate Ruination of The Perfect Day.

Coffeeson came to the wedding, and slept through the whole thing. He slept through the reception, too. They'd ordered two kegs of beer for the reception, which I avoided because 1) it was Bud Light, and 2) I'm trying to stick to my new discipline (5 pounds lost and counting).

The CoffeeInLaws were up for a brief stay this weekend, as they had their own wedding to attend in the area. Between my duties on Saturday and my duties on Sunday morning, I actually didn't see too much of them. But what I did see was good.

Sunday morning was a full day. Our vocal and bell choirs combined to end their musical season with a piece called "Lord, I Stretch My Hand to You." It was a beautiful piece. I recommend it to certain Ohio-dwelling singing and bell-ringing pastors who may be reading this, if they haven't heard of it.

And then I had a baptism. I love baptisms. I love the potential that we celebrate together, the celebration of new life, the prayers and promises made. This little guy was all of four months old, and was a little fussy until the water touched his head. Then he got this wide-eyed look on his face and became very still. As I walked him down the aisle, I told him that we'd pray he'd never lose that look of wonder about the world. And I couldn't help myself: while he was still fussy, I jokingly let it slip out that "you remind me of someone."

That someone had been up half the night with no end in sight. So the Coffeefamily didn't make it to worship that day.

My sermon, by the way, did not feature any sort of "sacred conversation." With it being a baptism Sunday, it didn't feel right layering the UCC-recommended subject matter over top of it. I used Matthew 28:16-20 to tie baptism and the Trinity together, and I said a lot about how the Trinity isn't about trying to solve a math problem, but about three different kinds of experiences of the same God, and then praying that the one baptized has and claims that experience for himself.

Finally, I closed out the program year for the senior highs with our monthly after-worship discussion group. After a strong fall together, spring had hit a few snags due to snowy weather and Coffeeson's arrival, so I wanted to make sure to close out our year properly. I've taken a "Gospel According To..." approach to this discussion time, using movies, TV, and music as jumping-off points for discussion, and this past Sunday I used the Family Guy episode where Peter pretends he's a miracle healer and God visits the plagues on him.

Looking back, I probably won't use Family Guy again. Even though this was a tamer episode, it still had a couple points that made me cringe sitting with our youth. The Simpsons by comparison is much more age-appropriate.

I asked the kids to name all the Ten Commandments, and they did it with little trouble. So how about that?

That was my weekend, more or less. It was a good one.

No One Comes Near

In my haiku post from the other day, I included what may or may not have been an eyebrow-raiser for some folks:

Father McKenzie
Sermons for non-attendees
Yes, no one comes near

I thought that I might offer an explanation for this one, lest it be mis-interpreted. I don't know how or if anyone will mis-interpret it, actually. But I wanted to give an explanation anyway.

First, maybe you got the allusion to The Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby:"

Father McKenzie, writing the words
of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near

Now, at a glance, the above haiku coupled with the lyric may seem to indicate one of two things. First, it's a complaint that no one showed up to hear my sermon. Second, it's a complaint that people showed up but no one paid attention. It's actually a little more complicated than either of those things, and I don't want to give the impression that I wrote this poem to complain about my church.

When pastors write sermons, they sometimes have specific people in mind when they develop particular points. They may question how something will sound: a reference to death, for instance, to a recent widow. Or they may write particular lines in the hopes that particular people will hear them. This may sound a little passive-aggressive, and it probably is. Nevertheless, it's this later point that I mean.

Take my Pentecost sermon. The original title for it was "'Church is Boring,'" which is what confirmands have indicated to me in word or body language. When Pentecost rolled around this year, a day to celebrate the Spirit's work in the church and in believers, this phrase came back to me up against a story of an experience that had to have been anything but boring for those who were there (suspend your thoughts about factuality for the moment...I'm trying to make a larger point).

Then I began thinking about moments in the church's history that were anything but boring: the Reformation, the Boston Tea Party, the Confessing Church, and so on. These events where people of faith took action that was so much more than viewing the Bible as another textbook or putting up with those slow plodding hymns would indicate that a church where the Spirit is truly moving, felt, or responded to is anything but boring, and I wanted to say something about that in the hopes that people who feel dragged to this boring building every week could hear it and understand that there's more to faith than what you assume, and it can be much more exciting.

Well, most of those people stayed home this Sunday. They didn't hear this message. No one came near. The sermon still worked as a call out of complacency for the rest of us, but when originally conceived it was to throw a bone to the people who don't see the church as a very worthwhile place.

No one came near. Not the people I wanted to really hear it.

Maybe other preachers can relate to this. I don't know. But I wanted to flesh that out, anyway.

P.S. I have one member who was born in England, and for the past two Sundays she has had friends visiting from across the pond. I couldn't help but wonder how they heard my Boston Tea Party comment. But Coffeewife told me not to worry about it. So I haven't.

"A Different Kind of 'Exciting'" - A Sermon for Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21

Throughout junior high and high school, I went on a lot of mission trips through my church’s youth group. These were week-long work trips to inner city Philadelphia or Cincinnati, or more “outer reaches” type places in Illinois and Massachusetts.

The place in Massachusetts is called Heifer Project – if you’ve never heard of Heifer Project International, this is an organization that raises various animals to send to Third World areas to help their economy or their food supply. So essentially, Heifer Project is a farm, so we basically did farm work for the week when we went there.

I’ve been to Heifer Project twice. The first time I was a newly minted confirmand, and took the trip with some fellow confirmands (it was my first mission trip ever, actually). The second time I was a junior in high school – and my mom signed up as one of the chaperones. Actually, she’d become the youth group coordinator by this point, so there was no escaping being on that trip with her.

So during this week of farm work, we’d put up electric fences, clean the barn, feed the animals, milk goats and a cow – typical farm chores. Every day we’d be divided into subgroups to take on these different tasks, and one day my little subgroup was assigned the task of fixing up an overhang that housed lumber and other materials: cleaning it out, nailing up some tarps to keep out the rain, and so on.

My mom and I were in the same group that day, and I remember that morning very clearly. I remember it being hot and muggy. I remember my sinuses violently protesting the pollen count. I remember the bugs: flies and mosquitoes both. And I remember that it had come close to lunch time, and everyone else in my group had already headed back to get cleaned up. I’d wanted to quit for the morning as well, and come back later even though we’d only had a little more to do. I was standing on a ladder nailing up those tarps, and my mom looked up at me on the ladder and handed me another nail, and said, “Come on, let’s finish this. This is the hardest I’ve ever seen you work.”

I tell you this story about my mom for two reasons. One: it’s Mother’s Day, so it seemed appropriate. Two: it’s Pentecost, so it seemed appropriate.

The second reason probably sounds strange. What does a story about a mother’s encouragement to finish the job through sweat, discomfort, fatigue, and bugs have to do with Pentecost?

Believe it or not, it has everything to do with Pentecost. Here was a 17-year-old kid who was more interested in popping on his headphones than hammering nails. Here was someone more interested in air conditioning than the hot humid morning air. Here was someone more interested in being back with his friends than out alone finishing the work that everyone else had abandoned. Here was someone to whom music seemed more exciting, cool air seemed more exciting, laughing with his friends seemed more exciting. And the work that he was doing to help others didn’t seem so exciting. It was hard and tiring – but not exciting in the sense that he enjoyed it. It took someone else’s prodding for the task to be completed.

The story in Acts 2 of the first Pentecost can be called exciting – after all, it’s certainly not boring. Here we get the sound of a rushing wind; we get the disciples all speaking in different languages so that everyone who heard them could understand their message. People who hear and see them are amazed, confused, cynical, but nevertheless interested. This is not something that anyone – the disciples or the observers – is able to ignore.

Finally, Peter stands up in order to offer an explanation, and you can bet that he had an attentive audience by this point. He quotes the prophet Joel as he lays out what the work of God’s Spirit is about. It’s about men and women prophesying – in other words, calling people to own up to unfaithfulness. It’s about people receiving visions and dreams about what God truly wants out of God’s people – faithfulness, trust, love – and at the same time condemning people’s actions to the contrary.

These prophesies, visions and dreams couldn’t have been tremendously popular. The people at whom they’re directed probably got a little upset, to say the least. The people charged with delivering them probably didn’t want to give them because it would damage relationships; create tension and awkward moments.

The ability, the drive, the courage to do all of this through the sweat and discomfort had to come from someplace else…it had to come from Someone Else. In order for this work to be accomplished, in order for us to finish the job, we need the Holy Spirit to swoop in and light the passion within us and to say to our hearts, “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

When people talk about how exciting any particular church is or making the church more exciting, this stuff isn’t what they usually mention. When talking about an exciting church, people may talk about the upbeat music, or how many jokes the pastor told that day, or Sunday School classes that don’t weigh themselves down too much with that boring book called the Bible. There’s nothing wrong with these things – they can actually help engage different people in different ways; help them learn how to follow Jesus (except maybe the “Bible study with no Bible” thing).

But there are some other exciting things that the Holy Spirit may have in mind – a different kind of “exciting.” The Holy Spirit may have in mind some stuff that might make us sweaty or uncomfortable.

Think of some of the exciting things that church members have accomplished over the centuries.

Think about Martin Luther opposing practices of the Catholic church that he thought were oppressive or unnecessary, making him a pariah and drawing the ire of his church in the process. That’s not boring.

Think about New England Congregationalists who were responsible for the Boston Tea Party – church people sneaking onto ships in the middle of the night to chuck tea into the harbor! That’s not boring.

Think about Dietrich Bonhoeffer helping to organize opposition to the Nazi party. That’s not boring.

Think about Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. as he organized churches to combat racial discrimination. Think about the nights he spent in jail and the opposition he faced. That’s not boring.

The Holy Spirit helped inspire church people to these actions – hard, uncomfortable actions; actions that strained or broke relationships. This is the kind of exciting stuff (because it’s certainly not boring) to which the Holy Spirit calls the church, prodding us, speaking to our hearts while saying, “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

The Holy Spirit gives the church the passion and drive for justice, for God’s kingdom to come into view more fully through our actions: Actions like fixing up a needy person’s home. Actions like reconciliation between enemies. Actions like confronting our own prejudices.

Exciting actions, because they certainly weren’t boring.

Actions where people saw visions and dreamed dreams and prophesied faithfulness.

Actions that would have a much longer-lasting effect than the most exciting music or the most joke-laden sermon.

Actions where the Holy Spirit poked and prodded, and keeps poking and prodding, saying, “Come on. Let’s finish this. This is the hardest I’ve ever seen you work.”

Hard work, but not boring work.

Exciting work.

Spirit-filled work.

"Age of Anxiety" - A Sermon for Easter 7

As a sort of epilogue, here's what I ended up preaching this morning. In order for certain things to make sense, the title that appeared in the bulletin was "That They May All Be One," and it was a communion Sunday.

1 Peter 5:6-11

The first thing we need to do is change the title. After two weeks away and some mild sleep-deprivation, I’ve been slow to come up with something to say. And since the bulletin had to be run by Thursday, I was feeling a little pressed for time.

Likewise, even though John 17 appears as the focus text this morning, we need to back up to 1 Peter 5. This is a chapter—an entire letter, really—about suffering. The writer has a lot to say about suffering, as he addresses the actual suffering that his community was going through.

When times get really hard, one understandably wonders a couple things. First, you may wonder whether you’ll eventually crack under the pressure. One may try to resist breaking down completely in frustration, anger, or depression. One may try to resist complete emotional shutdown.

You may also wonder how long any particular hardship will go on; you may wonder how long you’ll need to endure it. At times, there’s a clear limit: perhaps the end of the day, or someone coming in to relieve you somehow. At other times, there seems to be no end in sight.

Finally, you may wonder where God is in all of it. How is God helping? IS God helping? When will God help? WILL God help? These are all ways that we become anxious about hardship, about difficult moments.

After acknowledging the hardship, the writer of 1 Peter also has a lot of encouragement in the midst of it. He has a lot to say along the lines of remaining steadfast in faith. He has a lot to say about trusting God’s presence. He has a lot to say about trusting in the one who raised Christ. He has a lot to say about trusting that the community is set aside for God’s mission, and thus God has not abandoned them.

And then we come to this chapter, where he returns to the theme of hardship when he says, “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.”

There was a lot of anxiety in that age, and there’s a lot of anxiety in this age as well.

That’s our new title, by the way: “Age of Anxiety.”

There’s plenty of anxiety to go around.

We may have anxiety about the state of the world. We may feel anxiety about wars and rumors of wars, tensions between countries or entire regions. We may have anxiety about people of different religions seemingly always at odds, with extreme fringes of those religions resorting to violence.

We may have anxiety about the state of the country. We may have anxiety as the presidential election becomes increasingly divisive and heated, as it always seems to do. We may have some anxiety over a byproduct of this year’s election being the topic of race, and how much misunderstanding and anger still exists between different racial groups.

We may have anxiety about church-related things. The United Church of Christ has come under increased scrutiny over the past few weeks because of the inflammatory words of Jeremiah Wright. Some may have anxiety about how that affects other local churches such as ours and members such as ourselves (by the way, if you want to talk about that, stop by the office or buy me coffee or something…I need coffee these days).

We may have anxiety about any number of personal concerns: life transitions such as graduation, employment, finances, disease, birth, death.

There really is plenty of anxiety to go around. And what does the future hold for any of it? What can we expect tomorrow, or even an hour from now? Will we crack under the pressure? How long will this anxiety last? What is God doing in the midst of all of it?

Then here’s this verse again: “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.” I wonder how his original community reacted to that. How many took it to heart, and how many blew it off, saying, “Do you really know what we’re going through?”

Surely the writer didn’t mean it in some sort of dismissive way. He didn’t mean to minimize the hardship and anxiety they were feeling. He didn’t just throw it out there like a pithy piece of advice to “just pray harder” or “just believe more.” Here is a community trying to stay together, trying to maintain their trust in God and each other. The writer knew that.

Here is a community with plenty of anxiety, plenty of opportunity to crack under the pressure or abandon their faith. The writer knew that, too.

This piece of advice to entrust our anxiety to God doesn’t happen by itself – it doesn’t stand alone as something to print on flowery greeting cards at Hallmark or Berean. It comes after a long description of suffering, a long acknowledgment that yes, there are some bad things happening; some real gut-busting kinds of things that we can’t shake by trying to think good thoughts. These are things that may keep us up at night or that we carry through the day.

But we don’t need to carry them by ourselves. That’s what the writer of 1 Peter is getting at. He encourages his audience to trust God with their anxiety. He also encourages them to trust each other with them. He reminds them that their brothers and sisters in Christ are going through hard times and anxieties as well.

This community is told to share anxiety with God – to share, to commune. They’re told to share anxiety with each other – to share, to commune.

That’s how this table works. We are sharing ourselves – our joys, our sorrows, our anxieties, our dreams – with God, and with Christ our host. And we are also sharing with each other. We are sharing the good news that Christ is present and resurrected.

Here we are given these real, tangible elements. Here are things that we can chew and things we can feel in our stomachs. Here are physical things that can show us spiritual things. Here are gut-filling things to help us through gut-busting things.

Here we are told that God is with us, and that our fellow believers are with us. Here, we are told that our anxieties are meant to be shared just as we share Christ – that we may all be one.

Saturday Special

I hate writing my sermon on Saturday, but that's what I'll end up doing this week.

I do my best to avoid this predicament. In fact, my routine usually sees the notes finished on Wednesday or Thursday, and then I can spend the rest of the week thinking about the moment itself: how to flesh out a particular point more, or the tweaking of words or phrases so as not to be misunderstood.

This week has been a shorter week. Due to officiating a funeral over my paternity leave, I came in on Wednesday rather than Tuesday. And ever since then, I've been wrestling with what to say on Sunday.

It's not for lack of material. This week I've become increasingly aware that Jeremiah Wright is on the collective mind of my congregation. Questions of how it all relates to us, or how someone like him is a part of our denomination, or whether there are different "branches" of our denomination have been put to me recently. Wright has been on my mind besides, because I've still been trying to figure out what parts of his message and ministry I support and what parts I reject. And with all this in mind, I've been trying to figure out whether addressing any of this in a sermon is a good idea.

The original plan for this Sunday was to do just that. Following the lectionary, I was going to use Jesus' prayer in John 17 "that they may be one" to talk about UCC polity, what it means to be united without being uniform, disagreeing with Wright without leaving the table, and so on. I wondered whether giving Wright this much time in the pulpit was a worthwhile thing, a needed thing. My main angle was to explain our polity in order to answer some of those questions above. I intended it to not even really be a discussion of Wright, but a discussion of how we do things in the UCC.

So I began my outline just yesterday. I talked out loud to an empty sanctuary. I began thinking about words and phrasing so as not to be misunderstood. And I still worried and wondered, and still worry and wonder, whether this is a worthwhile thing, a needed thing.

And then late last night and early this morning, Coffeewife and I sat up with Coffeeson, trading our wide-awake child back and forth. His refusal to go to sleep confounded us both: was he hungry? gassy? frustrated? bored? The minutes ticked away with seemingly no end in sight. It gave me plenty of time to consider what a sermon on John 17 in this cultural moment should contain.

Eventually, however, something else happened.

My sleep-deprived self started not to give a damn.

I suddenly didn't care who won the election, and I didn't care what anyone anywhere thought of Jeremiah Wright, and I didn't care what I would say on Sunday. I didn't care because it was freaking 1:00 in the morning and I had other concerns at the moment, and I didn't care because I'd thought about all of it for so long that I was just fed up with thinking about it.

It was at that moment that I remembered what I originally planned on preaching about from 1 Peter: "cast all your anxieties on him because he cares for you." People are anxious about Wright and people are anxious about our election, but they're also anxious about babies who won't go to sleep and whether they're good parents for not knowing how to deal with it. People are anxious about a lot of things, like what to say in a sermon or what they might hear from their pastor on a given Sunday.

I don't know whether it'd be more or less responsible to say something about that instead, or whether people really need to be better educated about how a guy like Wright is part of a church like ours.

I don't know. It makes me anxious.

Still, I'd better come up with something pretty soon.

A Pentecostal Mother's Day

Jan reflects on a fairly common dilemma that preachers face on Mother's Day:

Here's the thing: it's never felt as comfortable being the mom as it felt honoring the mom on the second Sunday in May. I go along with the whole thing because my kids and husband generously want to give me "my special day." But for lots and lots of people -- women who long to be moms, people with mean moms, people with moms who left, people whose moms died giving birth to them, moms of children who died, moms with children in the military, people with sick moms, and my own club: people with dead moms -- it's a virtual pain fest.

I myself was not overly aware of this side of Mother's Day until seminary when classmates shared how they experience the day, which was certainly not the stuff of Hallmark cards.

At one of my field placement churches, I was actually told to preach on Mother's Day because everyone else on staff hated doing it. They felt the congregational pressure to address it; they knew the true complexity of the day for some, and they didn't like dealing with it every year. So I dealt with it, choosing to reflect on how God can be like a parent--not specifically mother--to us. I aimed to give a message of assurance that God is in relationship with us even when our own parental relationships aren't what we'd like them to be, and then I said something about giving thanks for those who have been like parents to us, biological or no. Something like that. Afterwards, one little old lady pulled me aside and chastised me for using gender-neutral language for God. So for some, I didn't do any better than my colleagues would have.

For me, nearly every Mother's Day since and including that one, I've only alluded to Mother's Day rather than giving a full-out reflection on it: I tell a story, or I do some other small thing to acknowledge it or tie it in, and we always sing "A Christian Home." I say "nearly" because last year I was as direct about it as I've ever been, although the specifics are lost to me now. I do remember not feeling especially proud about it, though.

So this year, preachers have an extra special treat: they get Mother's Day and Pentecost on the same day. I didn't fully realize this until after I'd already come up with a decent theme for Pentecost: I'm going to contrast the sentiment that "church is boring" with some of the exciting things that churchpeople have done over the centuries: the Boston Tea Party, the Civil Rights movement, stuff like that. I was going to argue that exciting church isn't all about upbeat music or climbing walls or the pastor loading his sermons with jokes, but moreso about Spirit-filled people daring to go out on a limb to live out God's kingdom.

Yeah, I haven't quite figured out how to tie Mother's Day into that yet.

As I reflect just now, however, I'm seeing firsthand how much of a risk parenthood (inclusive language~!) is. It's something that for some is easy to minimize or discard or shy away from, but it takes some patience and strength to stick with. There's probably a tie-in between the kind of patience and strength that it takes to be a Christian and the kind that it takes to be a mother, or father, or parent, or guardian, or whatever. And neither of these things are boring, if we're open to the experience, the Spirit's call, or both. Maybe that's my link.

I have a couple more weeks to think about it.

My Own Gilead, Part 2

According to one study, the average stay for the average pastor in one church is 7.5 years. That's actually longer and more optimistic than some other studies I've read, which put the average around 5.5 or less.

By the time I graduated high school, I'd lived in five different communities, the longest stay being 5.5 years. One doesn't exactly learn patience or how to take deep root with that kind of life. In fact, my current 3.5-year stay where I am is a pretty average length of time. So if I was to pattern my ministry after what I've experienced, I'm probably about due to start searching for my next gig, give or take another year.

The fortunate side to this is that in contrast to my father's life as a full-time pastor, my own ministry thus far does not feature congregational backbiting, betrayal by friends, anonymous threats, and the demand to put church ahead of family. My church is wonderful for doing none of those things, so I currently have a very good chance of getting to 7.5 or longer, rather than scraping and clawing to 5.5 and moving on.

Besides that, if I actually packed myself up every five years, do you know how many churches I'd serve at the end of a 40-year career? Too damn many, that's how many. In other professions, you can change jobs while staying within the same company and even the same building and thus don't necessarily need to move to a new community each time. Mainline pastors can't do that. They typically need to find out where the open churches of their denomination are, and go there. Doing this would bring way too many transitions for my family, way too many school districts for my son, and way too many "fresh starts" for me as a pastor. And never enough time to do much of anything in any one church. Good ministry is partially about longevity, and so is a healthy home situation as far as I'm concerned.

Will I be in my current church forever? Probably not, if I'm honest. However, the timing of leaving and the amount of time that I've spent here will partially determine how successful or worthwhile our work has been together. I don't necessarily need to set some sort of goal for how long to stay. But I think it's a worthwhile goal for every pastor to pursue more years at fewer churches over the span of a career, unless you're an intentional interim or are single with no kids. For these two groups, it is either the nature of your call or simply easier to uproot yourself.

I'm not into the "mercenary pastor" style of ministry. I'd make a terrible Methodist. I understand the arguments against staying too long (and "too long" is in the eye of the beholder). But if I can look back over my Pastoral Record book and count the number of churches that I've served on one hand, then I'll be satisfied that I tried my best at stability. For me, for the Coffeefamily, and for any and all churches that I end up serving, that'll be the most important thing for all of us.

I Want to Preach at General Synod

I want to preach at General Synod.

I preach almost every week, so you know I’ve had a lot of practice.

No, seriously. You should see it. I’ve got a couple shelves of commentaries that I pull out every week, and I study. I turn the text inside out, pull it apart, piece it back together and make new shapes out of it. I ponder the richness of its meaning for a new day and age where people are interested in the new day and age. I relate it. I’m very good at relating. You could say that I’m relatable. I’m a relatable preacher. I take a text and relate it because people like relatability. You should see the amount of relating that I do. This isn’t some dusty, overly poetic stuff…I’m gritty. A gritty kind of relatable. Unless you don’t like gritty. Do you like gritty? Or do you like poetic more? I can do poetic. But rest assured, it’s a relatable poetic.

So let me preach at General Synod. I preach almost every week, so you know I’ve had a lot of practice.

Maybe you’re looking for something more prophetic, something to really bring the masses to their feet in passionate angry appreciation. Maybe you want something that’ll inspire protests and demonstrations and strongly-worded letters and righteous indignation, but most of all something that’ll look good on a DVD.

I’m righteous. I’m indignant. I’d look good on a DVD. Just you watch. I’ll righteously, indignantly cut down the evil empires of our day and age (not someone else’s day and age, mind you, but OUR day and age, the NEW day and age). I’ll cut them down with God’s righteous anger, which happens to be my righteous anger, too. And it’ll be a relatable, poetic and/or gritty righteous anger for our new day and age and not some old has-been day and age.

Go ahead and let me preach at General Synod. I preach almost every week, so you know I’ve had lots and lots of practice.

I know what it is…you want someone who’s well-known. You want someone with a book deal, who speaks at conventions, who has honorary degrees and serves on National or International Councils of Justice and Truth. Well, it just so happens that once had a magazine article published. Yeah, really, I did. With ink. And on shiny paper. I spoke at an 8th-grade assembly once, and one other time I gave a talk to a senior citizens’ group. I serve on a local board that oversees a food pantry. I walk in the Relay for Life. I don’t have an honorary degree, but I have three that I studied for. Plus I’m sure any day now somebody will give me one. It’s just a matter of time. They’ll read my magazine article or watch me walking around that track and be all like, “Hey! That’s our guy!” I’m sure that’s all it’ll take.

Let me preach at General Synod. You know you want to. I preach almost every week and to our day and age, not to some crusty old day and age with horse-drawn wagons and outdoor toilets. You know I’ve had lots of practice.

I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. Maybe that’ll help. I can have my guy with the phone number for the next guy CALL the next guy, who will in turn look up his number for the next next guy, who subsequently of course will call the aforementioned guy and say, “This guy I know, who knows this other guy, knows this other guy who knows a guy who wants to preach at Synod. He’ll preach to our day and age and get people to write strongly-worded letters and has a magazine article and any day now will have an honorary degree. Okay then, I’ll let him know he’s in!” And that’s all it’ll take because when they hear that I’ll preach to our day and age and not some musty day and age with wooden ships and the Plague, I know they’ll give me a shot.

So get me on the freaking schedule for General Synod, because I preach almost every week and sometimes twice if it’s Christmas Eve, so I’ve had tons and tons of practice.

Okay, fine. They won’t give me a stupid honorary degree. Not many people have really seen my magazine article, but the few that did gave me some very nice compliments. I know a guy…hell, I know a lot of guys. Some of them come to my Bible studies, one plows the parking lot, and another one watches wrestling with me. They know some guys who in turn know some guys, but really all we do is keep up with each others’ lives and sometimes pray and sometimes just talk and laugh.

I don't proclaim justice from the rooftops that often, but I’ve had some honest one-on-one conversations. I’ve never really gotten that righteously indignant, but I’ve hounded people to give more time and energy to Habitat and food delivery and cancer treatment and mental health awareness. I don't run an orphanage or anything like that, but I help people in need when I meet them.

I’ve never even received a standing ovation, not even at that 8th-grade assembly. But some people think that I have a gift. Some have said that through tears of sadness or laughter because something I said actually connected. It doesn’t happen every week or every month. But every once in a while I say the right thing.

You don’t have to let me preach at General Synod. But you have to understand that I’ve had lots of practice with relationships and people’s struggles with health, faith, life, and death, people who’ve been treated to the joy and the disappointment of this day and age. I talk to them a lot, and I often preach to them…almost every Sunday, in fact.

Almost every Sunday, but really almost every day of the week.

So you know I’ve had lots of practice.

I Was Watching

I’m a preacher’s kid. Before you go assuming things, I’m a preacher despite being a preacher’s kid. Some people might think that my career choice is the natural thing based on my upbringing. You see, I had seminary classmates with some very colorful, rich, at times painful stories leading up to their calls to ministry. By the time people got to me and heard the famous initials, “P.K.,” they thought they had me all figured out.

I’m not mad at anybody for their assumptions. Looking back, I should have told my story sooner. Still, if you think you know why a preacher’s kid entered the ministry him- or herself, you probably want to ask them just to make sure.

So having said that, here are a few things that you need to know about preacher's kids and the ministry.

My father’s ministerial career was what you might call a mixed bag of experiences. He can tell you the story way better than I can, so I won’t bother with a full recap. But I do need to tell you that by the time we wound up in northeast Ohio I was old enough to pay attention, and I can tell you what I saw.

Picture this: a 12-year-old boy in the living room, watching cartoons or playing with Legos or doing whatever else 12-year-olds do, with little sense of the world outside the one he’s creating for himself right here on the carpet. When the phone rings, he does exactly what he has been taught. Dutifully, he meanders over to answer and asks to take a message since his father isn’t around. It is at that point that the older lady on the other end who never did happen to give her name says to the pastor’s son, “You tell him that if he doesn’t change his tactics, he’s not going to have a church.” Make sure that you hear those words spoken so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if reality has just been defined for you and you have no room to question it.

While you’re picturing that, think about what you might say to this child about how the church is full of wonderful, loving, accepting people who are only interested in serving Jesus and building up the Body of Christ. Think about how you might try to reassure him that stories about good Samaritans and sayings about loving one another are still true in the face of an anonymous threat that he, all of 12 years old, is supposed to relay to his father. What words do you have that will warm his spirit after hearing such a cold declaration spoken from afar?

Still think that it’s obvious why I’m a pastor?

I hadn’t watched the church’s actions a whole lot up until that moment, but at that point you can bet that I was paying attention. In fact, I started watching very carefully. I watched the night two other trusted church members dropped by to talk about the phone call and options about how to respond. I watched the hurt and determination in my parents’ eyes the day they pulled me aside to explain that they’d fight what was going on. I watched the day the congregation gathered to take a vote on whether he’d remain as their pastor. All the while, I watched the changes in my father’s mood toward the whole ministry enterprise: how deeply this latest ordeal had injured him and how off guard this had caught my entire family. I watched a community professing one thing acting out something completely different, and you can bet that as I watched all of this I wondered what kind of people Christians really are and what kind of a place the church really is.

This type of experience doesn’t exactly get people eager and anxious to sign up for seminary.

As we moved to yet another community and yet another school system, I brought a lot of resentment with me. In fact, out of some hopeful longing I told myself over the first few weeks or so that this was all a temporary thing: that my parents were looking for a house back closer to where we lived before, that we’d soon be back with old friends and that becoming too comfortable or familiar with our new situation would be a waste of time because it’d surely be over soon. I cried over my morning cereal the day this illusion came crashing down. But I always knew who to blame.

It’s all that church’s fault, I told myself. This nameless voice and whomever was backing it up was to blame for forcing us to start over. I heard it and I watched what it started, and I was living its results.

Now, you have to understand something else about preacher’s kids, and that’s that the people who raised them aren’t just preachers. And you have to understand that the determination with which people tell their children that they’re going to fight the church’s darker elements is the same determination with which they resolve to ensure the well-being of their family.

That determination can turn a former pastor into a third-shift factory worker for a time.

That determination causes them to sit patiently with their oldest son crying over his Cheerios when he realizes that he needs to settle in at his new surroundings.

I was watching then as well. And that’s important to watch, because when you watch during those moments, you see that people of faith transcend the church. You realize that the real possibility exists for people of faith to rise above power players, above traditionalism, above even arguments over “tactics.” You bet your ass that I was watching when this happened, and it was one of the many things that helped me figure out that this was one church, perhaps even one small group within one church, that causes these types of injuries.

It’s because I watched the entire thing, from beginning to end, that helped renew my own faith in the church’s possibilities. It was one of the many things that I watched that helped me decide that I wanted to take a chance on those possibilities myself.

So when preacher’s kids go into the ministry themselves, it’s because they were watching.

They were watching, and they saw it all.

They were watching, and they knew God was still calling.

They were watching, and they answered “yes” anyway.

It's Almost Here

I'm just getting positively giddy for the beginning of Lent.

GIDDY~!

Let me just say that if you've never "gotten into" Lent before, iMonk's got you covered with some places to start.

As for myself, I wrote my reflection for Ash Wednesday this week (see? GIDDY~!), in which I play off of those annoying HeadOn commercials. You know the one: "Apply directly to the forehead!" Get it?

The Ash Wednesday service is one of my favorite services that I lead all year. There's a different atmosphere in evening worship, and this service is so simple, yet so meaningful. For a church this size, we get a good crowd for it, too.

Subsequent Wednesdays, we'll do our soup supper and program thing. This year I'm going a pretty straightforward route and leading reflections on Jesus' final week, based on Borg and Crossan's book. I'm especially looking forward to discussing Palm Sunday and views on atonement...I think people will be into that.

As far as any sort of discipline goes, you may recall th