Crash Into Me?

We have a couple of dogs (Golden Retrievers to be specific) who live next door to us. We have come to love these dogs and they have come to love us...on their end mostly because almost daily one of us walks over to the back fence and gives them each half of a dog biscuit. They are named Crash and Daisy...and they are two completely different animals.

There has never been a more appropriately named dog than Crash. Crash is a tornado of excitement and affection...he zooms all over the yard, barking and jumping, in the hopes of just the least bit of attention. He will come bounding to the fence the minute he sees you, and he'll come for any reason...food or simple interaction. He'll charge right to you...to the point of almost slamming into the fence with excitement. He's always jumping, always barking, always all-out. Always on the lookout for someone to love.

Daisy's older...and acts like it. When she sees you come out of the house, she barks at you with a tone that at first sounds like: "Treat man...I require treats. Now." She doesn't move unless you move towards the treats. When you do bring them to the fence, she comes at her own pace, allows you to pet her, shows some affection back...and walks back.

I remember stopping at some point last fall and thinking: "As a minister, I should try and be like Crash." It made sense...I should always be the first "out at the fence," aggressively welcoming and loving...openly excited and full of energy...conveying, all out, that desire to show love. Daisy seemed distant at times, even a little bit mean.

Then we dog-sat one night, and something interesting happened. We went out to the back yard and Crash ran all over the yard trying to figure out what was going on...he wanted to make sure he wasn't missing anything or anybody. He barked at shadows and ran to the fences...and payed some attention to us, but was distracted. Daisy (now that she knew us) simply sat next to our legs and was perfectly content. She didn't bark or demand treats...she just spent some time enjoying these people she had come to know.

I crossed the back yard this morning with some trash that needed to go behind the garage. The dogs were out. Daisy barked from the back porch, a bark I now translate: "Hey...I'm only coming if you've got something to give." Crash ran, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth repeatedly as I went from house to garage to dumpster to house back to garage before finally appearing with treats. Daisy calmly walked over and joined Crash. Crash was so worked up that he almost choked on the treat...Daisy licked my hand and walked back to the porch.

I was coming off of a vacation this morning...a needed one. It was on the heels of a breakneck two months where I have found myself feeling lonely, tired, and low on energy and initiative. I looked across the fence at one exhausted dog and one quietly resting on the porch and thought: "Maybe she's got something there. Maybe I should try to be them both...a blend of Crash and Daisy."

There's only one problem. That makes me (appropriately enough) Dash...

Or Crazy.

Sheer Terror and Blessed Assurance

I've heard it compared to the Bubonic Plague...family member passing it to family member, eventually killing the ones you love most. I've heard it compared to sado-masochism...embraced only by those who seek out and even seem to enjoy pain. I've heard it compared to worshipping Satan...a strange and anti-establishment thrill even though you know it's not going to end well at all. I know that these are not positive analogies, but for whatever reason I chose, years ago, to call them my own...that's right...

I'm a Cubs fan. And this is the worst time of year to be a Cub's fan.

It all stared Sunday night. The Cubs were coming off a 8-0 rout of Pittsburgh, the Brewers had lost another tear-your-heart fall apart game to the Braves...and Dusty Baker (He of the 1,286 pitch count who still has Mark Prior's right arm at home on display above his mantle with a plaque reading "I felled him...me and me alone") said out loud for all America to hear: "They're in. They way they're playing, they're in." And as I sat there in bed, the worst thing possible happened: I agreed with him. Before I could catch myself, I agreed with him.

Suddenly, they flashed the stat that no team had ever blown a 3 1/2 game lead with a week to go. The lump started growing in my throat...there are stacks of those stats 10 miles high that now have the suffix "...except the Cubs." The Brewers won on Monday...again on Tuesday. The Cubs were off on Monday, and got crushed by Dontrelle Willis on Tuesday. Both teams lost last night. The Cubs Website today reads: "Cubs desperate to break Marlins' stranglehold." Yeah, that's right...the Marlins (68-90--the equivalent of the 95 pound weakling) have us in a headlock and are giving us a noogie right now.

And so, with 4 games left in the regular season and a 2 game lead, I'm terrified. You see...something strange happened in 1998. Before then, the only team that could get me nervous was the Nebraska Cornhuskers. Now, I was a fan before 1998, but that was the year of the home run chase and (more importantly) the first Cubs playoff appearance of my old-enough-to-understanding. I remember the tension down towards the end of the season...I remember thinking all was lost. Most of all, I remember the spectacular game they played against the Giants in a one-game playoff for the Wild Card in Wrigley. Sure, they got killed in the playoffs...but that game got me hooked.

If 1998 was my introduction, 2003 was my true initiation. I had heard of the terrible plays and the leads blown and all that stuff...but never experienced it. I remember the announcer calling Game 6 saying, "Only 5 more outs...and the way Prior's pitching, I don't think the Marlins can do it." And I thought to myself: "They've got it. We're actually going to the series." Minutes later, Bartman. Chaos. Disappointment. And...for Game 7...anxiety. That strange feeling that there was absolutely no way the Cubs were going to win.

And so, this September, that feeling has come up again. That strange mix of hope and anxiety. But as I think about the facts of baseball (like the once-cursed Red Sox fan base and their morph into demanding, spoiled Yankees who wear different colors) alongside the ins-and-outs of my calling (darkness before I dawn, dependence, and the like)...I can't help but wonder it the wins would mean as much if there were more of them. Sure, it would be nice to make the playoffs 13 years and a row and hire and fire people because you didn't win 100 games...but I look at the Nebraska fan base and then think about all the excitement I felt for that one-game playoff (to simply make the playoffs)...and I think of the smile I'll (God willing) have if they actually pull it off.

But I stop short of the whole "Cubs fan as a mirror of Christian faith" thing. I'll stick with it as entertainment....because, at the end of the day, when I feel this knot in my stomach as I check the scores comimg in and think about the relatively slight disappointment I would feel if the Cubs fail to make the cut...I sit back and am thankful for that unassailable fact:

Steve Bartman or no Steve Bartman...God always wins the pennant.

Green Grass

Something odd happened to me this past Saturday. I went to a Presbytery meeting at one of the larger churches in our Presbytery, and I found myself having an odd reaction.

I'm a guy who was raised in a small town who loves small churches...it's what I'm used to, feel called to, and love. But Saturday I walked into a larger church (around 1100, mind you...not a megachurch) and saw the beautiful sanctuary with new carpet and spectacular eye-popping banners and paraments. It was set up for the bell choir to perform on Sunday, right next to the guitars and trap set for the contemporary portions of worship. All this was set in front of a massive, beautiful pipe organ. I moved into the Fellowship Hall next, with bulletin boards covering the outside walls...Middle School group, High School Group, College Group, Young Adult Group, Seniors Group, Stephen Ministries, Mexico Mission Trip, Local Missions, Women's Bible Studies, Men's Bible Studies...and a table set up for a renewal/retreat weekend. The sign-up sheet was full. We moved down to the education wing with pictures of the hundreds of children that work their way through the Sunday School rooms on an average Sunday. I soaked it all in, in all of it's impressiveness...and something strange happened: I was jealous.

And I sat there, thinking about everything that's eating at me right now. I thought about our age (both facilities and congregation), our need for youth, our general tiredness, and all the ways that we are limited. I thought about how half-empty the glass was. I thought about the calls for volunteer es that have been met by silence. And I thought about how a large church would solve all of those problems.

I sat looking at one of the bulletin boards when a member of our Presbytery who was the Interim Pastor here, came up behind me and read my mind: "One set of challenges for another, friend...read your Peterson." I knew exactly what she was talking about. And so, this morning, I re-read some of "Under the Unpredictable Plant:"

"A bare 60 or 70 years after Pentecost, we have an account of seven churches that shows about the same quality and holiness and depth of virtue found in any ordinary parish in America today. In 2,000 years we haven't gotten any better. You would think we have, but we haven't. Every time we open up a church door and take a careful, scrutinizing look inside we find them again...sinners. Also Christ. Christ in the preaching, Christ in the sacraments, but embarrassingly mixed into this congregation of sinners."

"It is to be expected in these situations that with some frequency certain pastors will come forward with designs to improve matters. They want to purify the church. They propose to make the church something that will advertise to the world the attractiveness of the kingdom. With a few exceptions these people are, or soon become, heretics, taking on only as much of the gospel as they can manage to apply to the people around them, attempting to construct a version of church that is so well behaved and efficiently organized that there will be no need for God."--pgs. 24 and 25

I remember reading this in seminary and saying "Amen." I remember scoffing at the shallow pastors who skirt challenges as they seek greener pastures. I remember nodding as one of my mentors used to say, "the key is looking for how God is working rather than all the ways we think He's lagging."

I still get it. I still admire it, yes...I still understand and believe it, yes. But I'm discovering that it's a whole heckuva lot easier said than done.

The Adventures of Pastor Wuss

As already detailed above, I have recently discovered that I have a battle to fight with high cholesterol and high blood pressure. The fight has been going well, running has been upgraded from "Worst Thing On Earth" to "Thing I Would Rather Not Do," and I am learning to live life without the joys of cheese, red meat, and chocolate on a uber-regular basis. Last Thursday was the big day...my blood test. But in order to get a status report from the front, I had to face another bitter enemy:

Getting my blood drawn.

I know. Pathetic. How old are you? The funny thing is that I have gone through about a ten year period of my life when I've been fine with it. I had my blood drawn on a handful of occasions through grad school, seminary, and the like...but for whatever reason this last time (in June) got me. And I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I watched the whole thing. By the time it was over I was stumbling around the house like Dean Martin, looking desperately for some juice, and desperately trying to convince the nurse who had come by our home that I was "fine" (Translation: "I am a real man. Put away that skirt and back off.")

This is all to say that I was nervous and psyching myself out last Thursday. The receptionist informed me that I would be meeting with the doctor first and then I would go back to "the lab." So I have a great, though slightly nervous, meeting with the doctor, who congratulates me on having the "fortitude" to stick with running.

Then he calls in the nurse. She, of course, asks the first question: "Are you going to be OK with this? Do you get queasy?" My response: "No...I'm great." (Translation: "I eat meat raw!!!! Give me a steel beam and I'll rip it in half!!!! Give me motor oil, and I'll drink it!!!! GRRRRRRR!") We proceed to walk into "the lab," and the nurse informs me that she's going to use a smaller needle so the prick doesn't hurt as much. "It takes a little longer," she says, "but you'll hardly feel the prick." I'm on board with this...until she breaks out the FIVE vials she needs to fill. Great Caesar's Ghost!!! Why doesn't she just take a finger!?! Sweat starts to appear on my forehead. As she ties the gigantic rubber band around my arm, she asks: "You OK?" My response? A very terse, "Fine. Go." (Translation: "Dear Lord, please let her find a vein.")

It takes her roughly three tries to find the vein, all the while giving me the John Madden play-by-play. I now not only have my eyes closed, but am calling on the name of Jesus. I'm ready. Rapture time. Come on. After what was probably thirty seconds, I get up the nerve to look over: The vial isn't even 1/8th full. Vial number one that is. The nurse senses my panic. "It takes a while, but you didn't feel the prick did you?" Nope, I just heard about it. A few minutes go by and I start to feel woozy. I open my eyes again to find the vial...vial number ONE...at the exact same level. The nurse is tapping the syringe, a perplexed look on her face. She looks at me: "Sometimes it clots. This might take a while. You still good?" My reply: "I'm hanging in there." (Translation: "Are you KIDDING me!!?!?! I don't care about the poke...just get the blood!!! Get a straw and sharpen it for all I care...just get the blood!!! Now!!! You want me to poke myself with a pen? I will!!!" ) The sweat starts coming and the "You Can Do It" posters from Highlights magazine start spinning...so I give in: "I need to stop." (Translation: "I give in!!! Yes, a ten year old girl could be me up!!!! Just, great God in heaven, stop tapping that syringe!!!")

They put the ice pack on my neck and walk me out, holding my arm, back to our room. We pass the doctor, who smiles and says: "Hang in there, pastor." Nice. By the time we get back to the room, the doctor is in there to with a big book of jokes. I soon realize that he's there to distract me. I half expect him to pull out a stuffed lion and wiggle it: "Now show me that smile!" So much for fortitude. He know probably thinks that I run to avoid scary things...you know, like puppies and butterflies and sunshine. The good news is that the process goes quickly and efficiently with the normal needle (humility is evidently an anti-coagulant.) I feel the prick...no, I welcome it. By the time I walk out of the doctor's office, I have two massive cotton balls on each arm, three pats on the back, and a severely bruised ego.

The call came in the next day: my cholesterol is down nearly 15 points. My good is up, my bad is down. But, unfortunately, a couple of the tests came back sketchy...they think that the two gallons of blood were shaken too much in transport: "Is there anyway you can come back in for another sample next week?"

My appointment is for the 14th...my prayers are for a needle the size of toilet paper roll and/or a sudden influx of testosterone before then...or, if at all possible...

Jesus on the 13th.

Flashback

An entry written yesterday, but held back...and now reconsidered:

One year ago today (August 20), I received a "Rev." in front of my name and was given a call to go out and serve God and God's people with "energy, intelligence, imagination, and love." And as I turned around and faced the congregation, I was dumb struck. With a sea of family and friends in front of me, I was almost paralyzed by the realization that God had used so many people to bring me down that road to ordination...the people who had formed me, taught me, loved me, and made me who I am. And I was paralyzed, too, with the realization of that call in front of me...that I was to be a pastor.

Has it been one year already?

Some days it feels shorter...like the blink of an eye. When it feels like a miracle that all those sermon have somehow managed to come out of me. When I can feel and see myself growing, learning, and giving more up. Days when I thank God for my seminary and for all those people who taught me so much along the way. Days when I feel called, part of family and a tradition, days when I know that this is who I am made to be.

Some days it feels longer. And sometimes, it's a whole week that feels that way. This past week, neck-deep in church decor squabbles, lack of volunteers, a sermon that just won't work, IRS junk, and a whole list of things that need to get done...it feels like work. Like I'm fooling myself. Like the energy, imagination, intelligence and love aren't limitless. There are days when the self-pity kicks in and I feel alone, overworked, and useless. In other words, the last thing I feel is called.

I heard news Sunday of a long time friend of the family, a doctor who was one of my mother's first co-workers, delivered me and my siblings, sang next to me in the church choir for years, continued to write me every week, and was, in general a wonderful mentor and friend. Julie and I made sure to stop and see Doc and his wife every time we were home...to catch up and re-connect. We had a running joke. Nearly every time I would see him growing up, he would try to convince me to go into medicine, usually with something to the effect of: "You need to stop playing around and join the best profession." After my decision to go to seminary, he made that joke less...but we'd still throw it around once and a while.

Sunday I learned that Doc had decided to stop dialysis for his failed kidneys. He had made the decision earlier in the week, so by the time Sunday rolled around, they were worried that his consciousness/faculties would be slipping. If I wanted to talk to him, I needed to do so as soon as possible.

I hesitantly dialed the phone...and, sure enough, got him in the hospital room and he was still aware of what was going on. He asked how church was going, how many we had on Sunday, and how Julie was doing. I asked him if his family was there, if he was in any pain, how long he had been at the hospital. You know, "small talk" when you know you're talking to somebody for the last time. There was a long pause, and then the following exchange:

Me: "Doc, I just want you to know that we love you and are praying for you."
Doc: "Thank you. I want you to know that I'm proud of the work you're doing."
Me: "Well, I'm doing my best for the second-best profession...thanks."
Doc: "No. You are doing what you should be doing...and your'e doing a magnificent job. God is using you. You are doing what you were made to do."

We said good-bye, and that was all.

And so it happened that the Sunday exactly one year after my ordination at nearly the exact time that I stood before friends and family and gave the benediction one year ago...God reached down again. And again, it was through the self-giving love of those who have ministered to me. And again I am paralyzed...that even in the midst of pain and grief, God decided that I was somehow deserving, reached down...

And saw fit to ordain my call once again.

Ranking: The Summer Movies I've Seen

As some of you may know, I enjoying going to movies...especially in the summer. They've been particularly attractive this summer for several reasons:

1) It's been 90+ here nearly every day since June and we don't have air conditioning.

2) It's always a good day off activity to catch a opening-day matinee and put church stuff into the back of my brain for a while.

3) It's better than sitting around and looking at our yard (now nicknamed "El Scorcho.")

Anyway...Julie and I have made it to 8 movies together this summer and I went to one on my own. While we have enjoyed some independent-type movies, we generally go for the more mainsteam movies and enjoy them just fine, thank you. In other words, I'm not a movie snob (as you're about to see), and I don't pretend to be. But, for what it's worth and for a little debate, here's what I thought. Here's the nine:

9. Spider-Man 3

I had high hopes for this one...which is probably the problem. Julie and I both loved #2, and we thought that character development would continue. Oops. As I watched this movie, I couldn't help but think to myself that it was written with one goal in mind: to sell toys to prepubescent boys. I kept imagining the script writing sessions being peppered with labored 80s interjections: "The Goblin should be on a skateboard! SWEET! No...no...no...a flying skateboard! BOSS! And this dude, this dude totally made of sand could totally start killing this building! GNARLY!" And then, after they all took a break to drink some Kool-Aid, they filled in a "plot."

8. The Simpsons Movie

You can definitely chalk this up to too-high expectations. I haven't watched the show regularly in years now, but I still have a special place in my heart for the show and enjoy watching reruns. After getting a good chuckle out of the commercials (especially the Spider Pig bit), I went in with high hopes. It was fine...nothing terrible. Just not nearly as funny as I thought it was going to be.

7. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Let's just put it this way: When I go to these movies, I feel like I'm in a conversion van in the middle of Manhattan at 5:00...and I'm the only one without the map. I can track with the story somewhat, but my lack of interest in the books has turned my Potter movie-going experience into something akin to reading Shakespeare in French. Added to this confusion is that terrible feeling I get when people gasp and make statements like: "You haven't read any of the Harry Potter books!? But you're an English major!!" as if I've been putting off reading "Crime and Punishment" or kicking puppies.

6. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End

A good-enough summer blockbuster, but (again) still came up short of expectations. After watching #2 again, Julie and I talked ourselves into the possibility it building to a place where we loved all three as much as the first. While it had some great stuff in it (see: Keith Richards), it was still slow, confusing, and self-important in too many places. All that said, it did contain an unkillable monkey. Big plus.

5. Transformers

Let me just say this first: if this move would have come out when I was in 5th Grade, I would have simply stayed in the theater until they stopped showing it. They couldn't have moved me...not without prying me out of the chair with a crowbar. I really enjoyed going this movie...it helps that I was going into it expecting a disaster with Michael Bay (Armageddon, Con Air) directing. But, really, this is the only kind of movie he should be allowed to direct. It didn't need a plot...all I really wanted to see were large, cool robots going ten rounds and saying things like "One will stand and one will fall." I wanted to relive my childhood. And, what can I say, it delivered.

4. Ratatouille

A good story with some funny moments. It walks the line of boring on occasion, but at least it had some imagination and plot that several of the movies above so desperately lacked. But...and I can't stress this enough...this is summer. So, during the slower parts of this movie, I couldn't help but wish that somebody would blow up half the kitchen or that the rats would get into some sort of Porshe chase. But, I realize this is a Disney flick. It's not like it's....

3. Live Free or Die Hard

I actually saw this one with Julie, and we both liked it. Again, lowered expectations...but it was still a decent time at the movies. We didn't expect a whole lot...I mean, it's a Die Hard movie. Just follow the recipe: two parts snide remarks, one part white tank top, three parts stuff blowin' up, two parts evil villain. Combine, cook for two hours. Hello summer movie.

2. Ocean's 13

I don't know too many people who dislike the first one of these movies...I think I'm one of the few people who actually liked the second. I will agree that this one is much better, though...and nothing better than bringing in Al Pacino just to make sure it rocks.

1. The Borne Ultimatum

Holy smokes. Julie and I saw this one last night and...holy smokes. The best movie I've seen in a while. We saw the first one and liked it. Loved the second one and were amazed that it topped the first one. We went into this one with 9-foot expectations...and were blown away. They further the plot and develop the characters...they even incorporate the last movie seamlessly. And, on top of that, you have Matt Damon doing crazy, crazy, crazy, things. And things blowing up. This is summer, after all.

So there it is. I guess, if you want an executive summary of my movie-going summer, it would be this: lower your expectations, and you might just get out alive.

The Achilles' Heel

It's been a while now since I got the e-mail, but it still bugs me a bit. There was a parishioner who had gone through an extensive bit of surgery and was recovering well. The Deacons had gone out regularly and she had received a handful of calls, visits, and card from well-wishers. All reports back to the office were that she was in great spirits. Thanks to vacation, continuing education, and plain 'ol prioritization, I hadn't made the effort to go and see her. Admittedly, I should have. Then, one Monday morning, the one-line e-mail with no subject:

"So are you ever going to come visit me?"

Dangit. That bugs me. Bugs me a lot. Still does. And not in the "I'm so angry I could yell at you" way, but in the "Why did you have to go and make me feel like garbage" way. And it bugs me because it works. I got out to see her the next day...she was happy as a clam to see me out there, and now everything is fine. But it still bugs me.

It bugs me because I'm going to spend some time today running up to Lowe's to get come light bulbs because somebody in the congregation has noticed something that I have noticed...that some of the lights have been going out in the sanctuary. They let me know about it every time I see them. And, yes, I know that it's not my job to go buy light bulbs. And, yes, I know that I'm giving him exactly what he wants. But I've reached the end of that line of thought...I have thought that every time he's brought it up, and placed it on the back burner every single time. Today...I'm doing it. Why?

Because of my Chicago-sized Achilles' heel: I'm a people pleaser.

I need people to like me, to like coming to this church, and to like each other. I want people to be happy. And even though I have realized this personality trait, observed it, heard time and again in seminary that it will burn me out, worked as hard as I can to ignore/change it, and have done what I can to undermine it...it's still there. It still bugs me and makes me feel like dirt when I get that e-mail. It still bugs me when I get guilt trips about not doing enough. I still take it personally when the only thing people talk to me about it what's wrong with the church. I still have way too much riding on positive feedback and "warm fuzzies."

And probably the most frustrating thing of all is that I know this...and on my best days I can get over it. But then there's periods of time when I can't help but claim all the guilt and all the responsibility. There are times of extended self-pity/delusion when I feel like there's too much to do, that nobody is happy, that all the programs and sermons and visits aren't "working,"

And it's all because of what I have done or left undone.

Funny how this works...I really had no idea where I was going with this post. But after writing that last sentence, a parishioner came into my office, and we started talking about his son. We talked for an hour. His son, who lives halfway across the country, continues to make bad decisions even to the point of putting his life at risk. As he told me this story, he started to share with me the guilt, the pain, and the responsibility he and his wife feel every time something goes wrong; they go down the, "if we only did this..." road and scrutinize their parenting. And when he was done, he asked me what I thought. I found something flowing out of my mouth, plain as day (something I was once told in relation to myself):

"Would you take credit for it if he was rich and successful right now?"
"No...well, no. Not too much."
"Well then why are you taking all the credit now?"

We talked about loving someone without taking full responsibility for them...and how that becomes harder as the love gets stronger. We talked about praying, stopping, walking away and getting perspective. We talked about getting more sleep, about not letting it be all-consuming; about not spending so much time and energy trying to fix everything.

And I think he left feeling better, knowing that God had moved in our conversation to bring some of that perspective and peace. But what I don't think he knew was that he was being used by God, even in his struggles, to bring that perspective and peace to someone else.

That even when we feel broken and defeated, even when it feels like we're throwing punches at a brick wall...we realize that it all doesn't lie on us, that it is God who is moving...

Even when we know we're the ones who need the help.

Check that, epecially when we're the ones who know we need the help.