Yesterday I received a phone call from a young lady in our community whom our church has helped before. As far as I can discern she has never abused the system. In fact, a couple of years ago she asked the church for a loan. Not a handout, a loan. When I gave her the money she requested and explained that it was a gift and she did not have to pay it back, she insisted it was a loan and she would be back in a few days to repay us. And true to her word, she did.
So back to yesterday. She called asking if there was any way we could help her with gas money because her father-in-law (who lives with her) had a serious medical issue that needed to be taken care of right away but his specialist is in a town an hour and a half away. I told her that the church would buy her gas and she could come by the office to pick up the money.
I hung up the phone, sat it down, and it rang again. Same number. Her husband was on the line, obviously tearful and full of gratitude. “I just want to thank you, Pastor Willie. Every time we’ve needed help, you’ve come through for us. I love you. My dad and I will be at the service on Sunday. I’ve never had a church show us this kind of love before. Thank you.”
Later last night, the guy who coordinates the Narcotics Anonymous meetings at our church stopped by the parsonage to drop off some money. Every month the NA group gives us a few bucks to thank us for giving them space for their meetings. In the years I’ve been here, I’ve developed a rapport with this guy and I think he grasps that I just view him as a person not as his past. As he handed the money to me, he again thanked me for everything our church does for them, and out it came: “I love you, Willie. Thanks again for everything.”
We’re far from the biggest church in this little town. It would be easy to focus on our struggles and our challenges. But yesterday was evidence that we are bearing good fruit. There really is something to that love, grace, mercy thing.
“There’s just something about a bunch of clergy singing together.”
That’s what my friend and clergy colleague said to me during the Clergy Session at Annual Conference this year. My colleague was right – when we sang “For All The Saints” at the end of the memorial service that closes Clergy Session, we sounded fantastic. Our voices boomed and echoed and soared as we offered our music to the skies.
From there we went to the big room – the floor where clergy and laity gather to do the legislative and decision-making business of Annual Conference. Those voices that had blended together so beautifully, so harmoniously would, over the next three days, disagree. Sometimes we’d disagree amicably. Other times contentiously. Those voices would speak out loudly, angrily, tearfully, woefully, prayerfully, and woundedly. Some voices spoke into the microphone, others only under their breath. Some were arrogant. Some were humble. We don’t agree on everything. Sometimes I wonder if we agree on anything.
But man, when we SING….
When we sing, the diversity of our voices blend into a marvelous sound. When we sing, we sing the same words. When we sing, we sing with each other not against each other. Some sing melody. Some sing harmony. Some sing off-key. Some sing with technical precision. Some sing hesitantly. Some sing heartily. But we all sing together. And it is a joyful noise, a wonderful thing to behold.
A couple of years ago, I bought a great album: The Tel Aviv Session by The Touré-Raichel Collective. It’s a collaboration between guitarist Vieux Farka Touré and keyboardist Idan Raichel. Raichel is Israeli and Jewish while Touré is a Muslim from Mali. Both are devout. Israel and Mali don’t even have diplomatic relations. They’ve now recorded two albums, but there is no logical reason they should work together at all.
Except there’s music.
“Vieux and I are coming from very different worlds. But I think that the magic is to let the music speak out and create bridges between cultures, religion and geographical boundaries,” Raichel said during an interview. During the same interview, Vieux stated, “We want to demonstrate to the world that it is not only possible for Jewish and Muslim people to appreciate each other, but that they are capable of cooperating, collaborating and making something beautiful together. We are just humble musicians, but I hope this can set an example for our politicians to follow.”
Amen, brothers. From one of your Christian brothers.
[Yes, this Christian pastor connects with music recorded by Muslims and Jews. And others!]
There’s something magical about the act of singing together and playing together that transcends our differences. Those differences don’t dissolve completely away, but they become far less important than the song.
I believe that if we want peace among religions and nations, we should learn to stop warring (both figuratively and literally) over beliefs and doctrines, and learn to sing together. Learn one another’s songs. Sing in harmony to open the possibility of living in harmony.
Maybe we should stop trying to merely coexist, and start learning to sing together.
Maybe I’m a bit naive, but I believe music can give us hope that we can live together. Music is one of God’s greatest gifts to us, and perhaps it was given so that we could learn true harmony. It won’t resolve all of our differences, but it sure is harder to hate that person singing so beautifully next to you and with you.
One of the primary functions of a preacher is to be a storyteller. When a speaker really wants to engage a group of listeners, stories and narratives will captivate them far more effectively than doctrines and advice. Educational research bears this out, as lecture has been shown to be the least effective method of teaching. So preachers in the pulpit would be wise to pay attention here, as the vast majority of sermons are of the “one speaker, many listeners” variety. In short, if our sermons resemble educational lectures we risk losing an opportunity for our congregations to connect, engage, learn, and be transformed.
A lecture sermon might instruct or inform a congregation what the Kingdom of God is like. A story sermon can whisk them away into the alternate reality we call the Kingdom of God for a few minutes, captivating their imaginations and giving them a vision and a foretaste of what life can become.
And how do we become better storytellers? By reading stories. By reading poetry. By singing songs. By paying attention to how great storytellers build and release tension in the narrative. By having a romance with words and wordcraft. Great writing begins with great reading.
And that’s why I want to begin a new feature on this blog, the Writer’s Workshop.
If you’ve never listened to Boots of Spanish Leather by Bob Dylan, take a few minutes and check it out.
(I couldn’t find Dylan’s original on YouTube so here’s Nanci Griffith’s brilliant cover.)
In my mind, this one is a lyrical masterpiece. The lyrics are a conversation between two lovers who alternate stanzas. Dylan never tells you that’s the form, he allows his words to imply it. He assumes intelligence on the part of the listener by singing both sides of the conversation in the same voice. He never gives you “he said,”or “she said.” He didn’t record it as a duet with each singer playing one of the parts. He just allows each player’s words to lead you.
And the words are poetic and unrealistic.
Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine
Made of silver or of golden
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or from the coast of Barcelona
Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean
I’d forsake them all for your sweet kiss
For that’s all I’m wishin’ to be ownin’
No one talks like that. I have difficulty imagining any two lovers speaking to one another in such flowery, poetic language. I doubt that even Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning spoke to one another like that. But the poetic language is necessary to convey a depth of emotion. The language allows us to see with our imaginations the longing in their eyes, the tenderness of their touch, the fragility of their hearts. We feel the ache of the singer’s loneliness, an ache that begins long before she even leaves on her trip.
Like many conversations in real life, however, this one takes place over time rather than in one sitting. At some point in the song one of the lovers sails for Spain yet we only know it’s happened when the other says, “I got a letter on a lonesome day, it was from her ship a-sailin’.” She tells him she will be gone longer than expected. Then our lonely lover writes back,
Well, if you, my love, must think that-a-way
I’m sure your mind is roamin’
I’m sure your heart is not with me
But with the country to where you’re goin’
So take heed, take heed of the western wind
Take heed of the stormy weather
And yes, there’s something you can send back to me
Spanish boots of Spanish leather
The song is called “Boots of Spanish Leather.” But the boots are a red herring. Our lonely lover doesn’t want boots, he wants her thoughts, assurance that he’s on her mind.
What can a preacher learn from this kind of storytelling?
Sometimes folksy down-to-earth language gets the story across, but other times poetic language can say far more.
Stories don’t have to be long, twisty narratives filled with action. All the action in this song can be summed up in a few sentences: “a man’s lover is taking a trip to Spain, and she asks him what gift she can send home. He says he doesn’t want a gift, her love is enough. While she’s gone writes him a letter telling him she’ll be away longer than expected, so he writes back that he’d like a pair of boots. But he doesn’t care about the boots, he just wants to know she hasn’t forgotten him.” Yeah, the story is better Bob’s way. The poetic language serves to communicate that the action isn’t in the story itself, but in the emotional world of the singer. It speaks to the complexity and universality of anticipated loneliness, of jealousy, worry, and heartache.
We can learn that not every story needs to end with resolution. We shouldn’t always want to tie it all up with a neat little bow, leaving no loose ends and a complete release of tension. Did she ever send the boots? Did she ever come home? Were they still in love when she returned? Was she faithful for the trip? Was he? We will never know? Sometimes a great story leaves us with unresolved tension, with unanswered questions. And unanswered questions at the end of a story causes its hearers to think.
I love working with kids – always have, always will. I get real joy hanging out with them, telling stories, singing songs, forming friendships.
But there’s something about VBS that has always sort of left me baffled.
Why are we doing this? What’s its purpose? Does it succeed in meeting its intended purpose?
**PROCEED WITH CAUTION – Cynicism ahead**
Outreach?: I’ve heard people in congregations I’ve served say, “if we have a really good VBS, maybe we’ll get more kids coming to church.” But that’s never been my experience in VBS from the time I was a kid. When I was a kid, every church kid in town went to multiple VBS programs, while unchurched kids stayed home or went to the local pool or to scout camp. At its best, VBS could succeed in attracting kids to one church from another, failing as an outreach plan but succeeding in perpetuating the membership shuffle.
Christian Education?: others say, “we do VBS so kids can learn more about the Bible.” Fine, but honestly, didn’t the kids just get out of school? Isn’t “no school” the thing they’ve been looking forward to since Christmas? In my experience, the ratio of teaching to behavior management is pretty low. Many kids are far more interested in acting up than sitting through something with “school” in the name. And too often the volunteers’ behavior management strategies are ineffective.
Activity?: some folks operate under the “doing something is better than doing nothing” paradigm. If we don’t have VBS, then it looks like we’re just shutting down. Better to have an ineffective, counterproductive VBS than nothing at all. Is this attitude healthy?
It’s good for the church?: I’ve heard some pastors and active laypersons say, “it doesn’t matter whether we’re reaching any kids. What matters is that our adults are engaging with the kids and young parents in our church family.” I don’t know how it is in your church, but in the places I’ve served I run into an abundance of volunteers who are happy to help in ways that don’t involve working directly with the kids. Getting people to build props and backgrounds, work in the kitchen, donate money and food, design crafts, and clean up – no problem. Getting them to work a teaching station, work on crafts with kids, lead music, and help manage behavior – different story. And (deep cynicism warning) far too often those who sign up with no intention of working directly with children are the ones who are most insistent that we hold VBS and are critical of the way it’s being run by those who are with the kids.
It gives parents of young children a break?: Give ME a break! Again, in my experience It’s usually the parents of young children who are working hardest at VBS.
So if VBS is often ineffective as an outreach program, an education program, and a break for young families, what is it for?
The only reason I can think of is the best one: LOVE.
The one and only purpose of VBS is to communicate to the children of our church and our community that we love them.
We love them even when they don’t pay attention in class. We love them even when their behaviors are difficult to manage. We love them even when they’re more interested in clowning around than in making a doorknob hanger. We love them even when they miss mommy and cry to go home. We love them even when they sing off-key and get the song motions wrong – and even when they do it on purpose.
I think the very best we can hope for at VBS is to give the kids a sense that they are loved. Perhaps one day when they’re older – maybe when they’ve got kids of their own and are looking for a church home – they’ll remember. “That church loved me even when I acted like a turd.”
So this summer, don’t worry about getting through the lessons or getting all the crafts done or getting the songs right. Get the love part right. When you do that, VBS is a success.
A while back I thought I’d start some Facebook discussion by posting this status: “It’s not the spiritual but not religious (SBNR) who worry me, it’s the religious but not spiritual.” The discussion turned to, “how do you define the terms spiritual and religious?”
I think the distinction that I’m looking for is one of substance vs. structure. Spirituality is like the substance of faith – the experience of encountering the Divine, a belief in that which is greater than oneself, a sense of connectedness with creation and its creator. Religion is like an attempt to add structure to that substance: rites, rituals, church buildings, prescribed doctrines, defined boundaries.
At their best, spirituality and religion are beautiful together. My brother and I were baptized together when we were teenagers. We had gone through a confirmation class with our pastor, and the sacrament was administered in accordance with the rituals and disciplines of the United Methodist Church in the midst of a worship service. The religious parts (confirmation, doctrines, rituals) were in place. However, there was something deeply spiritual happening as well. My brother and I had both recently come to a crucial turning point in our faith. We had become Christ-followers and Christ-lovers, where before we had simply been church-goers. The water poured over our heads, the building where we had gathered, and the words of the ritual were deeply religious. The spiritual bit is what made me laugh and cry at the same time and imprinted the experience into my memory.
I believe there’s hope for the church if we tap into both religion and spirituality. We can’t shun one and embrace the other. The world is full of “spiritual but not religious” people. When the church gets it right, we can help the spiritual give structure and discipline to their spirituality. Its substance can take shape through the teachings and practices of the church.
The world is also full of religious but not spiritual people. Some have turned faith into intellectual endeavors, moralistic lists, and inflexible doctrines. The church can help them drink from a deeper well of spirituality and connect with realities greater than themselves.
The hardest part of reaching the RBNS crowd is helping them realize that they’re getting all the dance moves right but missing the beauty of the music.
As a pastor, it’s imperative that I take seriously my leadership in integrating religion and spirituality. I have to attend to both my religious inclinations and my spiritual desires. In order to lead the SBNRs toward the structure of religion, or the RBNSs toward beauty beyond the rules, I must be a model of integrating spirituality and religion.
I am content that these pages show me to be what I am – noisy, full of the racket of my imperfections and my passions, and the wide open wounds left by my sins. Full of my own emptiness. Yet, ruined as my house is, You [God] live there!
I’ve been too serious in worship lately, and I’m sick of it.
I’m not a serious guy, and too much seriousness fatigues me. I want to recapture a sense of joy and exuberance in worship and genuinely celebrate God’s goodness.
I keep remembering the worship services I attended in Ghana and Liberia (nations in West Africa). Offerings were danced forward to the altar to the lively beat of the drums. Songs were sung with full-body dance moves and ear-to-ear grins. Wearing your “Sunday Best” meant donning your brightest, boldest colors. Worship was a par-TAY, a celebration! If you said, “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice!” they’d DO it, and they’d MEAN it!
Problem is, I’m in a deeply German Protestant setting (hey, I’m descended from a family named Weirauch – I’m rather German myself!) Stoicism and the Protestant Work Ethic are deeply ingrained in our culture. You get what you earn, and you’d better earn what you get. Talking about God is serious business.
But Nehemiah 8 tells us that “the joy of the Lord is your strength.”
It doesn’t say the work of the Lord is your strength.” It doesn’t say that the doctrinal purity of the Lord is your strength. It doesn’t say that the scholarship or intellectual rigor of the Lord is your strength.
It says JOY.
Isn’t Jesus worth rejoicing about? I think so.
Unclench. Relax. Rejoice. Laugh a little. Smile a lot. This is supposed to be fun, Deuel.
One Facebook comment I’ve received recently regarding my ordination posts (specifically the Ordination is a Stewardship Issue post) reads something like this:
Ordination is on behalf of the church, not on behalf of the individual being ordained.
I’m still not 100% sure of the point being made by the poster, but I agree with the statement as I understand it. Ordination is more for the church than for the individual. In my opinion the BoOM, as representatives of the church, are called to be good stewards of the ordination candidates. And my reasons for saying so are practical.
I have seen good candidates leave our denomination for other churches whose ordination processes are more straightforward. And I’ve seen them do it purely as a response either to the complexity of our process or to a lack of solid, knowledgeable guidance through it.
I have seen other candidates drop out of the process altogether for exactly the same reasons.
I have seen others become jaded and cynical by the time they were ordained. They got ordained, but they’re bitter about it and they have an ax to grind.
And in all three scenarios, we are doing the church no favors. We’re not helping the church when our process so unnavigable that candidates seek greener pastures or just give up. We’re not helping when we produce bitter, jaded Elders.
I stand by the statement that the heart of the solution is to put people ahead of processes. The people of our churches as well as our candidates deserve it.
There is no more important board or committee in each Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church than the Board of Ordained Ministry. The BoOM is the committee whose decisions most directly affect the present state and the future of the leadership of our denomination. They are uniquely charged with knowing the candidates for ordination, praying for wisdom, discernment, and guidance as they lead them through the process.
I chose my language very carefully there. The BoOM is charged with leading candidates through the process, not putting them through it.
In other words, I believe that regarding the Board of Ordained Ministry, Ordination is a stewardship issue.
[There are stewardship issues beyond financial stewardship. Unfortunately, we far too often associate the word stewardship with finances. Stewardship, in the sense I’m using it here, is more like the one who tends a garden, the custodian of a building, a wine steward, or the curator of a museum.]
The herculean task of stewardship by the Board of Ordained Ministries is a complex one. The board is the steward of:
The pulpits of local congregations. The board, by recommending candidates for ordination, state with confidence that one who is ordained is fully qualified, well-skilled, and capable of being an excellent pastor to the congregations whom s/he is sent to serve.
The doctrines, polity, theology, and orthodoxy of the church. While there is a reasonably broad range of theology within our tradition, the board is charged with ensuring that candidates’ theologies are within our tradition and appropriately conversant with historic Wesleyanism/Methodism.
The candidates themselves. The Board is charged with working closely with ordination candidates through their provisional period (between commissioning and ordination) to prepare them appropriately for ordained ministry. This includes mentoring, on-the-job supervision, and freedom to practice ministry. The board works closely with candidates to properly equip them for the task that lies ahead. (A future blog post will deal with the question “what is residency?”)
It’s a task so huge that most of us would shrink at is massiveness. It’s incredibly humbling to realize what a big deal it really is. But I think it’s the only approach to the task that’s really appropriate. Understanding the truth of the stewardship angle should inspire awe, reverence, and humility.
Since I started blogging about ordination in the twenty-oughts, I’ve been contacted by others who were going through the process. Nightmare stories of lost paperwork, clueless mentors, well-intentioned mentors who are overwhelmed by the amount of information they have to navigate, additional “hoops” thrown into the mix, confrontational interviews, frustrating assignments, and other problems have crossed my inbox.
One candidate contacted me to say, “there are just too many stories of lost paperwork to chalk it up to coincidence or even incompetence. I’m convinced the boards pretend to lose paperwork just to see how you handle adversity.” I’m not willing to go that far, but I am disturbed that the first piece of advice I give to candidates is , “never turn in your only copy of anything. Ever. And know where your copies are at all times.”
Good stewardship, in my opinion, means:
that the board knows the process inside and out, and establishes clear, unchanging expectations and guidelines.
that the board has a clear vision of what residency means, and a series of measurable, attainable goals for the time and energy we ask candidates to give.
creating a supportive environment for the candidates and nurturing a spirit of collaboration during residency.
Respecting the hard work of the candidates enough to take good care of it. Receive it. Read it. Critique it. Ask difficult questions about it. Don’t lose it and make replacing it the candidate’s problem.
Ultimately, good stewardship means caring more about people than about the process.
Joy in a Minor Key 