Good Enough

I’ve been intrigued by buzz around Sheryl Sandberg’s book Lean In.  I haven’t read the book (yet), but the conversations about it have been fascinating.  I agree with the idea that in order to survive—even thrive—in life, we have to make choices about where we spend our energy.  I also think it applies to men as well as women.  A balanced life is a myth.  There’s no way we can “do it all” or spin all our plates in the air at once.  A fulfilled life involves prioritizing, hard choices and loving community support.  Better to spend energy and do few things very well than to spread oneself too thin and do a mediocre job across the board.

But--there are times in life when everything seems to fall out of place, and there’s no energy left to put it back together.  For perfectionists, these periods are excruciating.  I know.  When I can’t perform to my perceived utmost best, I’m tempted to not perform at all (note the lack of blog posts for the past month).  Last week I found myself leaving the doctor’s office with a prescription for antiviral meds and a case of shingles.  This isn’t convenient in the middle of Lent.  I had to let go of some important tasks and spend lots of time with an ice pack on my couch.  I was forced to depend on others to care for me as I rested.  I had to settle for less time spent on my sermon.  I couldn’t wait until I felt 100% better before I showed my face again.  I had to admit my weakness and ask for patience. 

Sometimes we can’t strike a perfect balance in life (isn’t leaning in—and out—an attempt at balance?).  There are times when we’re held up by others.  There are times when we have to be good enough.  Good enough because we’re worthy of patience and understanding.  Good enough because we need help.  Good enough because we can’t do our best all the time.  Good enough because we’re beloved children of God.

Sometimes the bare minimum is all we can do.  And sometimes that’s good enough.  I'm feeling better.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”  Matthew 11:28-30 (from The Message)

Ashes

Last night I forgot the oil to mix with the ashes.  For some reason, we pastors never think to get the ashes until the last minute (or maybe that’s just me).  Every Ash Wednesday I feel like I step over a threshold and begin the steep drop to Easter.  Maybe I try to hold off the day because I’m never quite ready for Lent, even though I love it.  Before last night’s service, I found someone willing to go home and grab some oil out of her kitchen.  It felt appropriate to mix the ashes with oil from a partially-used up bottle—oil used to make nightly dinners.  Ashes are earthly and homey, not some mysterious concoction I put together using various potions in my office.  Ashes are us.  

I remember frantically burning leaves on the front stoop of our open country parsonage while preparing to preside over my very first Ash Wednesday service.  I shivered out in the prairie wind, trying to prevent the smoldering ash in my metal pie tin from blowing away.  No one told me leaves don’t make good ashes.  I spent too much time picking out various sticks and chunks of earth before mixing them with the olive oil in my cupboard—because new pastors do hear about the horrors of mixing ashes with water.  Doing so creates lye, which burns skin.  A secret part of me has always liked the image of people leaving the church with little crosses seared onto their foreheads—a Harry Potter-like mark of our sin and redemption.

Marking people with ashes is emotional.  The first few years I held back tears every time I placed them on the smooth foreheads of infants and children.  Each year I wonder who is receiving the ashes for the last time.  While people come forward, time stops and the repetition of the words “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return” sits heavy on my heart.  I’m humbled by the intimacy of declaring death while people allow me into their personal space.  Some people close their eyes.  Others meet mine, listening intently to my words as I push their hair aside and smudge ashes onto their skin.  The earthiness of it grounds us.  God isn’t far away in some abstract place we hope to see someday.  Oh no—God is in the ashes and my words, on our skin and in our hearts, keeping us tethered to the earth that creates and sustains us.

Sometimes we want God to be abstract, to put God into a box pushed against the wall in the living room, to put God in a crate when we leave the house.  We don’t want to be reminded of the false promises we chase every day—promises of younger skin, a fulfilled life through whole foods and yoga, an easy solution in the next self-help book.  Ash Wednesday takes these promises and exposes them for what they are—empty.  The truth is in the ashes.  We are mortal.  Our days are numbered.  Nothing will change that truth.  Only God gives us hope and salvation as we live day-to-day.  God sits in the ashes with us, in the depression and addiction and hopelessness and broken promises and bad choices and pornography and abuse and SIN.  And out of these ashes—through the cross—rises the resurrection promise and the freedom to give it all to God who has changed your life already through the love and grace and mercy found in Jesus Christ. 

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Amen.       

Sermon for February 3, 2013

Text: Jeremiah 1:4-10, Luke 4:21-30

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would build me up, but it broke me in half.

I was too young to hear it, but it claimed to create me from the beginning.

When Jeremiah hears God calling him, he claims he doesn’t know how to speak because he’s only a boy.  God says, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’, for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you.”

It would fill my heart with fear, but it terrified me to my very core.

Throughout the Bible, whenever God or God’s messengers appear, they find terrified people.  So often throughout Scripture we hear, “Do not be afraid.”

It would close my mouth in humility, but it commanded me to speak.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would humble me, but it appointed me above the nations.

It would look for someone better, but it found me.

Eula Hall, an Appalachian activist with only an 8^th grade education, founded Mud Creek Clinic many years ago in southeastern Kentucky to provide health care for the poor.  She calls herself “the hillbilly activist.”  She said, “I looked, and I said to myself, ‘taint right like this, no medical service here, taint right. Somebody needs to act.’ I guess that somebody was me.”

It would give me comfort, but it commanded me to destroy and overthrow.

The Freedom Riders risked their lives during the Civil Rights movement by riding public transportation throughout the South and challenging the unjust laws.  They were committed to nonviolent action, and they were regularly beaten and jailed.  Many of them were in their 40s and 50s.

It would leave me in ruins, but it called me to open up a new creation.

The actions of the Freedom Riders led to the credibility of the Civil Rights movement and helped bolster civil rights campaigns, desegregation, and fair voter registration.

It would make me special, but it made me see the outsider.

Jesus’ hometown church thought they were important because they knew him from when he was young.  Jesus deeply offended them and led them to violent rage by saying he came for the outsiders and not only for them.  A good clue: if people aren’t special in our society, chances are they are the most special people to God.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would predict the future, but it gave me the truth about the present.

Prophets don’t predict the future.  Instead they give the truth about right now. 

It would give me visions of the fruits of my work, but it forced me to be patient and rely on God.

It would give me peace, but it made me open my eyes to suffering.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would center me, but it flung me to the outer edges of society.

It would slow me down, but it sent me on a journey to Jerusalem.

It would quench my thirst, but it walked me into the desert.

It would protect me, but it allowed me to go the cross.

Following Jesus means to follow the path of the cross.  We die to selfishness, greed, ambition, jealousy, and consumerism.  We are raised to a new life of joy, promise, hope and justice.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would stay steady, but it crossed all boundaries, including the tomb.

It would only speak to me, but it became a man who died for me.

It would tell me why I don't deserve to hear it.  It gifted me with pure grace and love.

I thought the Word of the Lord would break me down.  It did.  And it gave me a new beginning—one full of salvation, hope, and a meaningful life.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought...

It would speak and I would listen. 

I became a Living Word.

Amen.

Spiritual But Not Religious

Lillian Daniel is senior pastor of First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, in Glen Ellyn, Illinois.  She published an explosive article over a year ago that’s still reverberating throughout mainline Protestant conversations.  It’s titled “Spiritual But Not Religious? Please Stop Boring Me.”  I also found this recent interview of Rev. Daniel very helpful.  I’ve been pondering her assertions since I read her article. 

She refutes the idea that those who claim to be “spiritual but not religious” are somehow unique or on a higher plane than those who participate in a religious community.  She unabashedly defends the benefits of being part of a congregation, and says she is done apologizing for Christian churches and pastors who are nothing like her and the congregation she serves.  She’s direct, unapologetic, and forceful.

Rev. Daniel is careful to say she isn’t speaking to those who’ve left after being hurt by the church.  Every pastor has heard story after story from people whose deep pain cuts our hearts and stirs up our righteous anger toward hurtful congregations and pastors.  Yet often these congregations aren’t anything like hers, and she’s tired of people lumping all of Christianity together.

Her words hit a nerve.  Her article is polarizing—some are profoundly offended, others are energized.  Her article has almost 600 comments on The Huffington Post, many of them critical.  I heard Rev. Daniel speak about this topic at the Festival of Homiletics in Atlanta last May.  The audience was made up of a thousand pastors from many different denominations.  She received a standing ovation.    

A particular comment in the interview I reference above has stayed with me:

When I speak on this topic people often accuse me of not being compassionate, and often it’s my fellow mainline clergy in the Protestant world, particularly in the liberal traditions, and I myself am in the liberal Protestant tradition. Their attitude seems to be, “These are wounded people, and if we are just kind and nice and listen to them, they will show up in our pews.” I think that’s been the mainline evangelism project for the last 50 years: “If we’re nice, they will come.” And how’s it working for us?

Pastors (often women pastors) use niceness as a crutch.  There is terror in the possibility someone will think we’re opinionated, direct and unapologetic.  We diminish our extensive training and education that qualify us to preach, teach and guide.  This translates into our congregations.  The upheld and cherished value becomes “we’re a nice congregation.”  When people ask what they love about their church, the answer is “We’re friendly and welcoming.”  Or—“Our pastor is really nice.”  Or—“We’re not like that church down the road.”  We don’t expect anything of our congregations.  And in Minnesota, the cultural values line up well.

So often our evangelism tactic is purely reactive.  We're so afraid of offending we start every conversation with a new person with an apology.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know you.”  “I’m sorry, do you understand our antiquated bulletin?”  Or—even worse—we become so paralyzed by fear we don’t approach anyone new.  Or—even worse than that—we’re apathetic about our church and don’t think anyone would really want what we have to offer.  We’re surprised when we see new members join, and we hope they stick around even after they discover our foibles.  We try to please and we forget to challenge.

I find Rev. Daniel's unabashed love for her congregation and denomination refreshing and inspiring.  She sincerely believes being part of a religious community is valuable and life-changing.  She believes the church offers crucial benefits to our faith.  She claims participating in a church is deeper and more meaningful than reading The New York Times or hiking in the woods on Sunday mornings.  To be a part of a religious community means to be fed, shaped and inspired.  She’s proud of what her community has to offer and she doesn’t apologize. 

Evangelism comes from our hearts.  It’s not about filling pews to balance the budget.  True evangelism grows from our own unabashed love for our church and our faith.  We evangelize when we show others how our faith has made a difference in our lives.  We move others when we’re honest about our belief in God and the role of our religious community.  We don’t need to apologize for the inspiration and guidance we find in our church.  Rather, we boldly claim our faith changes us, and being challenged by our religious communities is integral to our growth.  We pray people in our communities are challenged and stretched.

We’ve been nice long enough.  It’s time to be proud and challenging and confident.  Let’s embrace the countless way our religious communities make a difference.  Let’s sing their praises and claim our unique offerings to the world.  We have much to offer. 

Christmas Sermon

Sermon for 12-24-12

Text: Luke 2:1-20

Let us pray:  God Incarnate, God with us, enter into our lives this day and every day.  May the Good News of Jesus Christ claim our hearts and give us hope in the midst of our everyday lives.  Amen.

I’m going to share something with all of you.

I’m a bit of a Scrooge.

I have a strong stubborn streak, and whenever I’m faced with expectations about how I’m supposed to act or be, I get bucky. 

I get bucky about Christmas.

The expectations are overwhelming.  I don’t enjoy wrapping presents (I said it!).  I don’t like crowds, so taking the kids to see Santa is painful.  I don’t like being told I’m supposed to be cheerful and happy.  Sometimes I am happy.  Sometimes I want to be grumpy at Christmas, or sad, or disappointed or tired.

I get caught up in the idea that somehow I am holding Christmas up—holding it all together. That if I slip and let something fall, Christmas won’t be right.  What if I don’t get the Christmas cards out on time?  What if I don’t get that favorite cookie made?  What if I don’t get that present mailed?  There are so many expectations and so little time, and that makes me grumpy.

Christmas is hard to pin down because each one can be so different, and it changes as we get older.  

Some Christmases can never be replicated.  I’ll never again have a Christmas like the one when I was in elementary school—when Santa brought me a red-haired Cabbage Patch doll named Jill. 

I’ll never again have a Christmas like the first time I led Christmas Eve worship as a pastoral intern in Boise, ID and I went out to Olive Garden with the Associate Pastor between services and my husband and I spent a quiet Christmas Day together—just the two of us—our very first Christmas together as a married couple. 

I’ll never have a Christmas like my first leading a congregation in a church in a tiny town, when a young boy came back to my office with me after the service, chatting the entire time.  When we came back to the sanctuary, everyone was gone, including his family (his parents and his grandparents each assumed the other had taken him).  We waited together in the dark and quiet church, looking out at the cold and snow.

And now I have Christmases with my own kids, which brings a specialness of its own.

I know you can all share a multitude of Christmas memories.  Each Christmas is different, and we collect Christmas stories as the years go on.

I’ve spent Christmases full of new and profound grief, Christmases spent sleeping as I recovered from intense college finals weeks, Christmases when my whole family got the stomach flu and threw up together, Christmases trying to blend two families, Christmases changed by divorce, Christmases ending old traditions and starting new ones.

Christmas is full of memories, hopes, dreams, expectations, stress, disappointment, joy, strife, and grief.  As we get older, we realize many of the Christmas songs we love are full of longing and feel bittersweet.  The Christmas hymns we sing are full of memories and carry history in our hearts and as we get older they become bittersweet as well.  

Christmas is fickle, and every year is different—some years are great and some years aren't so great.

But one thing is always the same.

Every year, we hear this Christmas story from the book of Luke.

Every year, we hear about Jesus arriving in a humble stable to people just like us, people harried and not quite ready for his arrival.  The angels visited a group of shepherds, who were people on the outskirts of society, able to give nothing. 

Jesus doesn’t come after we have it all together.  Jesus doesn’t wait to arrive until after all the presents are wrapped and under the tree and the house is clean and ready for guests.  Jesus doesn’t wait until we’re appropriately cheerful and full of the Christmas spirit.  Jesus doesn’t wait until our relationships are mended and we’re finally nice to that uncle who we have to invite over for the holidays. 

Jesus doesn’t wait until our faith is strong.

Jesus arrives in the middle of all of it.  God chooses Mary and Joseph as his parents, people who are young and unsure and scared—and who aren’t ready for him.  God surprises the shepherds while they sleep and watch over their flocks on the hill. 

Christmas is not about us.  We’re not holding it up.  Even if we have the worst Christmas ever, even if we don’t buy a single present or bake a single Christmas cookie, God arrives.  Even if the hardships of life bear down upon us and we feel like we’ve completely given up on God, God arrives in the midst of it all and says, “Do not be afraid.  I bring you Good News.  For this day a child has been born for YOU, who is Christ the Lord.  All is well.”  God hasn’t given up on you.

It doesn’t matter what kind of a Christmas you’re having.  If you’re having a wonderful Christmas this year, be thankful and blessed.  If you’re having a terrible Christmas, be lifted up by the hope and new future given to us all by the birth of a baby boy.  May God’s unconditional love surround you and give you comfort and joy this season.

Now let’s keep singing and rejoicing, no matter what.

Amen!

No One Could Blow Them Out

Before worship yesterday, I pondered what I would say about the horrific events in Connecticut. The children were leading worship so I wasn't preaching.  I decided to light two candles on the altar in remembrance (thankfully realizing 28 lit candles wouldn't mix well with wiggly, excited kids) and say some brief words at the beginning of worship.  I wanted to be vague (so I wouldn't scare any children) and talk about how our act of worship--led by our children--was our way to stand in the face of unimaginable violence.

When I stood up in front of the congregation to say my opening remarks, I directly faced the kids bouncing around at the entrance to the sanctuary, waiting to process in.  They sparkled with energy (not only because many of them wore itchy shiny gold halos).  I could almost see the cloud of nervous joy rise up like dust around their feet.  They were safe, enjoying life, and surrounded by people who love them.  My gratefulness at this simple morning overwhelmed me and the emotions were too much.  I stood in front of the congregation without words, and we wept together in grief and thankfulness for the lives of our children and children everywhere.

I'll never forget how the children led worship yesterday--not because it was perfect but because it was profoundly meaningful.  I'll remember the twins who geared themselves up to say their lines by taking a moment to breathe deeply and say "Okay!" to themselves.  And the girl who ran past the microphone, barely getting her line out before disappearing into the pews.  And the girl who stood an extra moment in the spotlight, grinning out at the crowd.  And the boy who tripped over his flowing robe, and the girl who spoke so eloquently I had a vision of her as a future teacher, and the boy who said his lines so earnestly, and the sisters with the matching pigtails and smiles, and the boy who took a bit longer than the rest to line up to sing, and the tiny girl who stole the whole show.  And the words of Scripture, words of hope and prophecy reminding us to love our neighbor, read by children's voices.

After worship, I became distracted by conversations and a long meeting.  When most people had left, I turned out the lights in the quiet building.  I noticed two candles still burning on the altar.  No one could blow them out.

8 Lessons I’ve Learned After 8 Years of (Mostly) Solo Ministry

I’m not a seasoned pastor by any means, but this list is full of what I’ve learned at the beginning of my career in ministry.  The lessons, both painful and enlightening, are still fresh in my mind, so here they are, written as for a new pastor:                 

1. Network.

Having a group of other pastors to talk honestly with and glean ideas from is essential.  If you aren’t part of a weekly text study, join one.  If you can’t find one, start one.  It'll be your lifeline and your weekly sanity check.  The resources you’ll share and receive will be invaluable.  My first call was in a very rural area and the pastors in my text study shared my weekly frustrations, lonely days and celebrations.  I developed a beloved friendship with a wise pastor whose passion for rural ministry still showed after 40 years.  Recently my family and I visited him and his wife in their new retirement home.  We hadn’t seen each other for a few years, but the continued warmth and support was evident as they served us a special lunch and he set up his trains in the basement so my son could play.  You’ll need the help and support of fellow pastors, and a few of these relationships become sacred.  Be active about searching them out.            

 

2. Listen to friends and family.

You’ll also need to be intentional about keeping up your friendships outside the church and spending time with your family.  Ministry lends itself to living in a bubble and it’s important to leave it periodically.  Get some real-world perspective.  Have fun.  If they think you’re working too much, burning yourself out, or becoming weirdly focused on liturgical traditions/writing down every single sermon illustration you notice/rehashing a conversation with a congregation member, you are.  Listen to them.   

           

2. There will always be another Advent.

I remember planning my first liturgical season.  I was convinced it had to be the best! Lent! Ever! After a few seasons of this, I realized there will always be another Advent—that’s the beauty of a church year.  Pace yourself.  Church work is a marathon, and if you run at a sprinter’s pace you’ll tire quickly.  You don’t need to find room this year for every beautiful confession or every single Advent hymn. 

4. Failure is the only option.

Get comfortable with spectacular, public failure because you’ll experience a lot of it.  You can’t preach most Sundays for many years without preaching a terrible sermon.  And by terrible, I mean a sermon you preach as quickly as possible and immediately burn.  I guarantee you’ll plan some wonderful programs and no one will show up.  The bulletin will have embarrassing misprints and you’ll forget the name of the baby you’re about to baptize.  All of these are great learning experiences and will only make you better prepared for what’s ahead.  They’re painful but necessary.  They also make you appreciate the programs that do work and the sermons you’re very proud to preach.  And don’t forget the Holy Spirit works mysteriously in the midst of it all.  Pastors need lots of grace, and ministry doesn’t let us forget it.

Besides, parishioners love to see your human side and tease you for your mistakes.

5. Ministry is all trial and error.

Don’t let the failures get you down.  Risk is an essential part of ministry.  You’ll take all sorts of creative, personal, and public risks.  Often you won’t know what works with a congregation until you try it.  If no one shows up for a program, use that information to hone your future planning.  If you try something and many people get angry, you’ve discovered an area of passion. 

People will complain and grumble.  Trying to please them all will paralyze you and your ministry.  Let go and embrace risks as an individual and as a community.

 

6. Strategize.

So many people want so much of my time that I need to do lots of prioritizing—and saying no.  Know what’s essential.  I once had a rural pastor tell me there are three things every pastor needs to do: preach the best you can, visit people in their homes, and love their kids.  I find if I faithfully do hospital and home visits, preach thoughtful and well-prepared sermons, and honestly engage the youth of the congregation I serve, I receive a lot of grace when it comes to evening meetings and bulletin misprints.  Good preaching takes time, and that means something else has to give.  Every context is different, but you’ll need to find out what matters most to a congregation—and you—so you can prioritize.

Play up your strengths and interests and recognize your weak areas.  Don’t just go with a canned Confirmation program.  What interests you?  Do you love world religions or pop culture?  Are you a musical or movie or sports buff?  Incorporate your passions into your teaching and preaching.  If you’re excited about a topic, chances are the congregation will be too, and you’ll all have more fun.  Look for people with different strengths than yours and let them handle your weak areas.  You’re not expected to do everything, even though we pastors like to think we can.

Enjoy the slow weeks.  You’ll have lots of crazy weeks with funerals and retreats and Holy Week (sometimes all in the same week).  When you encounter one of the magical weeks without Confirmation or sermon planning, take an afternoon or an extra day off, and enjoy it.  And for goodness' sake, take all your vacation!

7. Find good feedback.

You need good feedback to hone your skills and tap into the congregation’s passions.  You’ll need to double-check your missional direction.  Find a few trusted people in the congregation to give you honest, helpful, constructive feedback and check in with them often.  Be careful they don’t become feeders for congregational complaints.  Rather, use them as your eyes and ears in the congregation.  What’s working well?  Why is a certain area lacking energy?  Let them take the pulse of the church for you.

8. People like to feel useful.

Stop prefacing requests with “I’m sorry, but…” or “If you’re not too busy…”  This has been the hardest lesson for me to learn.  I don’t like asking for help.  It’s been difficult for me to realize I’m inviting people into opportunities to serve, and many people like to feel useful.  By depending on the same few people I know will say yes, I end up with burned out volunteers.  Reach out and give new people the chance to participate.  Don’t be afraid of failure or people saying no.  Just keep asking.  Better yet, find people who have the gift of invitation to support you.  At one church I served, one woman recruited over 100 Vacation Bible School volunteers every year.  It was her ministry.  What a blessing! 

I end with a bonus lesson that overarches this whole list: trust your instincts.  You can read a ton of books about evangelism, pastoral care, preaching and administration.  Yes, there is always more to learn.  But only you know the church you serve.  You know their points of pride, their insecurities and their idiosyncrasies.  Trust yourself to translate what you’ve learned into their context.  Sometimes you need to leave the books on the shelf and go your own direction.  Just like your own list after eight years of ministry may look very different than mine.

Ministry is exhausting, unpredictable, and frustrating.  It's also exhilarating, profoundly meaningful, endlessly creative, and full of joy.  Pray for strength and patience, and know you’re not alone.  Take good care of yourself.  And remember—in the end it’s God’s ministry, not yours.