“Dare I Take That Away?” A Question Every Pastor Wonders…

1668-lec6-1536x865In the mornings we would stay with her, my grandmother used to rise around 10am.  She was a late riser because she was a late drinker and laugh-er and argument-starter, and would often be up to see the clock tick past 1am.

And she would come out in her night clothes, silk usually, paisley as I remember them. And slippers even though it was Miami, Florida.  She called them “house shoes,” and they were for tooling around the house in the morning, or for going out to the back shed to start the laundry.  But nowhere else.  She was a respectable Southern woman, after all.  You weren’t caught in your rollers or house shoes…

And she would come out of her bedroom in those night clothes, pour herself a cup of coffee in a 50’s-style cup that could maybe hold four ounces, and she’d make one egg, over-medium, and sit at the little kitchen bar on a stool.  She’d pull out a cigarette, pull out the paper, light the cigarette, sip the coffee, and slowly eat the egg while devouring the Miami Herald’s front page.

I can still smell it.

Ever since I was a little boy I remember this routine.  I don’t remember it deviating much, unless we had morning plans.  But usually “morning plans” started at 11am at grandma’s house.

That was morning.

She was a woman of routine and I loved her for it. I loved her in it.  I loved her, and she loved it.  Even if it was frustrating at times.

Grandma was also a woman who loved her God.  She had been raised in the church, a Methodist by upbringing, but “a Lutheran by choice,” as she would say.  The pastor of her church, the church where she would become the secretary, came to their door in Miami Springs one day, and as they gave him a cold glass of water he invited her and my grandpa to attend the church he was starting.

And they did.

She would talk about her faith.  Not like an evangelist, but like one who had been evangelized.  Honest conversations.  She saw meaning in everything…sometimes to her detriment, I think.  She’d come out with an illogical statement, how someone’s universe had flipped upside-down because of some crazy thing that had happened years earlier, and we’d say, “Grandma, that doesn’t seem right…”

She’d laugh in this cackle of a person who had smoked since she was sixteen and would say something like, “Well, it doesn’t have to seem right! That’s how it is!”

That’s how it is.

Every pastor I know, including me, struggles with the phrase, “That’s how it is.”  Because our knowledge of theology, our knowledge of the Bible, our thoughts about society and God and how they interact, intermix, and intertwine…it has all changed.  It’s changed from the 1940’s to the 1990’s, and believe-you-me, it’s changed from the 2018’s to the 2019’s.

It’s changed.  And “that’s how it is” never holds up in the future very well.

And so sometimes conversations end up overlapping.  Sometimes new theologians come out of seminary smelling like books and sleepless nights arguing about Tillich, with their box of ideas, and they enter into much more ancient sanctuaries where people hold entirely different boxes.  And as the pastors unpack their boxes, and the parishioners peer inside their own, they see different contents.

And it can cause discomfort. Pain. Hurt. Even, yes, harm.

Faith can change. But it need not be destroyed. Even if it doesn’t seem “right.”

My grandmother was a woman of routine, and a woman of routine beliefs.  The world worked a certain way for her.  And, yes, she could change.  She did change.  She became outspoken for LGBTQ rights and Civil Rights.  She spoke Spanish, and eventually learned how to drive in such a way that we weren’t all scared of her being on the road.

But the changes came slowly, as all change usually does.  And it usually came from her falling in love first.  With people who were gay.  With people who didn’t look like her, talk like her, or even think like her.

But there were some things that never changed.  She conceived of heaven in a pearly-gates, golden-streets sort of way, and that never changed.  And even though that’s not my seminary-trained, science-brained view of heaven, I don’t think I’d ever have wanted to take that away from her.

Besides, it’s not like anyone knows what the afterlife is like, anyway.

So, dare I take that away?  Or could I just walk with her, asking questions, exploring notions, and providing my own perspective as I listened to hers?

Theology is done in the pews as well as in the academy, and pastors need to remember that.  I need to remember that.  And while hurtful doctrines and dogmas can, and should, be torn down like the idols they are, not everything that the newly trained seminarian thinks is outdated has lost its meaning.

Tear down the idols and the isms, but dare we take away everything?  Can we not still sing _In the Garden_ even though the theology is largely crap?  Dare we not use the phrase, “Jesus died for us” even if we have many asterisks next to what the phrase means, and each of us will have a different corresponding footnote?

My grandmother, in her paisley satin pajamas and little cup of coffee had a good routine (though that cigarette was probably not helpful), and even though I had a different morning routine that I thought was healthier, dare I take hers away from her?

Instead, I learned to do my routine, and when she appeared, shuffling in the house shoes, I’d sit down with her at the bar, chatting, laughing, and occasionally enduring her telling me to “be quiet” because she couldn’t read the headlines and talk at the same time.

Conversation led to engagement, love, and yes, change.  For both of us in some ways. Frustrating change.

Things have changed.  And will change.  And even I will change, and the things I was taught will be questioned and reformulated one day.

But if it’s not harmful or hurtful, dare we take it all away at once?  It might be frustrating, but it’s a good question.

Every Easter I Wonder How Churches Who Don’t Ordain Women Get Around the Resurrection Account

resurrection-womenEvery Easter I have this ominous feeling that my colleagues in churches who don’t ordain women are skipping part of the resurrection story.

They have to be.  They must be. There’s no way that they can be reading the Gospel account and still not see the need to ordain women into the pastoral office.

Because here’s the truth of the resurrection story: women are the first to proclaim the resurrection.

They are the first ones entrusted with it.

They are the first preachers to those scared disciples in that upper room.

So how can they defend not ordaining women, especially on Easter, when on Easter they hear the women are entrusted with the sacred news first?

I really wonder.

Is it because of Paul’s letters, where he tells women to sit down in church (and he only writes that once, by the way)? Are we to believe that Paul has more authority than the risen Jesus?

Really?!

If we hold Paul’s letters as equal to the example of Jesus in the scripture, we need to honestly re-think our identity as “Christians,” and perhaps just fess up that we’re “Paulians.”

I mean, except for the rampant misogyny of the ancient world, it’s a wonder that women weren’t the first and only pastors of the church!  They were the only ones who stuck around through life, death, and resurrection.

And that rampant ancient misogyny still shows itself today, of course.

And you know it does.

Because there are tons of churches who will read the Easter text and not get a whiff of irony in it all as their all-male clergy dominate the roster.  Oh, sure, they’ll lift up the role women play in the world. As “helpers.”  As “good and faithful.” And at least good enough to teach Sunday school.

To the little children.  Not the older children. Or adults.  Women can’t have authority over men. 

And just when do men become men, by the way?  I’m a man. But I can’t really tell you when it happened…

And trust me, teaching Sunday school? That is no small thing.

But if that’s the extent of what women are empowered to do, it’s also not large enough.  Not large enough when the Gospel witness clearly shows, in all four Gospels, that the women are the first to know (and in most of the Gospels to tell) the resurrection good news to the scared and hiding men.

Perhaps this Easter some denominations will be raised from their ban on women clergy into the resurrection life of full participation.

You never know.  Crazier things have happened…like people being raised from the dead.

Esteban and the Importance of Not Walking Away Too Quickly

TreadmillFeatureI’m at the gym, running, and minding my own business.

I have earbuds in, and I always choose a treadmill at the end of a row if I can.  The fewer people around me the better.  Especially at the gym.  Part of the reason for this is because I sweat.

A lot.

Like, an embarrassing amount of sweating happens with me, especially when I run.  My elbows literally just fling sweat every which way.  You might think that’s too much information, but you’d be mistaken because that little sentence doesn’t do the reality justice.

The second reason I want few people around me is because I hate talking at the gym.  I go there to be alone with other people.

Yeah, you read that correctly.  I go to the gym to be alone in a crowd.  Because in my work I don’t get a whole lot of “anonymous time,” and I crave it.  I’m not famous or anything, but the circle of people who recognize me is large, much larger than I expect, sometimes.

Coffee shops, hospitals, even the local watering hole…I see people I know there all the time.  And that’s all well and good!  I’m not saying I don’t want to see people I know at these places.  I enjoy the chat, the pint, the moment of connection.

But I also enjoy moments of disconnection, too.  And I find I have to schedule them.

Anyway, I’m running at the end of a bank of treadmills, and suddenly I notice this presence at the machine next to me.

My eyes stare straight forward.  I’m one mile in.  My earbuds are in, but unfortunately only one of them works, so I can hear pretty well.

“You know,” the figure next to me says, “a lot of people don’t like talking to other people.  But not me. I’m a social guy.”

I keep running.  I’m praying he’s on the phone.

“I lived in Costa Rica for a while, which is why I call myself ‘Esteban.’ Stephen’s the name my momma gave me.  Esteban is the name the cab driver in Costa Rica gave me.  I go by either…”

I finally look over at him, and sure enough, he’s talking to me.  He’s walking on the treadmill, and is of some considerable size.  Maybe mid-30’s.  I keep my pace, and he’s just walking…sweating…like two travelers on different journeys who, except for the machines governing their paces, wouldn’t travel together.  I was running. He was walking.  We wouldn’t be side-by-side in any other world except for the gym: that unicorn of a place where everyone goes a different distance, together.

I consider ending the run early, or moving to another machine.

“I got stabbed in the neck once,” he continued.  I turned my eyes forward again, but now have to stay because, who wouldn’t after an opener like that?

“I lived.  Obviously.  Maybe I’m a Warlock or something.  Who gets stabbed in the neck and lives?”  I took his question as rhetorical. I’ll stay for the conversation, but I’m not taking any questions at this time.

“When I go to the doctor they always wonder if they’re reading my blood pressure correctly.  I have a great heart.  Good genes, I guess. My grandmother lived to be 103.  We’re all big people in my family.  Good genes.”  His pace, both in walking and in talking, stayed steady.  I continued to look ahead, smirking a bit.  I think he saw that.

“The nurses always take that blood pressure,” he laughed, “and then ask if I jog.  Do I look like I jog, lady?!” I smiled bigger.  That was funny.  Especially because he was the embodiment of “second-hand smoke.”  I could smell it on him the minute he walked up, and the tobacco smell only intensified as his pores opened.

2.9 miles in.  I’m not sure I want to get off at 3, though.  Esteban, the large hulking beast next to me was on a roll and I had yet to say a word.

“I like day drinking,” was his next statement.  “Not a lot, of course, but there’s something about having a beer in the middle of the day that changes the second half of anything.”

He wasn’t wrong.

3 miles.  I stopped my treadmill.

“Thanks for talking, man.  I’ve got a bit more to do,” he said.

I nodded, wiped down the machine that now looked like it had taken a swim, and walked out.  He turned his attention back forward and kept walking.

And even though I go to the gym to be anonymous, I guess some don’t.  Some go to not be anonymous anymore.

And somehow Esteban and I both figured out how to make it work.  I was alone with him.  And he was not alone anymore.

 

“I Only Do This in Two Places: the Church and the Bar”

imagesThis past Sunday it hit home to me again.

I’ve said it for years, but it hit home for me again.  In church we do this absolutely counter-cultural thing.  This thing that, really, we only do in two places: the church and the bar.

 

Now, some might also do it at other, in-frequent places, like sports arenas or concert halls.  And you might do it with professional organizations, if you’re the kind of person who digs it more than the hoi polloi.

But I’m going to guess that this activity is one that, for most people, only occurs in two places, namely the church and the bar: communal singing.

Well, and probably confession, but we’re going to stick with singing in this blog post…

Yes, you probably sing in the shower, but not in community (though, that would be funny to hear that coming from the gym locker room at the local YMCA).

Yes, you sing in your car, but probably only by yourself or one other trusted person who won’t make fun of your mis-remembered lyrics and off-key high note to a-ha‘s Take On Me.

I’ve known atheists who were the most active church attenders simply for the music.  It’s that powerful of a movement within humanity.  It just wells up inside us, and has to have an out.

Here’s an out.

You might think this is a poor reason to go to church, but there are much poorer ones that motivate the supposedly pious…

If you want to talk about having a reason to check out a church, especially if you’re not particularly religious, this is one of the most practical reasons: to sing with other people.

The need is there within you.  Indulge it.  It’s human.

And probably Divine.

And probably (in the right community) a healthier habit than the bar.

 

Is The Church Growing or Just Aging?

68747470733a2f2f7777772e67696674737465722e636f6d2f6e6577732f77702d636f6e74656e742f75706c6f6164732f323031332f30332f492d646f6e742d6b6e6f772e6a7067I was recently listening to Krista Tippett and Adam Gopnik wax eloquently on all matters of faith and doubt.  The original airing of this particular episode of On Being  was first heard back in 2015, but they re-played it in December of 2017.

And, of course, I just listened.  Which gives you some insight into how far behind I am in my podcasts.

But Gopnik, who is ethnically Jewish, though he doesn’t practice a faith (and, funny enough, has a Lutheran spouse) was talking about how at his family reunions he’s been noting how some relatives are growing, and some are simply aging.

And though he puts himself in the “simply aging” category, I disagree.  Because he defines “growing” in this sense as “still discovering” and being filled with a sense of awe and wonder.  And if you read any of his writing (and you should read ALL OF IT) you know that’s not true.

He’s growing, even in his old(er) age.

But it got me to thinking about the church, individual congregations, and this common life we share together.  I have to wonder: is the church at large, and your congregation in particular, growing? Or just aging?

And not in numbers.  But growing like a tree grows.  Like a flower grows.  Like a sea full of life, grows and swells.

Are you embarking on new territory?  Are you changing things up, and allowing yourself to be surprised at what happens?  Are you discovering new gifts you never knew you had?

Or is it all the same?  Familiar, but frozen?

And what about you?  Is your faith growing, or just aging?

Are you finding awe and wonder at new insights and new thoughts?  Has your faith evolved with your experience(s) of life and death?  Are your encounters with the gay community, the immigrant community, that ethnic community you historically have feared, changed the way that you see God and see yourself?

Have you grown past seeing God as some sky wizard pulling levers, or some Santa Claus keeping track of naughty and nice lists? Has God become, as theologian Paul Tillich says, “The ground of all being?”

Or is your faith unchanged, and therefore, unchallenged?

Perhaps in 2019 we can all take a bit of stock, communally and personally, to ask ourselves:

Are we growing…or just aging?

And if you’re afraid to ask the question, well…then you know the answer.

“Jesus’ Rejection Letter” or “Hard Pass”

rejectionDear Mr. “of Nazareth,”*

We’re grateful that you applied for the position of pastor at our church.  Unfortunately we do not think that you are what we are looking for at this time.

In other words, “hard pass.”

We find you to be entirely too political in your public presence.  Word has gotten back to us that you participated in a recent riot at the temple, and were seen chasing people out of their stalls.  We find this kind of action unacceptable and far too controversial.

In addition, your sermon from the mountain top in recent days (which went viral, and not in a good way), though encouraging for certain demographics, failed to speak to all demographics with words of Godly comfort.  Making claims that some people are “blessed” implies that some are not, and we’re not comfortable with that kind of explicit bias.

In observing your lifestyle through social media, we note that you’re often found at local hangouts with people of questionable background.  As our mothers often told us, “Show us who you hang around, and you show us who you are.” We know who you are. These people are not the kind of people we want in our church, and should we call you as our pastor we’d expect you to cut ties with those kinds of people.

We also think you are far too young to lead a congregation on your own. At thirty-three years of age, you haven’t had enough experience to teach and preach the way you do. Your boldness is not only off-putting, but troubling to many, and maybe a bit narcissistic.

In addition you:

-do not dress appropriately for the role.

-do not adhere to the behavioral norms that we expect from our leaders (must you really break the rules so much?).

-seem to advocate for things/people/ideas that make us uncomfortable

-speak to women as you do men, and find that blurring of gender-lines to be confusing.

And while we like the fact that you can attract crowds, we’re afraid that would bring too much of the wrong kind of attention, and we’d prefer not to make waves.

We think that perhaps you should entertain going back to school for continued training, or consider a profession that doesn’t involve public ministry.

Sincerely,

Popular Christianity

*consider changing this name

“I’m Your Huckleberry” or “The Church Can’t Be a Storehouse of Issues”

1848441_1My therapist tells me things I don’t like to hear.

And I pay him to do it.  Which sounds like a racket, but it seems to work…usually…

In this last session we were talking about how sometimes people in helping professions become the subject of people’s ire for no discernible reason.

For people like me, well, it really bothers me.  I’m happy for you to dislike me if I’ve ticked you off or made an unpopular decision.  That makes sense.

But many times pastors end up being the subject of people’s disdain simply because, well, humans need enemies.  And pastors are pretty easy pickings, most days.

They (usually) care, and it’s always better to dislike someone who cares if they’re liked or not.  What good is a grudge if no one feels it but you?

And sometimes people just don’t like you for being you.  And that, folks, is the the hardest to take. Because there’s not a darn thing you can do about it.  And so you just have to let your skin get tough…and go to therapy.

Anyway, I was talking to the therapist, a former pastor himself, about this phenomena, and he said, “Ah, yes.  You’re their (expletive). They need one, and you get to be it. Lucky you.”

I mean, go ahead and choose your own expletive. He used one I can’t write on a public blog that my mom will (probably) read.

But being a Val Kilmer fan, I’ll choose his word used in his iconic role as Doc Holliday in Tombstone: “I’m you’re Huckleberry.”

I’m their Huckleberry.

We all have a Huckleberry, by the way.  Or even a few of them.

Our Huckleberries are usually that not for something they did, but usually for this indiscernible reason that we just can’t seem place.

We just don’t like them.  We just don’t.

When pastors get this kind of flack, there are all sorts of reasons.

It may be because they’re not the previous pastor.  Or not like the previous pastor enough to pass muster.

Or maybe it’s because they made that one comment that one time, and even though they’ve clarified it, you don’t buy it…

Or maybe you don’t like their preaching or personality.  Or they’re too outspoken, or a woman, or…or…

Or maybe, and this is the worst one, maybe it’s “just because.”

Most of my Huckleberries are my Huckleberries not for anything they did, but mostly because of me.

They are that because of my own baggage that I put on them and force them to carry, even though they didn’t ask for it.  I have to have somewhere to put it, and they’re usually an ideal spot in my mind: they don’t have to consent to carry it.

The Biblical model for this whole human practice, by the way, is the Scapegoat. It’s a totally human, and apparently ancient, thing that we do.

Check out Leviticus 16 if you’re interested…the Christian tradition’s most damaged atonement models flow from this idea.  And, I would posit, scapegoating is damaging all around, for everyone, both the goat and the “scaper.”

While having scapegoats, having Huckleberries, seem to be an important part of what it means to be a human with issues (and we all have issues), scapegoats (or, as I prefer it, Huckleberries) prevent you from ever confronting your own crap.

And instead, the Huckleberry becomes the embodiment of our issues. Our issues with legs on. Our issues that can talk and smile and do good…which makes us dislike them all the more.

See, we all know this intellectually.  We know this.  We know it’s a problem; we know it’s a manufactured malady that we create to deal with life.

And yet, we will do all sorts of mental and emotional gymnastics to justify having a Huckleberry.  Because we will run away from our shadows for as long as we can…and some of us have become very good at it, and the Huckleberries grow on every tree, and as long as we never have to deal with our issues, but can misplace them onto others, well, we’ll go on…

And so will our issues.

Part of what the helping professions do, I think, is take it on the chin for folks who just need a Huckleberry.  It’s just true.  And I say that with no amount of romanticism or martyrdom or any of that useless mess.

The world doesn’t need any more martyrs.  What I’m trying to talk about is truth.

And the truth is that as long as we use religion as the harbor for our misplaced issues, it can never do what it’s intended to do: free us.

Instead it just becomes the storehouse for the issues we hoard away.  A living museum of our personal problems transferred from one person to another.

And no one needs that enshrined…

So here’s an idea: let’s all start unloading our scapegoats and taking back our own issues. Leave your pastor, your musician, your teacher, your social worker, your doctor, your parents, your whomever out of your issues.

Let’s all start working through them, piece by piece, and clear out the rummage sale of religious baggage out there a bit so that the church can be a place of healing.  The church has enough issues of its own, they don’t need yours!

But the trick is, of course, that you can’t store them anywhere else, either. You have to start sorting them out, bit by bit.

I mean, it’s worth a try.

Because as long as you have a Huckleberry, you’re stuck working through your stuff from afar.

Because, in all honesty: you’re your own Huckleberry.