Enter The Pastor

It started about two months after I started working in Parkville. It has continued on ever since. Once and a while, I have a truly bizarre "Church Dream." No, I'm not talking about visions or ideal futures for the churches I have served, I mean strange dreams. They come out of left field, often so vivid and bizarre that I and can remember them...to great personal amusement. Some of them come in standard form:

A) The "I forgot/didn't write/dropped my sermon on my way to UDTS Chapel/church/the National Cathedral" Dream. A true classic. I've had several variations on this one, my favorite being the one where I got to page 4 and realized that the rest of sermon was gone. The Parish Associate at the church then quietly stood up, walked forward, motioned for me to sit down, and promptly finished my sermon. Just like I wrote it.

B) The "Oh man, I did something inappropriate in worship" dream. Unfortunately, these are not always dreams. The mother of all of these dreams was the dream that I was handing out Bibles to the new confirmation class...only to look down and see that I was accidentally handing out books by Dr. Ruth. Catechises indeed.

C) The "Church Disaster/Uprising/Capital Campaign" dream. This most recent example of this dream entailed a large, hairy, Sasquatch like beast trying to break into the church while I was giving the Prayers of the People. I remember thinking to myself in the dream, "Just keep praying!!! It will calm them down!!!!"

Then there are those dreams which defy classification. I had one of these Monday night. I don't know exactly what I ate (methinks white chocolate macadamia nut cookies at 9:30 may have played a part), but all I know is that it was a doozy.

I remember the dream "already in progress"...I am with our high school/junior high youth (along with a couple of youth from the group I helped lead in Parkville...must have transferred) from the church in a large (Act 1 size) van. We are driving into Chicago, headed for 4th Presbyterian Church on Michigan Avenue, and Julie's in the passenger seat telling me all about this great mission trip experience where churches from all over the nation are gathering to help serve in the city. Sounds great. I sweat out the traffic a bit, but we get to the church. We all get out of the van and walk inside.

Then, things get out of hand.

I don't remember exactly how it started, but soon all of us were in the possession of ninja weapons (num-chucks, long spears, etc.) and are told to fend for ourselves. That's right...we are in the middle of a Youth-Group-Fight-To-The-Death at 4th Presbyterian. (Well, maybe "Death" isn't fair...I never saw anyone die. They just got knocked unconscious like a marshall arts flick...anyway...). Pretty soon we are under attack...youth flying everywhere. Complete chaos. And everybody is doing crazy Jackie Chan moves...except me. I'm running. Oh, yeah...and hiding. Pretty soon the groups start thinning...and our kids are really rocking the house (at least I assume they did...because...) Eventually it comes down to two teams. And, sure enough, it's us and the youth group from the church I worked at in Parkville. I lower my weapons because I assume we aren't going to...and then WHAM! Down goes one of the kids. And, well, at that point...history or no history...it's on.

The next thing I remember, I am being consoled by Brian, Matt, and a handful of people from my current church. I am told that, because we lost, we don't get to stay and serve. We must go home, in shame.

So...there it is. I won't try to theologically decode the whole "You have to win a ninja fight to the death to serve Jesus" thing, but hey, at least our youth group got second.

What do I take from all of this? I've gotta stop eating after 9:30.

To Mow the Grass

It's 9:44 in the morning, and I wish I was mowing. I wish that I could hop into a truck, go out...out to a country cemetery for the whole day. I wish that I could sit on the back of a riding lawn mower, stop, and think for a while. And then, at 5:00, I'd come home and eat. I wouldn't wake up at 5:45 in the morning thinking about the lawns to be done tomorrow (or three weeks from now). I wouldn't spend large chunks of time thinking about the color of the paint or the cut of the blade. I'd get something done. I'd just mow.

I've spent the last two hours at my computer writing (and erasing and writing and erasing) the "Pastor's Pen" for this month's newsletter. Tonight's sermon remains unwritten (along with Sunday's)...and the plan for Saturday's Deacon's Retreat currently consists of me asking the group "How are you all doing?" and hoping they talk for five hours. I'm just tired. And, as I sit here in my office, I feel like I've written everything I've got...and I've only been here six months. This is a new feeling for me. And I don't like it.

Of course, above all of this, I remember working in a warehouse right before seminary and getting to the point where I realized that I had no real passion for my work, that I could care less if the widgets were delivered to Hartford or not. I craved the work of the church, like the marrow had been sucked out of my bones. I love my job...and I still believe it is what God has called me to do...and God, thanks heavens, keeps doing it in spite of me (and giving me energy and times to rest as I do it). But today...today the stacks seem too high, the words are out of reach, the self-pity seems warm and comforting, and I feel like I'm spinning my wheels.

Today...I want to mow.

Giving It Up

I am preparing my Ash Wednesday sermon today, and I've spent some time reading about that time-honored spiritual discipline of giving something up for Lent. I've done this myself a couple of times (television, red meat, etc.) to amazing effect. There really is nothing more powerful than intentionally denying yourself something in this "Your Way, Right Away" culture. There is something that touches the vein of what Lent is all about in not giving in to what you want.

As I prepare, I have been haunted by an image.

I caught a glimpse of the Today show this morning. (Nothing better than America's most trusted news source for Britney head-shavings, Anna Nicole Smith hearings, and astronaut love triangles...you know, the news that really matters...but I digress). They had a short piece on a New York businessman (pretty high up on the totem pole, I think) who they challenged to give up his cell phone, Blackberry, all of his portable electronic devices for one week. I didn't catch the whole story, but I did catch the man (when faced with some time away from his daughter on a road trip) crying...no, bawling...because he couldn't "leave his daughter with no way to contact him." He gave up. He only made it to Tuesday.

They cut back from the "story" to a one-on-one interview between this guy and the Today show guy. They proceeded to, collectively, go on a diatribe about how completely impossible it is to be a human being without these devices. Among the points made:
--"They say it will simplify your life! It doesn't! You lose all connection!!"
--"I missed 91 e-mails in one day."
--"These devices are essential for anyone who wants to function in today's society."
--"Pay phones!!!!??? Who actually uses pay phones!!!!?!??!?"

Where do you begin with this?

Point one: Is this man staying in the new phone-free Super 8?
Point two: I started to wonder if this man ever had a conversation with his children that wasn't via the phone. I'm sorry....that's not fair...I'm sure he's a better Dad than that. Phone or instant message.
Point three: I was blown away by how condescending their little rant was. I don't have a Blackberry. I use pay phones on occasion. This makes me, at best, "disconnected," at worst, some sort of pay phone using mongrel who hates his family and work.
Point four: Are you, Today Show Man, who spends three hours a day talking about Britney's bald head, really the person who we should listen to about a "functioning society?"
Point five: Yes, I realize that in watching this on TV and then commenting about it on (no less than) a blog, I'm borderline hypocritical.

Amazing stuff. I know the sarcasm is a bit thick here...but there is something here about what we "need" to survive as (rich-to-middle-class) Americans. It keeps growing and growing and growing...and, as a result, communication keeps morphing and morphing and morphing. Am I crazy in thinking that a grown man weeping over the loss of his cell phone should be an indication of a need to simplify (or reach out to other humans) rather than an affirmation that it is a beneficial, essential part of who he is? Or is this just sour grapes? Am I being some sort of techno-prude longing for the "Good 'Ol Days?"

I don't know. All I know is that I like talking to people on the phone, via e-mail, via cell phone, etc...but without honest, true, community I would wither and die at my keyboard. What I hope and pray is that I am not increasingly becoming a stranger in a strange land...a dying minority. Reports like this would seem to indicate that.

I Love Our Youth

About a month ago I was surprised to find one of our "Welcome Visitors!" cards in the offering plate from somebody familiar. It seemed as if a Mr. Bob Marley visited our church one Sunday and (by golly!) checked the "Desire to Join the Church" box. On top of that he "Wants to Be Put On the Mailing List" and "Would Like to Talk With the Pastor." And even through, strangely enough, I couldn't remember seeing an African-American congregant in church that month, my mind raced with possibilities. Visions of reggae "Be Thou My Vision" danced in my head. I could see the bulletin:

Minister of "Maintaining the Groove" and Steel Drums: Elder Bob Marley

But then it all come crashing down to Earth quite rapidly. A quick rifle through our phone book revealed the plain fact that there was no Mr. Bob Marley (Or anybody with that name) in our township...in fact, there are no Marleys in the county. And, really, the hastily scrawled penmanship (once thought to be brought on by hallucinogens), looked an awful lot like that of a 7th Grader. Oh...yeah...and Bob Marley died in 1981. Dreams were dashed...I stopped growing dreadlocks. The dream of Presby-Rastafarian worship faded away.

Another "Welcome Visitors!" card appeared in the offering plate two Sundays ago. I have it on my desk. A Mr. P.J. Nabonzy would like to join the church. He is just as enthusiastic about joining, receiving mailings, and meeting with me. And, funniest thing, he evidently lives in the house once occupied by Mr. Marley (on the 5000 block of a street that I have yet to find), and even kept the same phone number (that, strangely enough, is a couple of re-arranged numbers from some of our other members). I want to reach him and his three kids because, frankly, I really want to know what national heritage "Nabonzy" is derived from.

I do know one thing...when he joins, he's going to love getting to know our two very creative and michevous Middle School Youth.

(A Little Too) Loud and Clear

I remember talking to a professor in seminary about how the sermon-writing process had changed the way I thought about something. He said, wryly, in reply: "You have got to be careful...sometimes the sermon speaks to you, too."

The lectionary for this week is Luke's "Sermon on the Plain" (I've also heard it called the "Downer Beatitudes") from 6:17-26. After reading it last Sunday, several things have come into line to create the prefect storm:

1) I am home alone with way to much time to think.
2) I am reading "The Overspent American: Why We Buy What We Don't Need" by Juliet Shor.
3) I helped provide and serve supper for people in a working-poor assistance program on Monday night.

I've been processing the sermon most of the week...mulling over in my head the ideas of want and plenty and our perceptions of them. I ran to Target and Lowe's yesterday on errands. I went up to one of the brand new shopping areas in Loveland...full of huge, brand-new buildings. Down the road were two of my personal favorites: Best Buy and Barnes & Noble. All of them have been build within the past five year...all of them massive and lovely. And I couldn't help but feel something like a pit in my stomach. I realized one again what I hate to admit...I am, at once, a pastor of a minority religion and a disciple of the majority. And I was walking on holy ground.

It makes me feel one of two things: anger or guilt. Monday night, sitting next to a family that was doing everything they could not to fall through the cracks, it was a combination of outrage and pity. What I am realizing is that these responses still dwell on how I feel...and none of them really produce anything outside of a continuing obsession with me feeling better.

We talked about this passage at Bible Study on Tuesday. And, as we went around the circle and talked about the guilt we sometimes feel, I found myself saying out loud: "Is the purpose of this sermon, this passage, really to make us feel terrible?" The reply came quickly from the other side of the table: "No...Christ wants us to change."

Christ wants us to change. To place aside the self-pity and speeches of outrage with no action...and to actually do something. To turn off my favorite false prophet more often. You know, the Sony-brand false prophet with 99 different messages thanks to Cablevision. To think less about what I "need" that I don't have. To put aside pity (for others and for self), guilt, and the "well that's the way it is" attitude, and do what I can to help.

In short...to spend more time trying to be a blessing and less time trying to be blessed.