soulwerker

This past Sunday (the First Sunday of Advent and the beginning of the Christian Calendar), the Roman Catholic congregations across the United States got a New Year’s gift in the form of changes to the Mass (the order used for worship). Here in the Archdiocese of Milwaukee, I know there were efforts aimed at preparing congregants for the changes even though the changes were already a “done deal”. Since I’m not a Roman Catholic (or even an avid “RC watcher”), I can’t speak to the particular changes made in the liturgy or what such changes “signal” — I’ll leave it to others more qualified to make those sorts of comments.

Since I live in a heavily RC part of the country, though, these changes are “big news” — making the front page (albeit “below the fold”) of yesterday’s Milwaukee newspaper. As I read the brief article which contained reactions from parishioners to the changes, I was particularly interested in one comment. The person interviewed, after critiquing the changes as “semantics”, and stating her refusal to “learn the damn prayers”, asked the following question, “Do you come to church to be confused?”

The implied answer to this rhetorical question is obviously, “No, of course not!”  Both the question and the implied answer immediately evoked a question within me: “Why then, do we come to church?”

For some, attendance at liturgy is about fulfilling a religious obligation. For others, it’s about comfort and solace. For others, it’s about reconnecting with something stable and consistent in the midst of a time of intense fluidity and change. For others, it’s about connecting with fellow worshipers and enjoying a sense of community. For others, it’s about a bit of inspiration or maybe helpful advice about how to live one’s faith in the world outside the four walls of the worship space. For others, it’s about receiving the Sacraments and contemplating the Mysteries of the depths of God. There are probably plenty of other answers to the question of attendance at worship, but I’m guessing most of us don’t intentionally attend worship to be confused (by the liturgy, the Scriptures, the sermon or anything else that might occur during the worship time on any given week).

My next question then is, “Why shouldn’t we be confused?”

With so much liturgical planning focused on “right order”, aren’t we ever the slightest bit confused about appropriate ways to acknowledge our disordered lives? If the liturgy is a drama in which we literally act out our beliefs about God, the Church and ourselves, aren’t we ever confused by our nagging doubts? When the liturgy moves easily from one set of words/actions to another, aren’t we ever confused by the ways we are stuck in our faith journey?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating confusion for confusion’s sake. I’m simply wondering if avoiding confusion should be the chief aim of liturgical planning. As a liturgical Christian myself, I like predictability. I remember the first time I was able to participate in an entire worship service without once having to look at the Book of Common Prayer. I felt like I had finally arrived as an Episcopalian!

I wonder, though. Does the ability to rattle off words without ever looking at them help us internalize what we’re saying? Or are we simply comfortable with a form of liturgical autopilot, which allows us to multitask — composing our “to do lists” or planning Sunday dinner while flawlessly reciting the General Confession?

The last time the Episcopal Church in the United States revised the Book of Common Prayer, the effort took the better part of a decade. The resulting BCP (1979) was adopted some fifty years after its predecessor. The changes in liturgical expression wrought by the 1979 book angered some, dismayed others and facilitated the departure of many to other faith communities. Now, even after more than thirty years in use, there are still Episcopalians who refer to it as the “New” Prayer Book.

As I look across the congregation I serve on any given Sunday, I watch us move through the liturgy with a ease and comfort. Even folks who aren’t necessarily familiar with our particular set of words can usually follow along as we navigate the path from Opening Acclamation to Dismissal. For the most part, everyone appears comfortable.

Would some confusion be in order?

Throughout the time I’ve served as a parish priest, I have shared repeatedly (OK, ad nauseum) my resistance to the role of rector as the epitome of an ecclesiastical functionary. “The last thing I want to become,” I have intoned, “is a “branch manager for Jesus”. I simply couldn’t picture myself  spending decades of my life strolling around congregations with the metaphorical organizational oil can, applying pious platitudes in strategic locations to make sure the wheels of parochial life spun along unimpeded, so that the franchise fee (diocesan assessment) could flow up the line to keep “headquarters” happy.

At the root of my admittedly exaggerated pronouncements was an unsettling suspicion. I worried that through the decades of its existence, my own corner of the Church Universal (the Episcopal Church variety) had substituted being a smoothly operating, mild mannered, non-profit service organization which “helped” people (mostly pledge-paying constituents) for the hell-busting, darkness-invading, principality-toppling, turn-the-world-upside-down through the power of the Holy Spirit, get-in-or-get-out movement that the New Testament described and early Church leaders envisioned. I didn’t know what sort of priest I would become, but “company man” was not on the list of vocational aspirations.

The more I said stuff like the foregoing, the more certain I was of my sincerity, and the more I was blinded to the fact I was becoming the very thing I so vehemently rejected. Yesterday, I ran headlong into the wall of my own limitations. My formation as a priest gave me a solid grounding in biblical interpretation, Christian theology and Church history. I know how to lead worship, design a liturgy and prepare a sermon. I can teach a Sunday School class. I can write carefully worded letters and newsletter articles. I learned the importance of the “non-answer” answer, so that I could appear to say something when not much was being said. I learned active listening skills and the rudiments of how to “be present” with people in the times of trial and struggle that come along with living this life. Every bit of that formation was necessary. Every smidgen of it valuable.

Except.

Except that my formation as a priest reinforced the Greek-philosophy-inspired bifurcation of life into two separate worlds (“spiritual” and “everything else”). Except that my formation presupposed I would mostly be dealing with the “spiritual” issues of faith and doubt, without considering how those issues might impinge upon decisions people would make about how to spend their time, invest their money or raise their children. Except that my formation assumed that as a white, middle class cleric I would serve a mostly white, middle class congregation, which would deal with mostly white, middle class, suburban issues (a.k.a.: “First World Problems”!).

For all of my expensive training (over $100,000 worth, counting tuition, living expenses and supplies), I wasn’t schooled in concrete problem-solving; rather I was trained to “live with the questions” and “embrace ambiguity”.  As wonderful as my time in seminary was, it offered me little guidance about how to deal with the complexities of people’s lives when those needs outpace the ability of a local congregation (or even a local municipality) to meet. How is any clergy person supposed to traverse the path of “pastoral care” when good listening skills are exhausted and the conundrum of pain and suffering remain? How is a priest to “be present” with the realization that very little he will say (or do) can untangle the circumstances, effect meaningful reconciliation or provide a long term solution to the insoluble problems so many people live with day in and day out?

Thankfully, people trust me enough as their pastor to share the difficulties of their lives and their relationships. They even assume there is some value in sharing those things. Perhaps a few of them believe I have some sort of ability to provide practical assistance in times of need. I confess, given what people seem to be dealing with in their “everything-else-lives”, knowing how to sing the Magnifcant, load a thurible with incense or find the date of Easter in 2025 using the table at the back of the Book of Common Prayer seem arcane bits of knowledge at best.

Faced with these limitations of my own formation and my own innate “skill set”, I can now fully understand the temptation toward administration, “vision casting”, and “restructuring”. I can also see why tweaking the personnel on a committee or learning the latest fundraising trick is so seductive. I think I finally understand why so many priests wind up cleaning the bathrooms, cutting the lawn or shoveling snow. Sitting with the realization of one’s limitations is unsettling to say the least.

No preaching about the Church prevailing against the gates of hell means anything until people are busted out of their own private hells. Singing about Christ being the Light of the World in liturgy doesn’t mean much for people who dwell in the darkness of depression and dependency or in the shadow of violence. Wrestling against the principalities of the world sounds like a waste of time to the person who is wrestling with a growling stomach or can’t find a warm place to sleep or hasn’t had a hug from a loved one in decades. Turning the world upside down for Jesus is all well and good for people with nothing else to do, but what about those in our midst who long to have their worlds right side up for a change?

Once upon a time, the Apostle Paul had a painful situation (he called it a “thorn in the flesh”). On a number of times, he prayed for deliverance and relief from the difficulty. The response he received from the Almighty went something like this, “My grace is sufficient for you, for [my] power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Far be it from me to compare my frailties as a pastor to the sufferings Paul endured, but I do think there’s a “word of the Lord” in this passage for me today.

Maybe today’s task is to admit my ignorance, uncertainty and ineptitude and remain open to the Spirit’s guidance and trust for God’s grace. Maybe I can put aside my big picture idealism, leave the salvation of the world God’s in hands where it belongs and do the work I’ve been given to do with gladness and some focus (singleness of heart). The provisions I’ve got for this work of priesthood are bread and wine, water and oil, the Scriptures and the prayers. Sometimes these provisions seem meager in the face of so much need (like crumbs scattered on an ocean of famine). But these provisions will have to do, and for the record, these have been the Church’s only provisions for centuries!

Maybe my work isn’t about fixing stuff — maybe it really is about sitting in the brokenness — beginning with my own.

The season of Advent begins tomorrow, marking the beginning of the Christian calendar. This shorter liturgical season commences four Sundays before Christmas. It is a time of preparation as the Church readies to celebrate the Feast of the Nativity and ruminate upon the  mystery of Incarnation — “God-with-us”, in the flesh, in the person of Jesus of Nazareth.

Advent has a two-fold focus: anticipation and commemoration. The first half of the season is anticipatory — looking forward to the at-any-moment “moment” when the promise of Christ’s return is fulfilled. This notion that “Christ will come again”, while part of our liturgical verbiage and ecclesiastical heritage, isn’t something we Episcopalians spend very much time thinking (or talking!) about. We’re nervous about being perceived as superstitious or non-rational, so we’ve tended to do our best to ignore the Tradition’s insistence that the First Advent of God-in-the-Flesh foreshadows a Second Advent at the end of time as we know it.

We’ve been more than willing to cede such eschatological discussions to other parts of the Church. This has been to our detriment. I would argue our reticence to engage such a conversation has actually eviscerated our understanding of Christian ethics (flattening our ethical discussions to squishy forms of nebulous do-goodism). This has resulted in much of our  involvement in social justice looking more like partisan politics than an engagement in the overt proclamation of the coming Kingdom of God.

When the First Sunday of Advent happens to fall on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the difficulty of keeping our competing calendars (ecclesial and cultural) coordinated is writ large. In the aftermath of familial celebrations, feasting and perhaps a bit of Black Friday shopping, we are more ready to take a nap than to keep awake. More worried about the next day at work than “the last day” of all time. More ready to lounge around in pajamas than to put on “the armor of light”. More ready to think about the coming (way back then) of “Sweet Little Jesus Boy” in the manger than to consider the (very unlikely, we’re certain) advent of Jesus, the Son of God, coming again “in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead.” More worried about how we’ll get through this life than how we’ll rise “to the life immortal”.

After twenty-plus centuries, the waiting game is getting old. Most North American Mainline Christians have moved on. If there’s something to this far-fetched notion of a Second Advent, we’ll let God work out the details. We’ve got life to live and we can live it with very little thought about such things. We can’t simply sit around on a mountain somewhere straining our eyes up into the sky hoping to catch a glimpse. Besides, we don’t do ridiculous stuff like that. We have too much fun satirizing those who do!

In the Gospel of Luke (19:12-26), Jesus tells the “Parable of the Pounds” (recorded in the Gospel of Matthew as the “Parable of the Talents”). While the details of each version are different, both parables are eschatological in scope; the servants are given resources to use in their master’s absence, but don’t know exactly when their time for making use of those resources will be “up”. They know the master will return. They simply don’t know when. In Luke’s version, though, the master gives a word of instruction after he has distributed the money to the servants:

“Do business with these until I come back.” (Luke 19:13, New Revised Standard Version)

“Operate with this until I return.” (Luke 19:13, The Message)

“Occupy till I come.” (Luke 19:13, King James Version)

The first two weeks of Advent provide opportunity for the Church to reflect on the year past with an eye trained toward God’s unfinished future. How have we been doing in our business of proclaiming Good News? How are we operating in service of the Kingdom that is both present and is to come? How are we occupying ourselves?

Occupation is an act of taking up space. Advent challenges the Church to take up space in the world — to spread out and proclaim the Good News; to refuse to be confined to a Sunday-morning-only expression of personal piety; to resist being silenced in the name of propriety.  Occupation is a vocational act. Advent stresses that the Church’s vocation is to stand with those whom the rest of the world prefers to stomp on. Part of the way we operate as the Church is to give voice to those who don’t have one — to work strenuously for justice and peace as an outward and visible sign of our belief that salvation (God’s wholeness) is for the whole person (and the whole world!) — and that this salvation infiltrates and redeems every single aspect of life. Our vocation is the hope-filled notion that working against all odds for “the least of these” is precisely how we’re supposed to be the Church in a culture hell-bent on telling us that certain situations or groups of people are hopeless.  Occupation is a political act. Advent reminds us of the Church as polis (a people) that lives its common life in a way which witnesses to the abundant life promised by Jesus. Such a common life reorients us (and anyone who cares to notice us) to an understanding that abundance is more than the balance in one’s checking account, the acquisition of the latest electronic gadget or wearing the shiniest gemstones around one’s neck. In a culture which stresses “more” — more power, more control, more money, more, more, more — the Church is the polis which gives witness to the idea of neighborly abundance in which God provides enough…for everyone.

How well are we occupying ourselves? Most congregations are very busy this time of year, but are we occupied with things that distract us from our occupation? The first two weeks of Advent could well be a corrective to our tendency to sentimentalize and privatize the Gospel. God is at work in the world. Christ will come again. Occupy till he comes.

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Collect for the First Sunday of Advent, Book of Common Prayer, page 211).

At a recent meeting of the Trinity Church Vestry, we spent a good deal of time talking about the term, “spiritual leader”. We discovered we did not have a clear understanding of this phrase which we’ve tossed around for quite some time. Some of us feel inadequate to have such a description “put on us”. We are all in agreement that serving on the Vestry of an Episcopal Church is about more than simply  “managing the temporal affairs of the parish”. But what is this elusive “more”?

I confess, the more I think about the verbiage, “spiritual leader”, the less I think I know what it means. I have conflicting understandings. On the one hand, in any organization, for the good of the organization, there will be some order — some way the group agrees to live out its common life. Yet, on the other hand, those of us who attempt to follow the way of Jesus are all too aware of his exhortation that, “the greatest among you will be the servant of all” and his warning not to employ authority as a way to “lord it over others.” Finally, I’m also ambivalent about the recent movement within North American Mainline Protestant circles to rely heavily on leadership literature from the corporate world with little reflection on how such literature corresponds (or doesn’t) with the Gospel our respective Churches seek to embody.

I am coming to believe that at least one aspect of this discipline of spiritual leadership has to do with developing a certain comfort concerning loose ends and ambiguity. In an attempt to begin a conversation about this topic within our Vestry, I wrote some about it in an e-mail I sent them this past Wednesday. What follows is some of what was contained in that e-mail (edited so that it makes more sense for a wider readership):

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The work of “process” is difficult. It requires patience and a willingness to wander around in a good deal of ambiguity. It can sometimes feel a bit like slogging through a swamp in hip waders while carrying a sack full of rocks in each hand. The work of truly listening to others can be exhausting. We discover that even when we are using the same set of words, those words can have different meanings to each individual.

The easiest work any vestry can do is the task stuff — checking items off of project lists, making decisions about expending/conserving funds, reporting out on what has been done or needs to be done. At the end of a meeting full of such task work, we can walk away with a feeling that the time was well spent and productive, because there are “accomplishments” that can be specifically articulated. Who doesn’t want to “get things done”?

But the movement to embrace “completion” as a goal of parochial life is seductive. It can lead us to begin to see fellow parishioners (or fellow vestry persons) in an instrumental fashion. In this mindset, we are only as good to each other as our last good contribution to the last good accomplishment. We begin to make judgments about what sort of value a person (including ourselves!) has to the community solely based on the contributions he/she is able/willing to make.

The first job of being “spiritual leaders” it seems to me, is to get comfortable with the idea that we may be doing our best work when it doesn’t look like we’re working. In a culture which increasingly values more work with less resources (people/relationships be damned, full speed ahead!), both the parish and the vestry can model a different way of living. We can be the place where we offer each other the grace of generous listening and thoughtful speech. Our community can become a place where we intentionally respect each other’s dignity. This can be the place where we come to recognize Jesus’ presence among us every time we gather (because we understand he’s almost always disguised in the faces of our fellow parishioners). This work of “becoming community” will never be completely done. But part of being spiritual leaders, I think, is getting comfortable with the process of the journey, enjoying each other’s company along the way and trusting that the Spirit is always at work (even when we don’t recognize it).

So, let’s put on our hip waders; grab a bag (or two) of rocks; and rejoice that there are still a few swamps to slog through together!

Today, I had an interesting conversation with a small gathering of parishioners. I was making my eighth appearance before the Trinity Book Club — a group of folks who have met for years to enjoy each other’s fellowship and to discuss books and authors that are of interest to them. The first year I was at Trinity, I was invited to address the group in November — thus, November is “my month” (in perpetuity, I suspect!).

For today’s meeting, I decided to review, for the group’s edification, one of the books I read during my sabbatical: The Pastor: A Memoir, by Eugene Peterson. This book, by one of my favorite authors, offers the reader a peek inside of Peterson’s childhood in small town Montana as well as Peterson’s take on how those experiences shaped his life. The bulk of the book, though tells the stories of Peterson’s work as a pastor in a Presbyterian congregation he “planted” in the early 1960’s, and where he remained until his retirement from congregational ministry nearly thirty years later.

I was particularly taken with Peterson’s description of the pastoral work — work which Peterson primarily characterizes as reading the stories of Scripture and weaving those stories with the stories of the people in the congregation. He served his folks as “the pastor” — the everyday exegete — who translated the great themes of creation, sin, redemption, reconciliation and judgment into the vernacular of suburban, middle to upper middle class Americans. Along the way he baptized, officiated at weddings and planted plenty of mortal remains in hope of the resurrection. Certainly there was the usual froth of administrative details along the way (the stuff he grumpily/lovingly referred to as prerequisite to “running the damned church.”) Mostly, though, Peterson saw his pastoral role as a collector and teller of stories. Hundreds upon hundreds of little stories woven into the tapestry of the BIG story of the Gospel of Jesus.

The community of faith in which Peterson was the pastor was the field he plowed for those stories. Year after year — first in one direction, then, in another. Back and forth. Back and forth. Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost through Ordinary Time and back again. Over and over and over. Year in and year out.

As I was talking to the book group, reading excerpts from Peterson’s work, I decided to ask them about one of the previous rectors of Trinity Church. I wanted to hear from the members of the group how they experienced that particular priest’s tenure — a span of over thirty-five years. I simply asked the questions, “What did he do all day?”

I was expecting they would tell me he how he visited parishioners in their home and at the hospital. I expected they would tell me about how they liked/didn’t like his sermons. I expected they would tell me about his teaching or their appreciation of his life of prayer.

What I heard instead was the phrase, “He was a good man,” repeated several time — in a tone, which at once was both respectful and a bit melancholy. They told me how he organized the Women’s Guilds and occasionally upbraided the congregation for failing to sing a hymn with sufficient verve. They told me how he yelled at kids in confirmation class who didn’t do their homework. (Just allow the concept of required homework from a confirmation class sink in and you’ll know it was a different world then!) They also told me of the ways in which he made sure the widows and orphans in the parish received tangible assistance in their need — time and time again, with gentleness and patience. For all his gruffness, he was, by everyone’s account, “Good”.

Never once did I hear about this man’s ability as a preacher or teacher. Apparently over the forty years since this rector’s departure, the vast majority, if not ALL, of the words he uttered through his years of service, have evaporated from congregational memory. Yet, he is remembered. Not because he was perfect, but because he was “good”. The folks telling me the story today seemed content that “good” was “good enough”.

I doubt this poignant reminder of the impermanence of words will allow me to stop obsessing over the preaching task, but the folks who talked with me today gave me the gift of clarity: A life that preaches is far more significant than a life of preaching. Who knows? Maybe being remembered as a “good” pastor is “good enough.” Faithfulness counts. For Eugene Peterson. For George White. And for me.

Thanks Eugene Peterson, for sharing your story, because in telling a bit of it, I was inspired to learn more about the story of the community of faith I now serve. Your story also helped me discover a deeper appreciation for the community of clergy who have spent the past one hundred twenty-five years plowing this particular field in God’s Kingdom — weaving their stories and the stories of the people they served with THE story of God’s Good News. Year after year — first in one direction, then, in another. Back and forth. Back and forth. Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost through Ordinary Time and back again. Over and over and over. Year in and year out.

They did their best to be good at it. Perhaps a few of them accomplished the feat. I get to try again tomorrow. Thanks be to God!

On the wall above the computer stand in the office afforded me at Trinity Church there are two framed pieces of paper. They represent well over five years of individual, familial and communal effort. These efforts include (but aren’t limited to) more meetings than I care to recount, moving three times within thirty-six months, three academic years of residential professional education, plus the investment of time and energy (plus big chunks of money!) by literally hundreds of people who all were a part of the journey called “the ordination process”. In less than a month, I will observe my ninth anniversary of ordination to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. Six months prior to being “priested” (to use the parlance of the trade), I had been ordained as a (transitional) deacon. So I am already well into my tenth year in ordained ministry — a life of service to the Episcopal Church and (hopefully!) to God.

There are plenty of denominations that do not require the formal education of their clergy. Many denominations have little, if any, regularized process in which potential clergy are examined (spiritually, psychologically, vocationally and plenty of other ways!) as rigorously as aspirants to Holy Orders in the Episcopal Church. In fact, these days, with a couple of clicks on the Internet and a $25.00 processing fee, anyone can get themselves “ordained” — complete with a certificate suitable for framing — in just a few short minutes.

In a frame, on a wall, in an office, one professional certificate looks remarkably similar to another. And for the record, in the entire time I’ve been doing this work, no parishioner has ever asked to see the “proof” that I’ve been ordained. Perhaps such certificates aren’t proof for curious parishioners anyway — maybe the only way the paper means anything is when the person whose name is printed on the paper takes the words on the paper to heart and does her/his best to put those words into practice in his/her daily life.

For whatever reason, this morning, I reread the verbiage in “the business end” of these two certificates. This is not verbiage made up on the spot — it’s actually the same for everyone, regardless of diocese, theological particularities or political leanings. After the preamble, which names the ordaining Bishop, date and location of ordination and the order to which I was ordained at the time, my name appears in bold lettering and then follows: “…of whose pious, sober and honest life and conversation, competent learning, knowledge of the Holy Scriptures and soundness in the Faith we (meaning the Bishop) are well assured; he also having in our presence freely and voluntarily declared that he believes the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be the Word of God, and to contain all things necessary to salvation; and having solemnly sworn to conform to the doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church…”

None of this language is about personal preference. All of it is about living a particular life of virtue, grounded in a particular body of knowledge (the Christian Tradition); conformed to a particular way of being “Church” (doctrine and discipline); all wrapped up with the personal agency involved in making a lifelong commitment “freely and voluntarily”, then sealed in an oath of solemnity. It’s enough to scare the hell out of me every time I read it.

And maybe that’s the point. Not necessarily to frighten/overwhelm me, but rather to remind me that this life of ordained ministry isn’t a career. It isn’t a profession. It isn’t about compensation packages and pension plans. In a world where the goal is having big goals, ordained ministry (in spite of all the high-sounding verbiage) is about nothing more or nothing less than living each day with the intention of embodying a way of being called “Christian” — living publicly, for better or worse, as a disciple of Jesus, while other Christians can choose (if they so desire) to keep as their faith/religious practice as private as possible. I know beyond a doubt I cannot always live up to the standards printed on those ordination certificates. I’ve failed too many times over the past nine-plus years to be convinced otherwise. But for today, I’ll give it another go — so that my life gives witness to Jesus;  so that this vocation of ordination is more than a white collar around my neck and framed words on a wall.

A few years ago, in a casual conversation with a Lutheran clergy person, I received the following pearl of practical pastoral wisdom: “Good administration is good pastoral care.” The clergy person then offered a well-reasoned (and I suspect well rehearsed) argument to buttress his assertion. While I can’t remember all of the nuances of the ad hoc presentation, the gist was something like this: “If the database is up to date, the bulletins are well-produced and error free, letters go out in a timely fashion, e-mails and phone calls are returned within twenty-four hours, then an air of competence is established in which parishioners are able to relax in the knowledge that their clergy person is taking care of the parish, and by extension, each one of them.”

I had never thought of pastoral competence as something that could be measured by e-mails or such. I had been taught about sitting with people through the dark night of the soul, offering last rites, taking the sacrament to the shut-ins, listening to people struggle with the problems of living life in a culture that is increasingly isolated, aloof and pressurized. In seminary, we were taught to consult the Scriptures, the Book of Common Prayer, the “Anglican Divines” and/or other sorts of overtly spiritual material within the Christian Tradition to assist us with our work. Who knew an error-free Sunday bulletin was the goal?

Nine years on in this joyous vocation, I have spent my fair share of time sitting in a desk chair for hours at a time — doing the sorts of things my Lutheran friend described in our brief chat. I’ve gotten a bit quicker with responding to e-mails and a lot less chatty when speaking on the phone. The trick to begin a good desk jockey, it seems, is to move briskly from task to task without ever appearing to be in any sort of hurry. I’ve not quite mastered that trick just yet. Volume of boxes checked in a day “counts”, even if for no other reason than to avoid the appearance of being a slacker.

I’m fortunate. On the whole, the parish I serve is understanding, supportive and encouraging. The folks here know that hours sitting with people in the midst of their difficulties is more important than perpetually sitting at a desk, office door open to heartily receive unannounced visitors, with two hands furiously pounding out meaningful, theologically astute and prompt e-mails, while my ear is glued to the phone giving a non-judgmental listening space to the caller on the other end of the line, while simultaneously conducting reviews of the latest cost-saving methodologies to help balance the budget.

As ludicrous as the previous (very long) description of a “desk jockey priest” may have sounded, the reality is most clergy folks I know worry about the things they know are daily being “left undone”. We are usually overdue on at least some administrative tasks. We are frequently guilty of inadvertently forgetting to properly announce this or that important event with sufficient lead time to insure maximum parochial participation. More often than not, we are the unintentional choke point in the life of one or more organizations within a parish as the people in those organizations wait for a word from “Mother” or “Father”. And yet, when deployed to do what we were trained to do, many of us are compassionate, insightful and prayerful (sometimes even managing to offer a bit of “wise counsel”!).

So, after spending the better part of today cranking out e-mails, writing reports and returning phone calls, I finally looked at my “to-do” list. I managed to check a few boxes. I hope that “good administration” does make for “good pastoral care”. I’m done being a desk jockey for the day.

But no promises! There still may be a typo in Sunday’s bulletin!

Perhaps I started in the wrong place. My previous post proposed the importance of speaking the language of faith “out there” — beyond the relative security provided by the walls of a church building. I believe I inadvertently skipped a step. I assumed Christians (of the “Mainline” variety) are actually fluent in the grammar of faith. I assumed the reticence to “speak a word” on behalf of the Gospel resulted from a lack of courage or commitment. I now believe those assumptions were probably mistaken.

What if the real reason we speak so tentatively (if at all) about our faith is simply because we haven’t learned the vocabulary? What if we don’t talk because we don’t know what to say? Or how to say it?

What if, instead of being ashamed of our linguistic awkwardness, we began to think of our parish communities as “language immersion classes”? What if we began to speak (however tentatively!) the foreign language of faith, hope and love with our fellow parishioners? What if we began to experiment with “speaking Christian” in our congregations? What if we actually began to take the risk of talking about how we see God at work in our lives? After all, as “church folks” aren’t we assuming our fellow congregants are at least vaguely sympathetic to such conversations?

As I thought about these questions, I began to reflect upon the noticeable absence of  overt “God-talk” in my day to day life as a priest. My life is lived, for the most part, INSIDE the walls of a church building! Meeting after meeting. Phone call after phone call. Newsletter after newsletter. E-mail after e-mail. Task after task. Liturgical season after liturgical season. Parish activity after parish activity.

Within the life of a congregation, all sorts of stuff gets done (Thanks be to God!). But…do we ever take the time to offer such good work to God? If there’s any place left where it should be safe for Christians to “speak Christian”, it should be the local parish community.

And yet…I wonder. I wonder what would happen if we took the risk to talk about God within our parishes (yes, with one another!)? Would we learn to apply the lessons of more  quickly?  Would we be better attuned to seeing the work of God in the world? Would we be better able to articulate the hope for the faith that is within us?

I honestly don’t know what the results would be if we Episcopal “church folk” suddenly began to speak overtly about prayers answered, needs met, hungers fed, illnesses healed and new life received. Who knows how the Holy Spirit would move next? I certainly don’t know the answer to such a question. But I’m waiting to find it! What about you?

For two and a half months, my “uniforms” (black clerical shirts with accompanying white, plastic, wrap-around, detachable collars) hung in a closet at home. From July 15 through September 30, I wore all manner of shirts, but nothing that would outwardly identify me as a clergy-type. And a funny thing happened. The longer I walked around incognito, the more I wondered how much I had come to depend on the uniform to identify me — not as a clergy person, but as a Christian.

What does it mean to be “overtly” Christian? Is it the accumulation of approved Christian trinkets — bumper stickers, wall plaques, art work or a plethora of crosses? Is it the repetition of recognized Christian phrases and buzzwords? Is it the ability to quote Scripture (citing “chapter and verse”) fluently and frequently?

At this point in the discussion, a good many of my mainline Christian friends will offer their favorite saint’s wisdom on this matter. Thank goodness (at least for Episcopalians!), Francis of Assisi is purported to have said, “Preach the Gospel at all times, if necessary use words.”! Thanks be to God, indeed! We’re off the hook! We don’t have to actually say any words that are uncomfortable to us, or make anyone uncomfortable around us! Now that all we have to do is “behave/serve/minister like Jesus”, and we needn’t ever mention his name!

Really? That’s it? I’m not so sure.

What about you, dear reader?

“How does it feel to be back ‘in the parish’?” 

“Now, tell me again, how long have you been ‘in the parish’?”

“After all your travels, are you finally getting settled ‘in the parish’?”

“Now that you are back ‘in the parish’, what are the goals you’d like to accomplish for the remainder of your time there?”

These questions are more or less representative of the sorts of queries I’ve fielded over the past five weeks. The themes of the questions are good ones to ponder. After so much time away, how does it feel to return to the daily duties of pastoral work? What’s it like to leave a group of people and then return to them after a period of time? What changes have occurred? In them? In me? How does the amount of time invested in this relationship of  parish and priest yield something fruitful — for both parties individually and collectively? How does the relationship move forward toward a future together that’s not simply a recapitulation/revisitation of the past (the death-dealing boredom of “more of the same”)?

And yet, even though I’ve used the phrase “in the parish” myself through the years, lately I’ve found I’m increasingly uncomfortable with it. The phrase is a quaint euphemism reminiscent of our Anglican heritage — where “the parish” was a geographical area with definitive boundaries, within which a church building (with its dutiful vicar, of course!) was situated for the benefit of all residents in the lands surrounding it. Thus to be “in the parish” was like saying, “I live in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin.” One could, quite literally find the parish on the map.

While the church building for Trinity Episcopal Church can certainly be located on the map, my presence in that building six days a week does not constitute being “in the parish”. In fact, most of the real “action” in parishioners’ lives takes place outside the building. Their lives are mostly invisible to me (and their fellow parishioners) with the exception of brief interactions every few days after a liturgy or at a committee meeting here and there — and greatly depends upon what they are willing to share of their lives.  Further, people who are part of the parish church called Trinity, Wauwatosa, don’t just live in Wauwatosa. They reside all over the Milwaukee metro area. Well over 50% of this congregation lives outside the city in which the Trinity Church building is situated.

I recognize I’m being nit-picky. Beyond such persnicketiness though, I think I’m simply becoming resistant to the notion that “the parish” is an entity that exists outside of/beyond the people and relationships that comprise it. “The parish” as a group of people has changed over the course of the time I’ve been here, and will continue to change, even if we’re not altogether aware of the change occurring. “The parish” isn’t solid (like some would say bricks and mortar or territory are), rather a parish church is the fluid chaos of people, brooded over by the creative force of God’s Holy Wind, the Spirit.

I will allow that the phrase, “in the parish” could be shorthand for this chaos of humanity. Parish life isn’t about programs, protocols, organizations and activities. Parish life, for me, is about knowing and relating to people’s stories and how those stories are woven together in the story of the Gospel and embodied as a community of the faithful. If that’s what some of those questions are asking, then I can say without reservation, “It feels GREAT to be back ‘in the parish’!”

Years ago, when I interviewed with the Vestry and other parish leaders of Trinity, Wauwatosa, I recall saying something like, “I don’t want a parish to ‘work on’, I want to ‘work with’ folks who want to grow in their love and service of the Lord.” This is still a calling for me. I am grateful to be “among” this parish of people who daily surprise me with their laughter, their generous hearts and the ways they continue to cultivate my growth into this vocation of priesthood.