Slow Pastors: We Need Some New Role Models

I always fancied myself an electric razor kind of guy, but I recently made the move toward a five blade manual razor—the Gillette Fusion ProGlide, to be exact. My world already feels too rushed. Why must I make shaving as efficient as possible? It’s nice to slow down, to feel the gel on your hands, massage it into your skin, and then to hear the crackling sound of sandpaper as the razor is pulled down.  It beats the electric sound of buzzing anyway.  I wonder if hipsters buy classic shave sets and vinyl because they just want to slow down. A manual razor seems to be a step in the right direction for me. 

God doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. We worship a patient God. I think of the work that the ekklesia project has done on ‘slow church.’ “[This] is the God who walked with his people for forty years across the wilderness, sat with his people for seventy years in exile, attends to the impoverished and down-and-out, considers the lilies of the fields, loves this world enough to become human, died on a cross rather than kill, and took three days to be resurrected.” (See ekklesiaproject.org). Any God who calls humans to be God’s hands and feet is surely not in any hurry.

Lent is a time to slow down. It’s a time where we remember that Jesus fasted for 40 days in the wilderness. That’s striking, right? Jesus spends 40 days alone before any ‘real ministry’ takes place. Jesus calls us to go into the wilderness, too, and to become slow and to waste time (in the eyes of the world).  We give up technology that we might look each other in the eyes and develop the gift of truly being present. Other Christians adopt diets that make us remember that food takes time—plants must grow and animals must graze.  Pastors, if anyone, must learn that slow can be a  good thing.  Oftentimes our biggest accomplishment is a well-formed prayer after a visitation or a good paragraph in a sermon. A slow week at church does not feel like an opportunity for more time in prayer, study, and writing—it’s torture; I pull my hair out until I find something ‘productive’ to do, like help someone.

That’s partly because all of our current Christian pastor heroes are not known for being slow. We endorse the ‘Rob Bells’ and in the United Methodist Church, the ‘Adam Hamiltons.’ I read people like Karl Barth and Stanley Hauerwas who ‘have no unpublished thoughts.’ It’s about volume—the number of worshippers, the number of mission projects, the number of original theological thoughts. We look up to the kinds of people that make us wonder, “How do you do so much?” None of these things can be accomplished by going on ‘prayer walks,’ right?

During Lent I remember the unproductive Christians—the fathers who ventured out to the wilderness, the mystics who lived in convents, the Christians who waste their time by staring at rocks. I remember people like Julian of Norwich. She found God in an acorn and it changed her life.  Yes, an acorn. As she held the acorn in her hands she wondered, “What can this be?”  And God spoke to her, “It is everything which is made. For God made it. God loves it. And God preserves it.”  Paying attention to it, she learned how God paid attention to her. Holding it, she learned how God held her.   Julian writes, “Love was its meaning.  Who reveals it to you? Love. Why does he reveal it to you? For love.” You can't notice an acorn if you drive everywhere.

The mainstream church needs heroes like Jean Vanier, the founder of L’Arche, which is a group home for those with mental disabilities. Vanier's community was less about consuming God and more about kenosis, self-emptying vulnerability. L'Arche is about learning to love one another. Vanier writes, “Love doesn't mean doing extraordinary or heroic things. It means knowing how to do ordinary things with tenderness.”  Vanier didn’t build a legacy by packing stadiums with his sermons. He participated in the slow formation of a community that became a part of Christ’s subversive kingdom.

We need more exemplars like Julian and Vanier. Although, I presume that Vanier is ok with being ‘relatively’ anonymous. These are the people who are doing the patient, enduring work of God in our world. They are the ones who challenge us to become incarnate in a community, even if we did not choose it, and learn to love its strengths and weaknesses. Where are all the slow pastors? No, really, where are they?  Maybe we are too busy to find them or don’t want to move slow enough to notice them. 

On Preaching

Let’s be honest. Pastors think that the most important part of the service is their sermon. We tell ourselves it’s not, but we are too narcissistic to really believe it. We are Protestants and it’s in our blood. Have you ever wondered why retired preachers continue preaching way longer than they should? The power and authority in the pulpit is too alluring. 

After a year of preaching I have found a mix of a healthy dose of the fear of speaking on behalf of God and an unhealthy dose of pride. On the one hand, I am flabbergasted by my responsibility. The sermon is a moment of incarnation as Jesus Christ takes on flesh once again and walks amidst us in the congregation. This kind of pressure makes for a lot of restless Saturday nights—just ask my wife. At the same time, I tend to think that I can control God; it’s the vestiges of what we call sin. In the eyes of a pastor, a bad sermon ruins a worship service and a great sermon is the kingdom come. But really, I am not that important.  A poorly written sermon might reach more people than the finest theological rhetoric.  

God is not restrained and controlled by my words—thank God. And more often than not, God is usually revealed in the messiness of worship.  That’s relieving and humbling when I choose to remember it.  When a seven-year old child looks you in the face and says, “in the name of Jesus Christ you are forgiven,” a sermon on power seems shallow.  That’s Jesus, right? A gentleman lets the congregation know that his best friend is dying while the rest of the congregation nods in silence and Jesus fills that moment of silence and weakness with presence. These moments are more important than my words.

We must expect Jesus to manifest himself in strange ways if the cross is the supreme act of revelation. Cruciform revelation means that the ‘powerless’ ends up becoming most powerful and the last become first. We think that Jesus must only be revealed in powerful words, but never forget that Jesus is also found when you dip a piece of bread into a cup of juice. Who are we to control God?

 Every Sunday a parishioner with a mental disability rings the “Trinity bell” three times and then holds the brass up to his teeth to feel the vibration. I am gratefully humbled when I realize that the bell means more to him than my words. That’s where I find grace every Sunday. For I realize that Jesus is, in fact, here with us and it’s not because of me. 

Parsonage Ramblings

Every once in a while I have those days when I wish I didn’t live in a parsonage. Mostly because I have to get approval before I do anything in the house.  There is a leak in the basement—call the Trustees. Wait.  The lawn mower hasn’t started in two consecutive weeks—call the Trustees, again. And wait.  The latest tragic misfortune to strike Holland Road: the toilet runs non-stop over night creating condensation that drips from the toilet disfiguring the bathroom tile.  What’s my next move? You guessed it, call the Trustees.  

Of course, this really isn’t that big of a deal. I take a lot for granted (like not having to pay rent). I am a spoiled United States citizen. I forget that a parsonage is hospitality when it’s at its best; they “welcome the stranger.” United Methodist Churches do not ‘call’ their pastors, but pastors are ‘sent’ from the conference creating a sort-of arranged marriage between Church and pastor. The pastor and the Church say to one another, “Will you learn to love me?”  Itinerancy has its flaws, but it can be a wonderful lesson in hospitality. For the Church is faced with the challenge to welcome the strange new pastor into their church, their community, and their house.  “Come live with us. Yes, even in our house,” says the Church who is up to the challenge.

Our Church was up to the challenge and they have done a great job of welcoming two young, spoiled, and naïve (but enthusiastic) strangers into their house and community.

About a month ago a parishioner, who is zealous about having a pristine parsonage tells me in the hospital, “I want all of my memorials to be donated to the parsonage fund.”

 I interjected, “But, you are going to be released from the hospital today…”  

“I know; it’s just been on my mind. I’ve been thinking about how important a parsonage is.  How will we ever take care of our community, if we can’t even take care of our pastor? A worn-out parsonage means that our Church is worn-out.”    

 “Done deal."

John Wesley would also agree. He believed that your outward appearance signifies what kind of character you have.  In other words, if you are a slob in some parts of your life, then you are likely to become a slob in other parts of your life. He noted, “cleanliness is next to godliness”: “Be cleanly. In this let the Methodists take pattern after the Quakers. Avoid all nastiness, dirt, slovenliness, in your person, clothes, house and all about you. Do not stink! Let none ever see a ragged Methodist.”  I would guess that the same might go for a Methodist’s parsonage. A ragged Methodist parsonage signifies that the character of that Methodist Church must also be ragged. 

I can’t help but to wonder what the Church imagined when I first moved in and failed to mow the lawn in a timely manner.  “Will a pastor who overlooks lawn care, overlook us too?”

I am blessed to be a pastor to a parishioner who takes pride in the parsonage.  I pray for the grace to develop this kind of character, too.  One day maybe we will both be able to develop the character to be able to look upon the entire world as our parish and treat the world with love and hospitality.   

Ordination Reflection

I write this partly as a reflection on ordination, but also as an open letter to my older brother who was recently ordained.

I hit the road Friday afternoon to meet my family at Colin’s house in Cary to celebrate his ordination on Saturday.   Halfway through the trip I received a call from my mom—my grandmother had fallen at Colin’s house. She didn’t tell me much except, “grandma fell and dad is worried.”  I overanalyze everything and so I rushed to the hospital as quickly as I could. My brother had already arrived and was keeping my grandmother company with my dad.  She is ok, but had to spend the night in the hospital.

Grandma was a little embarrassed but she was mostly, and unnecessarily, apologetic. She knew that our plans had been thwarted. She apologized that we were not able to eat a family dinner. Colin was not able to rest like we had planned, but he was going to have to return home exhausted. The service on Saturday was going to be ruined. The list goes on.  Of course, none of us regret being with grandma that night, but we also knew that she was partly right. Our plans did change, even though we were glad to be at her side. The relaxing weekend received unforeseen excitement—the kind of excitement you don’t receive warmly.  Later on, I came to find out that there had been an even bigger misfortune earlier in the day—a tragic death in Colin’s congregation.  Like I said, so much for relaxation.

I tell this story only because the events of that day gave me space to reflect on what it means to be ordained. I offer two reflections—one that is more superficial in nature and one that is more personal.

On a superficial level, my brother’s chaotic day exemplified the commitment he was making for the rest of his life. We planned to party on Friday night, but my brother spent the eve of his ordination in the hospital. He didn’t celebrate like he planned, but he served.  Ordained ministry is countercultural because your life is no longer your own. “Ordained ministry, especially ‘sent’ ministry, is unpredictable, demanding, and uncontrollable—it must also be self-less for these reasons. It was ironically fitting that Colin was in a hospital most of the day. I do not think he cared, though. Ordained pastors don’t feel a deep need to celebrate their own accomplishments as much as they feel called to serve God’s world. If you are egocentric, then it’s hard to be a pastor.

I lament the two tragedies that took place on that day.  Oddly enough, though, the best celebration Colin could receive was the calling and privilege to serve those whom he loves (even on his ordination weekend).

Yet, I also noticed something on a deeper level, something that was more profound.  I realized that my brother had already received another identity gradually, somewhere along the road.  For when I walked into my grandmother’s hospital room I didn’t just meet a brother, but I met a soon-to-be ordained pastor. And his presence in the hospital room had to be that of a pastor, not of a grandson.  His role was to sanctify the space with his presence, speech, and touch.  This was striking—Colin was no longer primarily a son, or a grandson, or even a brother—he was, first and foremost, a pastor and a representative of God. In the service, Bishop Leeland said, “We no longer live in the world, trying to serve God, so much as we live in God, seeking to serve the world."  This was made incarnate in the hospital.

Colin’s ordination weekend showed me that my brother has become a pastor. Saturday was a special event for my family and me because it was the culmination of many experiences—the times Colin has led us in mealtime prayers, dragged my sister and me to youth group, and the way he has implicitly led me and paved the way for me to acknowledge my own calling and gifts. Colin, you have often been a representative of God to us, but now you will be one wherever you go.

  This is a vocation that is going to be unpredictable, challenging, but also adventurous. And there is nothing more important than being Christ’s representative.

            

Family

This Sunday, I will explore the baptized family of God in worship. I share this post so that we can start thinking about what it means to be baptized in advance of Sunday. To balance this message out, I will be focusing more on the baptized universal church this Sunday.

In the Gospel of Mark: "Your mother and your brothers are outside waiting on you, calling for you," one of the disciples said to Jesus.  And he replied, "Who are my mother and my brothers?" And looking at those who sat around him, he said, "Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

Over the last couple of months, two couples that sporadically attend worship at Plains have remarked that they will probably worship someplace different. This is hard for the small-membership church to hear. Of course, we asked them why. One couple remarked, “We want to go to a Church where we can blend in and not be seen.”  The other couple remarked, “We don’t want to be asked to do anything.”  I take these responses as compliments. If you want to be anonymous, then don’t go to the small-membership church.  

It's easy to slip in and out of larger churches and avoid being seen. The larger church blends well with our individualist/capitalist/consumerist society. If you prefer to slip in and consume then go to a larger Church. It is easier to become just a number.  Don't get me wrong--we need the large membership church. They do work that the smaller churches will never be able to do. Plus, they help keep the churches out in the sticks afloat.  

But the rural church cannot afford to have numbers for the sake of numbers. We want numbers because we desperately need our family to grow.  The field is ripe for the harvest, but the laborers are few. There is a lot of work to get done in the kingdom of God.  And family members have to pitch in on the farm. Don’t join a small-membership church and expect to never receive a hug or to never be asked to read Scripture on a Sunday morning. We won’t fit in that shopping cart; we expect discipleship and we expect family. This is a gift of the small membership church.

Last Sunday a gentleman returned to worship for the first time in years.  He slipped in the back door right after the service started. I don’t know if he wanted anonymity or not.  Like I said, privacy is not an option. We celebrated. We announced his name as we lifted up the joys in our lives; we greeted him with smiles and hugs. “Glad to have you home,” we said.  I shook his hand as he walked out the door and he replied, “See you at Sunday School next week.” 

If you want to be unseen during worship then you are free to go. If you ever decide to return we will slaughter the fattened calf and welcome you home to the family.

Memorial Day and Pentecost

This Sunday is Pentecost and Memorial Day weekend, which creates a tension that puts many pastors in a tough spot. After a year of ministry, I am able to think more realistically and pastorally about civil religion in the local Church. Yet, I cannot bring myself to preach or make reference to this holiday on Pentecost.

The climax of late spring and early summer in the Church is Pentecost Sunday. We have reached the end of Easter, celebrated the Ascension of our Lord, and now receive the fullness of God’s promises as we remember the coming of the Holy Spirit among us.  This is the height of our resurrection story! But Memorial Day throws a stick in our spokes and brings a halt to our celebration as our country stops to remember those who have died in the military.  Remembering our loved ones surely is not a bad thing in and of itself. Still, it strikes me that Memorial Day will confuse our worship in a few ways—I’ll share two of them.

First, it’s confusing because we remember death, but we do not remember resurrection.  This reminds me of the confusion created by the military ritual inside of the Christian service of death and resurrection. Don’t get me wrong; the military rituals are a nice gesture. The trumpets blow, the guns are fired, and the flag is folded.  There is a sense of honor, pride, and even thankfulness. But the ritual ultimately falls short. It creates a shocking message: our country can ask you to die, but it cannot raise you from the grave.  This creates a hopeless contradiction in the funeral—a kind of Stoic acceptance of death as a result of a courageously lived life. Is this really what we need to hear? I find myself patiently waiting to hear “Amazing Grace” played on the bagpipes.  Conversely, Jesus asks us to die to ourselves that we might one day be raised.  Pentecost should be joyfully proclaimed as the pinnacle of Jesus’ promise of resurrection and the recreation of the entire world.

Second, the nationalism inherent in Memorial Day gestures toward a negation of Pentecost. At the birth of the Church the Spirit descended and a multitude of nationalities were able to hear in their own language. This was a beautiful joining of differences.  Pentecost is a time to celebrate our boundary-crossing faith that brings together ethnic/cultural/and socio differences. This Sunday we will celebrate that the Church did not force anyone into a specific mold or keep out differences. True worship takes place when our differences are joined together as when the God-man, Jesus Christ, joined humankind. Pentecost is certainly not a time for the Church to receive its identity from the state. But Memorial Day is a time to remember United States soldiers. How could we lift up and celebrate one nationality on this Sunday? I do not want to do anything that will move toward an “us—them” attitude on Pentecost.

In would be a nice gesture to remember our soldiers this Sunday, but it will ultimately fall short. We have the opportunity to proclaim that Jesus has ascended to the Father, but that Jesus has also keeps his promises.  The Spirit is among us! The Spirit has descended upon us and is reversing the calamity of the Tower of Babel so that we may no longer be confused by our differences. There is trust instead of fear. There is clarity instead of confusion. There is peace instead of war. One day the Spirit will accomplish something that war cannot as our “dry-bones” rise from the grave.

I hope that my omission of Memorial Day will not be perceived as an insult, but as a means to create theological clarity in the context of worship on Pentecost Sunday.