All But Six Hours A Week

I am spending three days this week in St. Cloud, where all Minnesota United Methodist clergy have gathered for what is called a “Gateway Retreat.” Several years ago our Conference received a significant grant from the Lilly Foundation to assist in clergy professional development. The outcome of that grant has been “Gateway groups,” which originally were populated based upon church size. The Conference was recently awarded a second grant (half the size of the first, but still a substantial amount of money), and Gateways is taking a new look. Individual clergy can decide which group they want to be a part of, so for these days we are meeting one another, writing a covenant and making plans for further growth and God’s servants together.

Yesterday our Bishop spoke to us, using Jonah as a model, and described her understanding of pastoral excellence. She is a very gifted communicator, and I always walk away from her preaching moments feeling refreshed and inspired. Among the many nuggets of truth I received yesterday, the one that I am most enthused with is this one.

She began by saying, “All but six hours a week.” (And I may be paraphrasing at this point). “I have loved ministry, and I want others to love ministry, too. I want you to find joy in what you do as you respond to God’s call upon your life. And I can honestly say, that with the exception of about six hours a week, I have loved every minute of what I do.”

I think she has well characterized the pastoral life, and perhaps, for that matter, the life that most every person who is working lives. Most of us long for a career path that is personally fulfilling, makes a difference in the world, and leaves behind a legacy. We want what we do to have mattered. I suppose that those idealistic visions are even more paramount in the lives of clergy, who hear a call from outside of themselves (and from within, too) to serve God while serving with God’s people. The down side, of course, is that we clergy probably have earned our reputation as “pie in the sky” kinds of people, with all kinds of dreams and idealism and less ability to produce “results” (whatever that really means in the context of congregational life or even in the broader world God has created).

But in any case, my heart reverberates with what Bishop Sally had to say, because I, too, can affirm that with the exception of about six hours a week, I really love what I do. I am blessed beyond measure to be able to do what God has called and equipped me to do. I have the opportunity not many spouses and parents have … to have family members witness on a regular, at-least-weekly basis, what I am able to do best. Very few other vocations allow that opportunity.

So this morning I am feeling a renewed sense of gratitude for the work God calls me to do. I am more aware than ever of my frailties and the humanity which calls me to lean even more faithfully upon my Creator, but I cannot imagine doing anything else with my life.

How Churches and Airports Are Alike … and Can Be Different

It is 10:15 PM. I have been home a little more than an hour, having spent the better part of my day returning home from Nashville, where I was involved in something called the Middle Adult Summit. It is sponsored by our denomination’s General Board of Discipleship, and I had the opportunity to be one of sixteen people invited to be a part of the conversation. I must admit I’m not sure that I like being called a “middle adult,” because I do not feel like what I have always thought a middle-aged person might feel like. Granted, I was one of the “younger” mid-adults at this summit (probably one of four who would be called generationally a “Genxer,” while the others are baby boomers). We finished up by noon today, and then it was off first to the Nashville airport, then on to Chicago and finally back to Minneapolis.

As I ponder my afternoon and evening hours in airports scattered across the hundreds of miles, I was struck by how the airport experience is really an experiment in pseudo-community. If you’ve traveled by air you may know what I’m talking about. People who normally would not be your conversation partners strike up a conversation. While I was catching up on email at the Nashville airport, for example, a woman (who also happened to be a Mac user, which always catches my attention) asked if there was a power outlet nearby. (Finding a power outlet at any airport is always a challenging proposition). I told her there was an empty outlet above the one I was using, which she took to be an invitation to sit near me. As she plugged in her cord, she feigned friendliness and apologized for her “reach.” I finished up my work, packed up and walked on to witness another oddity.

In a darkened corner of an empty gate area was a young man evidently needing a change of shirts. As I walked by I saw him pulling off his button-down oxford, and mercifully in my peripheral vision only, as I walked by, saw him strip off his t-shirt with one hand as he rummaged through his carry-on luggage with another hand to pull out a clean set of clothes. Strange, I thought, that he would feel free to change his clothes in a deserted gate area open to public view when there was a bathroom right around the corner. Again, there was the sense of pseudo-community … as though he was with friends or acquaintances, simply because we all happened to share one thing in common: we were all traveling by air today.

And then, of course, there is the seating arrangement on all airplanes, which is never commodious for my body size. Even when I was 60 pounds lighter it was a challenge to squeeze into seats designed for the petite; these days the challenge is even greater, and I am not sure I will ever be comfortable sitting for a protracted period of time with one side of my body squeezed closely to a stranger’s. The truth is, and this may be too much information, that I don’t sleep that close to my spouse in our bed at home. When I’m sitting close enough to the guy next to me to feel his nervously twitching leg vibrate against mine, I figure that’s just a little too close. But strangely, when it comes to airflights, most of us accept that as part of the experience. It’s this psuedo-community thing I’m talking about. We’re all in it together, so we pretend that we’re OK with unusual close-proximity physicality with complete strangers.

I could go on, but I think you get my point. About airports and the flying experience at least.

But I think that our church experiences are often like airport experiences. We co-exist in our church relationships with people we would never socialize with in our “real worlds.” We sit next to or near people we don’t really know, but pretend like we do know, because that’s supposed to be part of what church is about. We smile and exchange greetings and discuss the weather, but we don’t get all that involved in others’ lives. When, for example, we hear that one of their children is reeling out of control, we say to ourselves, “Gosh, I never knew that was happening. They seemed like such a happy family.” Or when the empty-nester couple parts ways, we are shocked and say, “I can’t believe it. They were together 25 years. They raised their children together. They seemed so compatible.”

I am concerned that for many of us our church experience is no better than our airport experiences. We experience pseudo-community, but we really never get beyond the superficial and the external. We think of fellowship as cake, coffee and a friendly face … but we just don’t know how to get beneath the surface to really walk with another person in the depths of their life experience. We view the “new person” from across the room and wonder who they are, without, of course, bothering to walk to the place where they are standing or sitting to introduce ourselves. We have our “church friends” and our “other friends.”

One of the things I heard in multiple ways in the past two days in the training I attended was how desperately necessary (for middle adults in particular, but not only people aged 31-60) it is to have a spiritual community. One of the things that those in this age group say (who do not attend church) is that they are looking for a community in which their spiritual lives can deepen and grow, a place where they can know others beyond the surface and journey together in a spiritual way.

And here’s the kicker … many of these adults are finding these kind of meaningful spiritual relationships. They are just not finding them in the church (whatever the denominational stripe). They will meet at 6 AM once a week with friends at Starbucks to talk and pray, but they won’t be in a church worship service. They may host a book study to explore spirituality at Barnes and Noble, but they won’t sign up for the latest education offering at the nearby church building.

The institutionally alienated, spiritually yearning folks in our community are finding ways to become spiritually adept, but they consider churches irrelevant and inhospitable to their needs. I wonder if those outside the church see the church experience like I experienced the airport today, as a psuedo-community where people are doing similar things, but not as a place to be unless absolutely necessary, and then to avoid until absolutely necessary again (could you say “baptisms,” “weddings,” and “funerals”?)

I don’t know about you, but I want to pastor a church where a strong sense of spiritual community is embraced and continues to grow and develop. I don’t want to oversee the work of an airport where psuedo-community is the value of a necessary evil.

God help us … to be different!

How I Fared

Read “I Wonder How I Will Fare” before reading this blog.

I have returned from my worship experience at West End United Methodist Church. As I surmised in my previous blog, the service style is upper-end traditional, complete with a cross-bearer, torch- (their word, not mine) bearers, and a classically dressed (read that black cassocks with white surplices) choir of more than 45 voices.

As I arrived at the domineering wooden doors (both of which were pulled back into a welcoming position, fortunately) of West End I was promptly greeted by three women who handed me a bulletin, with a polite “good morning.” Within seconds they continued the conversation they had already been having with one another. Deciding to play the devil’s advocate visitor, I interrupted them by saying, “Excuse me. I’m visiting today, and I wonder if there’s anything special I need to know?”

My self-revelation caught them off guard, and for a moment they didn’t know quite what to say. Then followed an uncoordinated attempt to make me feel even more welcome. “Well, welcome, welcome. We’re glad you’re here this morning,” I heard all three voices chiming in without the pleasure of stereophonic composition. “Well, there aren’t any assigned seats,” one of my erstwhile guides informed me. “And,” the second person of the greeting trinity offered, in a manner which seemed relieved, “there’s no communion this morning, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

I smiled inwardly, thanked them for what I perceived to be their awkward communications, and ventured into the Gothic sanctuary. The sanctuary is a traditional worshiper’s dream. Vaulted ceilings, pillars, a long narrow nave with an exalted chancel and altar, all centered upon an organ whose serpentine pipes snaked across the front of the sanctuary. If you are a church building afficionado, you will understand when I say it smells like “old church.” It is not an unpleasant scent, but the aroma of years and years of worshiping upon wooden pews, wooden floors and concrete. I suppose “Gothic” and “warm” never really go together, and my experience today revealed that. The temperature within the sanctuary was cool to me, and if it is cool to me, then it must be frightfully frigid to natives of Nashville.

As an introvert I do not mind when I enter a new worship space and have little interaction with others. In fact, I prefer those moments of reverence and quietude as opportunities for me to focus and center myself. In a congregation as large as this, I did not expect to receive any personal welcome of any sort, and my expectations were well met. Other than the garralous greeting trinity at the door, not a single expression of welcome was directed toward me. While I do not mind, the population of extraverts in the world would probably experience this as “cold” and “unfriendly.”

Worship was spectacular for the liturgically oriented. After an organ prelude the choir sang an introit from the narthax before their auspicious entrance. Cross, torches, and forty-five choristers processed in before the four worship leaders (two elders, one deacon and a lay person) as together we sang “Immortable, Invisible, God Only Wise.”

The liturgical components of the service were well ordered and traditional worship lived this morning. The sermon was preached from Micah’s injunction to seek justice, love mercy and walk humbly with God. The preacher spoke in a confessional fashion of her interactions with the scripture text thorughout the week. She spent carefully planned time explaining her dilemma (that she realizes how she needs to live more consciously around God’s commands as recorded in Micah), exhorting the congregation to consider her plight, and ended with a plantive, convcting, “Will you help me?”

The offertory was a Beethoven piece sung by a gifted soprano. While I enjoyed her offering, I smiled within as I thought about how our youngest son might have evaluated her voice and the musical piece which reaches back several centuries. “Screechy,” might be a word he, not I, would use.

The service ended with a round based on the words of Micah we had heard proclaimed during worship. It was a moving service for this tradition-bound worshiper. And, I sensed, for those gathered in the sanctuary with me. I was impressed with the age diversity in the crowd. From college students to young adults to middle aged and elderly (not many children; perhaps there is children’s worship in another area), all segments were well represented. I was impressed to see how relevant for many of the younger ones traditional worship can be. This is certainly not a blanket statement, but I recognize again that “contemporary worship” is not necessarily defined by age, nor is traditional worship.

So. I worshiped well in a service whose tradition uplifted my heart and fed my soul. I was remidned of God’s blazing glory in the liturgical niceties of the morning. I was challenged to consider my relationship with God and the justice, mercy and love people of faith are commanded to pursue. I met God, but I’m not sure I met my fellow worshiper.

How Will I Fare?

It is a strange Sunday morning for me. I am in Nashville, Tennessee, on church-related business, attending a Middle Adult Summit beginning this afternoon through Tuesday, which is sponsored by the General Board of Discipleship. I am not accustomed to being in a strange community on Sunday morning, and even less accustomed to not leading worship and preaching. I will, however, be worshiping while I am here, although it will be with a group of people I have never met. In a few minutes I will walk three blocks from the hotel where I’m staying (walking is my only means of transportation this week, except for the shuttle to and from the airport) to worship at West End United Methodist Church.

I have a good idea of what the service will be like, because I’ve perused their website and listened to a previous worship service online. It will be a traditional worship service with plenty of “smells and bells,” as they say in more liturgical circles. I will be worshiping in the heart of the Bible belt, and I understand that the 11 o’clock service is the primary service of the morning. There will be much that I will be familiar with … the hymns, the liturgy, the music.

But I am still struck by a nagging question, “How will I fare in a worship community not my own?” It’s a strange question, really, and one that I shouldn’t even have to ask. I mean, after all, I have been in church nearly all of my life, have been a pastor for more than twenty years, and have been pastoring in United Methodist Churches for fourteen years. I should not be anxious about the experience, and I shouldn’t have to wonder, because I am familiar with what will happen, the church is part of my denominational family, and I have traveled enough to expect diversity. But I still have some repressed anxiety about showing up alone to worship in a service with people I do not know.

I cannot help but wonder, then, how the average de-churched or no-churched person in my community feels. How intimidating must be it be to do something so anxiety-producing when you may have not been in church for years, or do not know the people there, or have no experience with the denomination in question?

I will blog again later today about my experience in a new, strange place. I am on a mission of sorts … to experience what it feels like to be alone, unfamiliar and entering a strange place for the first time.