A Benediction

I imagined the scene playing out much differently. Given several weeks to prepare for a significant moment, I typically rehearse it a time or two. The way I pictured it, my wife, my son and I would stand at the edge of the driveway. It would be half a moment after the hugs and blessings... our eyes locked on a car headed far away.

All three of us would stand in a huddle, almost as if we were trying to shield ourselves from the internal cold. My son's face would be buried in my chest. My wife supporting herself on my shoulder. And then me, listening to the slow sound of tears easing their way to the ground.

And as the taillights turned a corner... offering our last glimpse of a dear friend... my son, who has yet to grasp the concept of actual words, would leap out of my arms... run down the middle of the street... and shout, "Remember that I love you."

Of course, it didn't happen like that at all. Dani left on a Sunday morning. She stayed at our house the night before. We visited for a few minutes the next day. Then I got dressed for church. Said goodbye. And when I got back home, she was gone.

I have yet to figure out which role is more difficult -- being the one who leaves or being the one who stays. I prefer none of the above. Either way, you still have to deal with the huge gaping hole left by the close-range shotgun blast of goodbye.

As a minister, you get accustomed to not having friends in the church. You might find some of the qualities of friendship -- a few laughs, a moment of honesty, an act of unforced generosity. You will have friendly acquaintances. Not friends. It's too difficult for both parties.

So when the rare thing comes along, it hurts like hell when it's gone. I'm still in the "hurts like hell" stage. Could still be here for a while, who knows?

I honestly believe that Dani was my salvation in this little church. And yes, I realize how incredibly self-centered that sounds. But it's true. Before she came along, I didn't think I would make it here. And then she showed up, and everything changed. It wasn't like a bright flash of light kind of change. More like the early dawn creeping up the horizon.

On my most idealistic days, I like to believe that the experience will be more than memories. I'd like to believe that it will include a present reality and a future possibility. But I don't know any of that. What I know is gratitude and longing and continued prayers of hope for a beloved friend. It's the best I can do today.

Bleeding Out

So I picked this up yesterday.



It's the best thing I've listened to in a while. I'm not much of a musical critic. So I can't tell you about the quality of the instrumentation. Can't say how complicated the layers are. I really can't even judge whether the lyrics have much substance or not.

Truthfully, the reason I keep listening to this album is because of it's raw honesty. These women are bitter. They are defiant. In their own words, they are "mad as hell." And it shows. From the very first song I realized that this album wasn't so much written -- it was bled.

You see that happen sometimes. Musicians... painters... screenwriters... novelists. They go through some experience. Perhaps crippling. Traumatic. Loss. Pain. Public scandal. And what comes out of that creative catalyst is this gaping wound for the world to see. You can't stop looking. The humanity is stark and naked... and we're drawn to it.

Amazingly enough, experiences like this often give people the freedom to finally be who they are. Not who they're perceived to be. Who they are.

I've known ministers who fall into this category. They've spent most of their professional lives keeping up appearances, saying all the right words, massaging egos. Nodding, smiling and playing nice. In other words, doing all the things I do.

But then one day it all changes. The tragic death of a loved one. An affair with the secretary. Maybe a church throws them to the wolves. Whatever raw humanity was buried under the appearances comes barging out like a fugitive seeing the light of day for the first time in decades.

Whenever I meet people like this... particularly ministers... I'm jealous. Sure, I wouldn't want to bear their pain. And they certainly wouldn't wish it on anyone. But there is nothing like human life in all its fullness. If there is a shortcut to that place, I hope I find it. If no shortcut exists, then I can only hope to come out a human on the other side.

Telling Secrets

I would rather have a nice lawn than a nice living room.

I don't really care for missions. That's hard to say out loud... or to even type on a computer screen. Some of my dear friends are career missionaries. In most ways, they are more devoted to the faith than I am.

I overuse the words "mystical", "sacred" and "ancient".

I'm not as smart as people think I am. Sure, school work came relatively easy for me. And I've acquired my share of information. Not to mention that I'm arrogant enough to consider myself more insightful than the general population. But all in all, I'm not that brilliant. I'm just articulate. And if a person can speak with a certain level of ease, they tend to get a pass intellectually.

I wish I was an Episcopalian.

The music at my church is bad. It has nothing to do with the ridiculous debate over worship styles. Good music is good music. And ours isn't good.

My appearance bothers me.

I watch American Idol every week.

Sometimes when I'm trying to work on a sermon, I'll lock the office door and turn off the lights so that no one will know I'm here.

The thought of being the average American male/husband/father terrifies me. And yet, that's what I am.

The attendance at my church is now less than when I arrived. Most congregational strategists will tell you that's a bad thing. And while I don't give much thought to congregational strategists, I can't help but feel that the attendance issue is a reflection on me.

I don't want my son to be a minister.

I'm pretty sure I snore.

Part of me thinks, "What if Rick Warren is right?"

Sometimes I act like a jerk at home because I don't give myself permission to be a jerk at church.

I have deceptive speed.

I'm consumed with fear of the coming crisis.

Depending on the situation, I will alter my speech patterns, dialect and vocabulary to suit my purposes.

I don't always believe in God. But I almost always believe in the Church. And when I see the Church in its laughable, fumbling, ornery, praying, tender fullness of human holiness... it helps me believe in grace. And when I believe in grace, I believe in God.

40 Days

Long before there were ever 40 days of purpose, there were 40 days of Lent.
40 days of looking inward.
40 days of deliberate reflection.
40 days of silence, sacrifice and saying, "No."
40 days of following Jesus out to the desert, through the shouting crowds and up a dark and lonely hill.

It's never easy. About halfway through you consider ditching the expedition. Why should you have to stare at your own mortality when there's good television to watch?

But if you continue... if you press on... if you put one clay foot in front of the other... you might just find what you've been looking for all along. You might just see who you are without the pacifiers. You might just hear a voice that is indiscernible amid the noise of society. You might just find an empty deathbed crumbled by the gravity of irresistible life.

You might find all this... and more. That's why you go. That's why you face your fear. You loosen your grip. You unhitch your wagon from the filler. Only then will your "Alleluia" mean something.

It's Best I Didn't Know

I miss worship. That might sound strange coming from someone who gets paid to show up at church every Sunday. But just the same, it's true. I miss worship.

Worship. There's no need to bore you with a theological parsing of the term. It's not necessary to give you some sentimental plea for the concept. Let's just leave it at this: Worship is a very old word that, when said without a smarmy grin, still packs a punch. It refers to an experience or moment... even a life... where something of you meets something of God.

I suppose that I became a pastor for a hundred different reasons. Worship is one of those reasons. Somewhere along the way, I discovered that I liked worship. I liked being with this gathered people... proclaiming these prayers... voicing these songs... sitting in silence... sharing this cup... lifting these hearts. So I figured, "Why don't I just make my life work center around creating moments of worship?"

It's a logical conclusion. Little did I know, the minute I became a pastor, my experiences of worship would be few and far between.

During a typical week, I meet with two other folks from the church on Tuesday afternoon. We read the texts for the coming Sunday. We wrestle with them... toy with them... sometimes even gnash our teeth at them. Then we begin to let those texts... not to mention the various contexts of our people... find their place in the liturgy. We often write prayers and litanies. We occasionally write songs. We consider art and symbols. We give the worship service some form and flow.

When this meeting is done, I spend the rest of the week with one eye on the worship guide. I tweak it here and there. I add and subtract. I obsess over it far more than I should.

Then Sunday morning comes -- the peak of my anxiety for the week. As we stand to say the Call to Worship, I wonder if the people realize how these words connect to our opening hymn. As we read the Prayers of the People, I worry that the folks might not catch how brilliantly these prayers reflect our gospel text. As we sing an unfamiliar but beautiful tune, I can't help but think that we just lost half the congregation.

Sunday mornings are not the day of worship for me. They are the day of judgment. And it is an entirely self-imposed judgment. By this point, I'm too far involved to be objective. I've placed my hands on worship, and I am tainted. I've grasped it for too long... examined it too closely... attached myself to its rise and fall.

I don't like this about myself. It can't be healthy. And the little therapist that lives in my head tells me that this attitude will eventually bring me to ruin. But I can't help it.

I will freely admit the narcissism involved here. I will readily confess that much of this obsession is tied to my need for approval. And I can sense the ugly self-concern that manifests itself within me on Sundays. But as I said earlier, I like worship. And the redemptive part of me wants this little congregation to like worship. If I don't do everything within my range of abilities to offer the most meaningful worship experience possible, then I have failed them.

That's why I miss worship. I used to think that whenever I got a Sunday off, the last place I would want to be is a church sanctuary. Now it's exactly where I want to go. A place where someone else does the obsessing. Where they write the prayers. Where they craft the rhythms. Where they tie themselves to it.

I just walk in... as one of the gathered. I don't worry about wrong notes... mispronunciations... rough edges. There's not one sliver of the experience that reflects on me. It is worship.

Scanning the Horizon

About five months ago, I was going through "the process" with another congregation. "The process" is an awkward dance that I've written about here. When you do this dance, it essentially means that a church is looking for a pastor and a pastor is looking for a church. I'm not sure what made me say yes to the dance. I honestly didn't feel like I had been in my current setting long enough at that point. Sometimes it's just nice to be asked to the ball.

Well obviously, for a number of reasons, I didn't take the job. And truth be told, we didn't get far enough into it for them to offer. Who knows what would have happened? All I know is that things have been different around here since then.

I've noticed that I'm not as patient as I once was. I don't handle the little annoyances quite the same. I'm more moody. More reserved. More frustrated. I was telling this to a friend and mentor. He quoted some brilliant mind and said, "Well, you know... you can't leave and love at the same time."

That statement has rung true over these last few months. My eyes frequently scan the horizon to see what else is out there. My vision becomes distracted by the little flashes of light coming from this place or that. I'm looking for something. I'm looking for some place. I think I'm finally willing to admit that I'm ready to leave.

When you make that confession, I'm not sure you can ever go back. The quirks and oddities of certain church members... the idiosyncracies I once found novel and cute... are now the very things that make my skin crawl. When you've made a commitment to stay... whether at a church or in any relationship... you're willing to endure the daily grind in the hopes of some future glory. But when your mind is made up to leave, it's a different story. You find yourself saying, "I shouldn't have to put up with this."

So what do you do? You tell me. Best I can figure, you just trust. You try to find that tiny spark of the Divine in these fractured lives... in your own fractured life. And you acknowledge that faith isn't always about taking life on your terms. If you try to manufacture your own religious experience, then you'll just be left clutching idols. And the little trinket-life that you create offers no grace in the end.

I'm here for the time being. And there's a lot left to do... to see... and to receive. Whether it feels like it or not, even this offers the hope of future glory.

All the Fuss For Christmas

Lots of evangelical Christians are doing their part to save baby Jesus from the onslaught of a politically correct "holiday" season. In this recent column, Ellen Goodman reported the following actions of those defending the helpless mangered-one.

Jerry Falwell's Liberty Counsel is conducting a "Friend or Foe of Christmas" campaign.
James Dobson's Alliance Defense Fund is running a "Christmas Project" with the motto: "Merry Christmas. It's okay to say it."
Bill O'Reilly has accused Target of banning Christmas by wishing its shoppers a "Happy Holidays".

As a minister in an evangelical church, I have come to expect this sort of thing every December. Someone's zeal is riled up by all the careful language of the season. They get bothered by government offices and retail hubs that refuse to let the Nativity have first billing. Their battlecries are, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" and "Keep the Christ in Christmas."

On one hand, I can see why they are so frustrated. Historically in our country, the holiday season in December was a big deal precisely because of Christmas. It wasn't because of Kwanzaa. Not because of Winter Solstice. Not Chinese New Year. Not even Hanukkah. For most of our Jewish neighbors, Hanukkah doesn't even come close to the sacred clout of Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashana. All of these other religious and cultural celebrations have gotten much of their cachet in America from the fact that they share a calendar page with Christmas.

So it makes sense that the Christ-child defenders are steamed. They want to get back to the way things were. When the majority wasn't afraid to say the words "Merry Christmas". When good God-fearing people could see the Holy Family on the lawn at City Hall.

But what I can't quite figure out is this... what are the defenders really defending? As Goodman points out, "On the one hand they want more Christ in Christmas; on the other hand they want more Christmas in the marketplace." And I don't think you can have both.

If you want more "Christ in Christmas", that's fine. I share your desire. I want this season to be sacred for me and my family, but I'm not asking Hallmark to make it happen. There are plenty of ways to let this time of year be holy for those of us in the Christian faith.

You can start by observing Advent. It is completely counter-cultural this time of year. The notion of waiting... in silence and hopeful expectation... for the Incarnate God to come is not something that retailers are quick to co-opt. Gather with the fellowship of others on the path of following Christ. Light the candles of the Advent wreath. Read the 40th chapter of Isaiah. Sing "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." You don't need the culture's permission for this to be a holy time.

But don't expect to find all this in the marketplace. Don't try to force it on the marketplace. And please, don't get your mistletoe twisted in a bunch if the marketplace doesn't go along with you. Let's not kid ourselves, the 21st century (or 20th century, for that matter) American version of "christmas" is nothing more than a cultural celebration of family and friends... gifts and glitter... warm wishes on cold nights. Wouldn't it just be better to call it "the holiday season" and let everyone find their place in it?

And that is completely fine by me. Along with the reverent purple of Advent, and the holy white of Christmas, my family willingly joins our society in the red and green of "the holday season". We put lights on the house. We drink eggnog. We exchange presents. Frosty the Snowman sits next to Santa Claus.

Is this holy? Of course not. Is it wrong? You might have a case there. Yes, it reaks of materialism. It is manipulative. It is a highly commercialized.

But it is what it is. And on most days, I have no problem taking part in it. I just do it with a wink and smile, knowing full well that it's not intended to be sacred. Besides, we all need the good tidings of Bing Crosby and Burl Ives from time to time.

So to my evangelical friends, don't fret when your daughter's third grade class has a "Winter Holiday Party." Don't get bothered when Mariah Carey sings "Silent Night". And don't say that "they"... whoever "they" may be... are oppressing your religious faith because Target refuses to wish you a "Merry Christmas". Ask Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Desmond Tutu what it means to be oppressed for religious faith.

To all of you near and far... whatever your faith and cultural traditions may be... whether you light the menora, you observe the seven principles of African culture, you hang stockings by the chimney or you air grievances near the Festivus pole... Happy Holidays.

And to you fellow pilgrims chasing this mystery on the path of Christ, may you have a blessed Advent. May it be full of hope... peace... joy... and love. May the One born in these days to come... be born in you.