Traditions

“So have you ever had lutefisk before?” someone at the end of the table asked.  I was looking the other way and didn’t see who was being asked but everyone else at the table was a was at least 30 years older than me and they had all just finished working their volunteer shift. It was the first time I had helped with the supper so I could only assume they were asking me.   

Around us the church basement buzzed with conversations. Servers dressed in the traditional red and white Norwegian garb moved swiftly carrying full platters of food to the tables and whisking away empties. Pitchers of water, plates of lefse (something that looked like tortillas only made from potatoes), sugar bowls and sticks of butter were already on the table. Ceramic plates and coffee cups, mismatched silverware, paper napkins and small clear water glasses completed each place setting. As we waited for the first round of food my tablemates began spreading butter and sugar on pieces of the lefse and rolling them up into small tubes.

“Nope. Never,” I said. “In fact I’d never really heard about it until we moved here.”

While My Two Dogs Gently Sleep

I stand in the laundry room of a complete stranger, newspaper layered across the floor. A squirming heap of gray softness undulates near the dryer. The woman pulls one of the puppies from the pile and sets it down a foot or so away. She gently picks up another, then another until all nine little bodies are crawling around trying to reorganize into their warm sleeping mass.

My wife and I gaze down at the three-week old puppies. They’re all almost identical in color and markings; gray fur with black spots, white belly and paws. The woman who owns the puppies shares her history as a breeder and gives us relevant facts about the lineage of the puppies. I don’t really care about the pedigree.  I’m not interested in showing the dog or getting into breeding. I just want a family pet.

The Sacred Time-Out

I stood on my tip-toes as tall as I could. My arms reached high into the air curving over the top of my younger brother. Holding the basketball in both hands he kept one foot firmly in place, pivoting to get a clear angle for a shot at the hoop. He had gone straight to his favorite place on the court to shoot but this time I beat him to the spot. When he realized it he had already stopped his dribble and was stuck.  I would either block his shot or it would be so far off the mark that I would be in the best position for a rebound.

“Time-out,” he said making a “T” with both hands, holding the ball against his chest with his forearms.

I deflated and took a step back. A time-out meant he could go to the top of the imaginary half-circle in the driveway and begin his turn on offense all over. I could complain about how unfair it was (and sometimes did) but I had used the same tactic myself. In the world of one-on-one, driveway basketball there was no limit on time-outs. You could call one whenever you needed it; the slightest injury, an off-balance shot that left you reeling and unable to get set on defense, a bee buzzing around the driveway, or just to gain a slight advantage.

A Dot Sheet God

The sun shines down on 200 high school students as they stand scattered across the football field. The track around the field is littered with band instruments, water bottles and sunscreen containers.

The voice of the band director booms out of the public address system in the stadium. “Find your place in set nine. Set nine. Then take a seat as soon as you are certain you’ve found your place.”

200 heads look down at laminated sheets of paper. Lips move silently as each individual reads a specific coordinate and tries to picture where they are supposed to go. Heads pop up to verify yard lines and hash marks before eyes return to the coordinate sheets. Feet begin pacing off carefully counted steps. Section leaders quickly find their place and then turn to help the new members and those who continue to have trouble translating a coordinate into a physical place on the football field.

LEFT 3.25 steps inside 35                  12.75 steps in front of home hash

A Question of Service

I stood the doorway of the sanctuary as people filed past, greeting me and shaking hands after the service. Alfred, a tall, man with wire rim glasses looked down at me and filled my hand with his own. In his retirement he served as the custodian of the church. I knew him to be a man who spoke frankly and to the point.

“It’s about time someone figured it out,” was all he said with a smile before moving on to the let the next person greet me.

He was referring to my sermon when I reflected on the relationship between a pastor and the congregation. After six years of ordained ministry I had become frustrated with how difficult it was to motivate a congregation to participate in faith-based educational or service oriented programs. When the Senior Pastor took a new call I was left to work with the congregation and began to notice some interesting behaviors.

Have We Got A Deal For You

                                             It's that old-time religion

                                             It's the kingdom they would rule

                                             It's the fool on television

                                             Getting paid to play the fool

                                                                             Rush

                                                                             The Big Money

According to a Fuller Insitute / Barna Research / Pastoral Care Inc. study (cited here) the profession of "Pastor" is near the bottom of a survey of the most-respected professions, just above "car salesman".

First, let me say that I am not offended. I’ve long thought that being a pastor requires a certain amount of salesmanship. Since our culture is filled with competing advertisements persuading us that a product or lifestyle can “change your life” or “change the world,” it’s only natural that people see one of the chief jobs of the clergy is to convince and motivate people to participate in a certain belief system that promises to do the same.  Many of the techniques used in selling cars (or any goods or services) are assumed to translate well into the arena of faith.

Long-Haired Hippy Freak

On a late spring, Wednesday evening, when the kids can taste the end of the school year and the beginning of summer, I reach into an open topped box and pull out a creased slip of paper. Everyone in the room holds their breath to see what the next question is going to be. It’s “Ask the Pastor Night” and the 100 plus middle school students and adult confirmation guides can ask me anything. I read the question quietly to myself. I've seen this question before and it’s one of my favorites.

I started this tradition seven years ago when it occurred to me that Jesus did a lot of teaching simply by letting his disciples ask questions. People learn best when they are interested and invested in the topic. Over the years I've discovered that there is some serious spiritual thinking going on in the minds of 12-14 year olds. And, as you might suspect, there are some stupid things as well. There is usually a 50-50 split between serious questions and questions intended to stump me or make the class laugh since I allow them to ask me anything.

I smile as I read the question out loud. “Why do you wear your hair in a pony-tail and grow your beard so long?” This is a question that every adult member of my congregation wants to ask me. Most people have become accustomed to it by now but every once in a while someone makes a stray comment. Personally, I find it interesting to discover who is bothered by my personal style choices. In a community that is supposed to be based on love I am always surprised by the insistent presence of social convention and stereotyped expectations.

“Sanity,” I say. “It’s to keep me from losing my mind.”