Restless

I’m prone to restlessness.  It often lurks in the back corners of my mind, interrupting me throughout the day.  My years in school, complete with multiple moves over a ten-year period, trained me to enjoy transition.  Without the periodic anxiety and thrill of moving, I get restless, especially in the fall as I watch others go back to school and jump into new beginnings.  It’s a bit of my old life rearing its head to nip my feet as I again drive the same roads between church and home.

So I try to appease it.  I plan fun vacations and weekend getaways to new places.  I take up new hobbies (this summer it was riding my new bike).  I create a stack of new books to read.  I look to meet new people.  I move the furniture in my house.  I purge belongings.  I drive a new route between church and home.

All of these activities are fine and healthy.  In the past, they’ve worked well for me.  But now I’m approaching four years at the same place with no move in sight—the longest amount of time I’ve stayed still since I moved away from my parent’s house at 18.  I’ve watched staff and congregation members come and go.  And I’m still here.  And I’m not appeased.

I’m restless.

Let me say this:  I have no plans to move or change my job.  My husband and I are incredibly blessed to have calls near one another that we both enjoy.  We love our city.  Our son goes to a great school and we are so grateful for our daycare provider.  We are content, fortunate and thankful.

So why am I restless?

The restlessness haunts me.  Then this week I picked up Eugene Peterson’s The Pastor and re-read it.  I remembered him talking about his restless years—those six years (three years into his first call) he calls The Badland Years.  He became my pastor this week as I read his process of moving from restlessness to finding life.  And I realized something.

I’m in the middle of a refining fire.

Sometimes restlessness is a very good indicator of the need for change in one’s life.  But for me, it’s a sign of my need to grow, to reach a new spiritual maturity—to let go.  It’s easy to plan more vacations and to dream about the next move.  It’s much harder to settle into daily life—the same routines, annoyances, chores, and arguments day after day—and appreciate its rhythms.  For so many years I’ve missed my daily life because I’ve always been thinking about the next change.  Now I’m challenged to find contentment where I am.  I’m finding it difficult.

I feel the fire, the painful change, and the pruning of my soul.  Restlessness is a cruel tempter.  Adrenaline is quickly addictive.  Yet now I need to work on acceptance, patience, and trusting the Holy Spirit.  I want to simply be with people.  I need to embrace prayer and ritual.  It’s time to let the fire consume me, for out of its ashes will come new life.   

Lip Flap

As much as I don’t want to admit it, I have politics on the brain.  It’s hard to keep myself away from the constant coverage of the big party conventions.  Yet politics is not my favorite pastime.  I’ve been turning MPR off because the unending political talk is exhausting.  I find politics boring, frustrating and inauthentic, so I’m not the best person to engage in political banter. 

I find politics to be talking for the sake of talking.  People who spend any time in conversation with me (or hear me preach) know I am succinct.  I don’t use more words than necessary.  I physically run away from small talk.  Roger Ebert recently wrote about a concept Gene Siskel introduced him to called Lip Flap--or talking without saying anything of use.  He describes its purpose as allowing “people to sneak up on the moment when they would sooner or later have to actually engage their minds.”  When I read this, I thought, “YES!” Someone finally gave words to the frustration I’ve felt for so long.

Politics is all Lip Flap.  It’s people talking to fill space, often with no point and no direction.  It’s also people talking without authenticity.  The debates are useless in my mind, because (on my worst days) I feel like I’m sitting and listening to discover which person is the more charming liar.  Oh yes, I know I sound like a cynic.  But this system makes me crazy.

I’m also a preacher.  I’m someone who spends my days and weeks crafting oratory from my very heart and being.  I stand and share my deepest values and beliefs with a group of people on a regular basis.  Although I’m relaxing more, I still ponder each word in my sermons as I put them on paper.  Every sentence counts.  It's easy for me to feel superior and put down politicians.

It’s painful to know our current political system is fractured and incredibly polarized.  It makes me feel hopeless, insignificant and sad.  It's even harder for me to admit I participate in the polarization by becoming cynical and hard-headed.  But as a citizen, I know I need to listen.  As a person of faith, my ears need to be open to find clues to what others around me are thinking and feeling.  My animal reaction to politics is to bury my head and wait until November is over—to only listen to people with whom I agree and keep the radio on the Top 40 station.  But I can’t.

Jesus engaged in political talk.  He listened to the Pharisees and the Sadducees, even though he didn’t agree with them.  Darn.

Our political system is also a reflection of our larger society.  We’re all becoming more fractured and polarized—even (not so shockingly) the church.  Peter Steinke, a nationally-respected scholar in church conflict for many years, has noticed this change within the church.  Over the years, he’s watched congregation members become more interested in being right than finding compromise.  People hold on more tightly to their ideas and opinions at the expense of the community.  This trend is everywhere.

The Christian Century reports that clergy in Tampa, FL and Charlotte, NC, the sites of the Republican and Democratic conventions, issued a statement called “The Common Witness.”  The statement “acknowledges the wide political division in the country, encourages those involved in the political process to argue respectfully and not use religion to garner votes, and invites prayers for peace.”

How easy it is to forget when we have no words to say due to anger, fear, frustration and sadness, the Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.  I sigh for the hungry poor, the unemployed, the prisoner, and the vulnerable.  I sigh for the oppressed, the forgotten, the children, and the failing systems.  I sigh for a country more intent on being right than on finding a compromise.  I sigh for my own attitude.   

I pray our prayers make a difference.  And on my better days, I pray with thanksgiving for those who serve in the political arena.  I pray for patience and hope.        

Two Funerals and a Dog

Last week I officiated at two separate funerals (one for a dear co-worker) and I lost my beloved dog.  It’s been a week of feeling vulnerable, trying to wrap my mind around how fast life can change, and absorbing the permanence of death.  It’s been a long few days but they have not only been filled with heart-aching grief.  They have also been filled with support, love, and the promises of God.

The hardest part of this week was guiding my six-year-old son through his first experiences with profound grief.  He came with us to the funeral of his great-grandpa a few weeks ago.  It was his first exposure to death, to a body, and to the rituals surrounding grief.  Then the quick loss of our family dog (who was with us for eight years) left him in a tailspin as he tried to grasp what it meant.  We had to put our dog down late in the evening after a swift illness, and I couldn’t sleep at all that night knowing we would have to tell our son in the morning.  My fierce protective tendencies made it tough for me to share news that would cause him pain.  Later that day, when my best friend called to ask me how I was doing, I remember saying, “Grieving for a dog is difficult, but helping a six-year-old grieve is really, really hard.”

It may sound strange, but being present with other grieving adults (and children) gave me the comfort of community last week.  It reminded me I am not alone.  Grief feels like such an intrusive stranger—and throws us into such unfamiliar emotions—that it’s easy to feel isolated as others continue on with their lives.  At the funerals I was able to connect with others experiencing similar emotions and to witness parents struggling to comfort their children.  I saw kids dissolving into tears one minute and playing the next, which reminded me my son’s expressions of grief are universal and natural.

I often get asked if it is appropriate to bring children to a funeral or a visitation.  I always say yes—but don’t push them.  Children need ritual.  It’s important to take away any mystery and help them feel a part of a community.  They benefit immensely from watching us model how to grieve, process and express emotion.  At one of the funerals last week, children played around a casket filled with loving notes, bracelets and crafts they made for their grandma, whose body lay inside.  All the children sat on the floor together in the front during the service at the funeral home.  They cried, laughed and clung to each other as the adults did the same behind them.  When they remember their time of grief, they will remember being included, saying goodbye, and being surrounded by many arms willing to hold them.  

But oh, is it ever hard to walk with children through grief—and maybe some of that’s because they don’t let us look away from our own grief.  They teach us.  They need us to cry with them and to talk endlessly (at least in my son’s case) about death—yet I’m also able to give him the hope of God’s eternal promises.  My son’s reminders to grieve are such a gift.  Every morning my son greets our dog by name, and he says goodbye to her every night before he goes to sleep.  Even though I feel pain in my chest knowing he is missing her, it reminds me that I miss her too, and that it’s ok to make her a part of my life in a new way.  And there is always Good News.     

Beginning and End

My Tuesday morning last week was one of the countless reasons I love being a pastor serving a small(ish) congregation:

At 10am, I officiated at the burial of a 97-year-old woman.  There were six people in attendance.  Four of them were part of a family who were her next door neighbors and took care of her for 23 years—10 of them in a nursing home.  It was one of those bright summer mornings when colors seem clearer than usual.  We gathered quietly in the cemetery, feeling as if we had the whole place to ourselves.  We placed our hands on the casket and prayed for her peace and rest.  A mischievous (and/or) angry squirrel dropped acorns on us from the oak tree branch bowing low over our heads.  To close the service, a smiling teenage girl played us out with “Goodnight, Irene” on the ukulele and we all sang along (we skipped the really sad lyrics).

An hour later, I was in a hospital room holding a day-old baby girl with a head full of black hair (and at least one cowlick).  I held her a little longer than I should have, then gave her to her mother before saying a blessing.  Her parents bowed over her and we prayed, alone in the hospital room, with the sunlight pouring in the window.  I placed my hand on her tiny head--a hand that only minutes before had been on a casket.

Alpha and Omega, Beginning and End.

Some days I have the best job EVER.   

Happy Church

I’ve been seeing the idea of gratitude everywhere for a few years (if not more).  We’re told naming three things we are grateful for each day will improve our blood pressure and mental well-being.  We’re told that positive people are more successful.  Looking at life from the perspective of gratefulness seems to be a big trend—and a good trend.  I believe living with gratitude in our hearts really does make a difference in how we live.

Why aren’t we doing this in the church?

I feel assailed by reports that the mainstream Protestant church is flailing.  Numbers are down.  Giving is down.  We’re losing the new generation.  New pastors are having trouble finding calls.  Internal struggles leave us discouraged.

I know there is truth to these reports.  I know we can’t ignore them.  I know we need to address what is happening with open eyes and be proactive about moving the church forward.  I get it.

But I can’t live this way every day.  I am so tired of feeling anxious and threatened and feeling like I’m hanging on by my fingertips.  I’m exhausted by watching the church down the road pull in members—without even trying, it seems—while the congregation I serve has to choose between what it wants and what it can afford.  I’m drained by hearing reports of job cuts and empty sanctuaries and dying Sunday Schools.

And I’m not just tired—I’m moving into an even more dangerous place—I’m getting bored.

We are encouraged to discover our strengths, to find gratitude each day, to live from a place of joy.

I want to do this with church too.

We waste so much energy thinking about what we are not, we forget what we are.  What if we started keeping church gratitude journals?  What if we celebrated all we do, instead of constantly looking at what we don’t do?  What if we noticed the ministry that is already happening instead of thinking, “We’ll be a successful church when…”?

We don’t get anywhere by hating ourselves.  Hate brings out competitiveness, pettiness, and belly button gazing—and it’s boring.

Joy and gratitude bring out generosity, acceptance, truth, hope, confidence—and they are energizing.

I feel when we as a church are so hard on ourselves, constantly comparing ourselves to other congregations and denominations, focusing on where we seemingly fail—we are teaching people to judge themselves, their families, their lives and even their bodies in the same way.

Let’s live as a gratitude-soaked church.  Let’s rejoice when one hurting young child feels accepted and loved by an adult in Sunday School.  Let’s celebrate when a few people quietly and faithfully serve at a local homeless shelter.  Let’s laugh at ourselves and have fun together and reach out with confidence in who (and Whose) we are.  Let’s get rid of all our insecurities so we can open our arms to those who bring in new ideas and perspectives.  Let's make mistakes and try scary things and enjoy being the church.

Let’s stop thinking—and worrying—about ourselves.

And most of all, let us be thankful to God for the countless blessings we receive—and for the blessed challenge of being God’s disciples.       

In Which I Cried in Worship...Again

I was never a crier.  I didn’t even cry at my own wedding.  I’m not sure what has happened to me in the past few years, but I find myself crying much more often than I used to.  I also tend to cry in public places, which is quite a challenge for me (a hilarious challenge, according to my emotion-loving husband who knows my stoic ways too well).  I’ve always hated crying in front of people, yet this is slowly becoming a part of my life.  At my sister’s wedding last summer, I could barely make it through my toast.  In worship last fall, I cried through the service.  Is it because I’m now a parent?  Am I just getting older?  Who knows?  What I do know is I have to accept this new part of myself because it’s clearly not going away.

I’ve had trouble integrating this new part of myself with my professional identity.  Pastors don’t cry.  We’re supposed to be the solid presence, the comforting balm in crisis, and the one to lean on.  We have to keep ourselves together.  Often this is necessary and true.  Yet the more I do this job, the more I realize there’s a time for everything (thank you, Ecclesiastes).  I thought it would get easier, and in some ways it has.  In other ways it hasn’t.  The longer I’m at this church, the closer I get to the people and the more I learn about their lives.  I can’t help but be connected to them.  Evidently I occasionally display my compassion through public tears.

I was deeply touched by a sermon given by Bishop Mark Hanson last year at our annual St. Paul and Minneapolis Synod theological retreat.  He became emotional during it and had to take a moment to collect himself.  He explained to us that the topic he was addressing was close to his heart—his own child struggled mightily with it, and he couldn’t help but get choked up when he spoke about it.  I still hold this moment in my heart as I grapple with my own public emotions.  I thought no less of him as he admitted to feeling his emotions.  I felt a connection with him as a true person.  If the Presiding Bishop of the ELCA can be authentic with his tears, why can’t I?

I still believe there are times when I need to keep my emotions in check.  This is (usually) not hard for me.  But the longer I serve the church, the more I realize how important it is for me to be authentic.  When I am leading a healing service and am honored to individually lay hands on and pray for people, I can’t keep my tears at bay.  I see their tears, their pain, their struggles--not only see, but also feel them.  When a boy comes to me at the end of the line and shyly asks for a prayer—a prayer I know well, a prayer I can relate to in my deepest of hearts—and I am able to give him that prayer, well, that’s more than I can handle.  When I witness God giving peace and comfort, I think it’s permissible for me to shed a few tears.  How can I not be overwhelmed by this God? 

“…a time to weep, and a time to laugh…” Ecclesiastes 3:4      

Secrets

I often think of myself as the secret-keeper.  This was especially true when I was a pastor in a rural town.  I was usually the first place people would look for financial, spiritual and therapeutic help because it wasn’t readily available in their small town (I say first step because I often did—and still do—refer people on to more qualified mental health or other professionals).  I was also free, and they knew right where to find me—they just needed to find my car.

It took me a while to figure out my role in the town.  I knew I couldn’t be friends—in the regular sense—with the people in the congregation I served.  This became apparent as I learned more and more about them.  I knew too much.  I knew what mothers thought about daughters-in-law, I knew about the abuse, the hidden addictions, and the memory loss.  When I looked out into the congregation on Sundays, I saw the underbelly.  I imagine it is similar to being a doctor in some ways—the doctor in town sees and knows people at a different level than they know each other. 

In order to protect them and myself, I couldn’t get too close.  I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I could let some information slip.  In order to keep their trust, I needed to be air-tight in my confidentiality.  I still work very hard to keep professional boundaries and to maintain a safe space in my office at church.  I regard my trustworthiness as essential in my calling.  In some ways it’s a burden.

But the joy of this responsibility is the privilege of being present when a secret is let loose.  I’ll always remember the time when a congregation member came into my office to share a very old secret. This person was in the process of sharing it with others and I was fortunate to hear it too.  I witnessed the unburdening of years of shame and guilt and saw the transformative and blatant joy of release.  What an honor it was to be present in that moment and to declare God’s forgiveness and love.  I was overjoyed to see God’s grace spilling into the recesses of sadness and regret, filling them up with new life and a new future.  It was a holy, holy, holy moment.

This moment was even more poignant because this is a friend.  I now see I play a different role than a doctor or counselor.  I am able to walk with people through their everyday lives, to visit them in their homes, to coach them as they raise their children faithfully, to bury their loved ones.  They show me what it means to find faith in the joys and struggles of daily life.  So I closed the door after the secret came to light and wept for the joy of God’s transforming grace in the lives of those I love.

Sometimes we need to keep our secrets.  Yet Scripture tells us that God brings light into the darkness—even the darkness of our deepest secrets and our most shameful memories.  I see it happen.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.  John 1:5