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.”

Ready or Not

In observance of the 20th anniversary of my ordination I am dedicating a series of posts to reflect on ordained ministry and the changes I have seen in this call. This is the second post in that series.

As in parenting, one can never be ready for every possible event that will arise in ordained ministry. According to a Fuller Institute / Barna Research / Pastoral Care Inc. report, 90% of pastors feel that they are inadequately prepared for the demands of ministry. That sense of being ill prepared may simply be a part of a job that is constantly changing and evolving, just as parenting roles change as children grow up. I still find it ironic that from among all the people that could, it is the Seminary that actually sent card commemorating my ordination.

For most of my twenty years I have felt inadequately prepared for the task of ordained ministry.

Twenty Years

The envelope was hand addressed to The Rev. Kevin Jones in a black ball point pen. The cursive mailing address filled most of the front. The back flap was imprinted with the return address from the Seminary Relations department. Usually that meant a letter asking for a donation of some sort but this was a card-sized envelope; maybe an invitation to a fund raising event of some sort.

The flap wasn’t sealed all the way around so I skipped the letter opener and slid my finger inside tearing a jagged line along the top. I pulled out a folded card. On the front was a picture of the entrance to the one building on the seminary campus with the traditional roman columns seen on campuses across the country. In the upper left hand corner the seminary logo on a mustard yellow background and on the bottom the word “CONGRATULATIONS.”

On the Forgetting of Names

Two weeks ago I participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival and took a class led by Doug Goetsch. We wrote four or five short pieces every day spurred by a variety of prompts. One day he asked us to write a piece based on a title: "On the Forgetting of Names." I immediately thought of the last time I visited my grandfather in the nursing home about a year before his death and wrote this piece based on that visit.


On The Forgetting of Names

     He was laying on his back, on top of the covers, in the middle of the small bed. The black and gold plaid flannel shirt was buttoned over a dark blue t-shirt. Neither coordinated with the brown polyester pants that stopped two inches above his ankles revealing white cotton socks. Black loafers completed an ensemble that no one would have ever seen him wearing in his younger days.

     For most of his adult life he wore the blue-gray uniform and work boots of those who were employed by the Board of Water and Light. He put it on in the morning before he walked to work and he left it on after he got home. Sunday was the only day the uniform changed. On Sunday he would don one of this limited church outfits (although he would never have called them outfits). Polyester pants in a hazy green or a gray (rarely brown), paired with a more brightly colored button shirt and a one of the eight, big, fat-knotted ties that he owned. When he retired the work uniforms were traded for a flannel shirt and jeans.

    Now, at 81, he didn’t dress himself anymore. The pants probably weren’t his own but were, instead, the nearest pair of pants that fit his diminishing body, grabbed hastily by the nursing home orderly charged with getting him dressed for the day.

     He laid on the bed in the middle of the afternoon with his hands entwined across his stomach, elbows tucked neatly at his side. He looked up at the ceiling trying to conceal the frustration of having forgotten another name. This time it was someone who repeatedly called him “Grampa” even though he was sure they were close to the same age. It only compounded the confusion of living in the Navy barracks with all of these old people. He didn’t know why he was here or who this person was or why they were talking to him. He just wanted to leave; to walk through the woods outside his window to his mother’s house. He just wanted to go home.

Silent Stroll

Last week I participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival and took a class led by Doug Goetsch. We wrote four or five short pieces every day spurred by a variety of prompts. We could write in any genre so some were poems, some fiction, and some memoir. Late in the week I tried my hand at some poetry after we had been given the prompt, "Whistling."

Some people whistle as they walk past graveyards.

I prefer to stay in stealth mode

when walking among the headstones,

leaving undisturbed whatever spirits lie beneath.

Not because I’m afraid of what may arise.

I imagine they are peaceful enough

even resting in ties and dresses;

clothes they were relieved to shed in life.

I walk among hard etched names and dates

searching for peace myself.

A peace that passes all understanding

keeping heart and mind in one true faith

It’s a peace I cannot find outside of box and vault.

So silently I stroll between clusters and rows

of loved ones gathered in death

who knew as well the joys and longings of this life.

A Visit to the Dentist

Last week I participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival and took a class led by Doug Goetsch. We wrote four or five short pieces every day spurred by a variety of prompts. We could write in any genre so some were poems, some fiction, and some memoir  The following piece was written when we were challenged to write about something we dislike from a positive perspective.

A Visit to the Dentist

I have really great teeth.

I inherited them from my grandfather. Not his teeth specifically but the genetics that make for good teeth I suppose. Add that to the five years of braces that accompanied me through adolescence and you’ll find the least embarrassing physical trait on my person. So taking care of my teeth is important and going to the dentist is a semi-annual event that I refuse to miss.

I am fortunate enough to have found a dentist that I like. He is personable without being nosy or trite. His staff is friendly and professional. The waiting room is stocked with current magazines but I never seem to have the time to leaf all the way through one before I am called into an examination room. There, I can choose the style of music that is played during my visit. My personal preference is heavy metal but I worry that it sets the wrong tone for someone wielding sharp metal objects, so I choose the light jazz.

The dental hygienist and her assistant do most of the cleaning. I shut my eyes against the blinding, overhead light and they lean over me to pick at the small bits of plaque that have evaded toothbrush and floss. They chat idly about their children’s gymnastics, concern for aging parents, the price of hay, planning a baby shower and which bakery in town has the best butter cream frosting. I silently wonder at the number of times I have had similar conversations to pass the time or just to hear myself tell a story that I want to hear out loud.

 When it’s time to polish my teeth I am able to choose from a list of designer toothpaste flavors that include cinnamon, grape, strawberry, vanilla-mint. I stick with the classic mint. Not once am I asked to “rinse and spit.” Every stray bit of spittle and toothpaste are vacuumed away with a small suction hose. I never have to sit up once.

At the counter on the way out I can schedule my next appointment and they have my bill already waiting, adjusted for my personal insurance program. Altogether, this visit takes less than 45 minutes. I walk out the door proud to have braved another dental visit and aware that the ache of my jaw and tingle of my gums will keep me mindful of the great gift I carry in my mouth.

Unlearning

When it comes to faith one of the hardest things for me to do is to unlearn something that I have taken to heart. Sometimes it is something that I am certain is true but later find evidence to the contrary. Other times a person that I respect tells me something and presents it as a truth they have learned over a span of time. Later, I might discover that what they taught me was true for them but not necessarily true for me. Both of these are different than just learning something new that can be added into my knowledge bank. I actually have to unlearn something, to untangle it from all the other thoughts that it touches and (in some cases) to repent from the ways in which I have passed on the erroneous information when I have taught others.

When I was in seminary one of the preaching professors told us that the time we spent reading the Bible as pastors didn’t count as time spent in personal devotion to God. He told us that we had to reserve time each day for personal Bible reading. I took him at his word. After all, here was a white-haired elder of the church who had spent much of his life teaching people how to be pastors. His soft-spoken manner emanated nothing but concern for our personal, professional and spiritual well-being.  I assumed that this advice was learned during his many years preparing his own sermons and classes and I was eager to put his wisdom to work in my own life.

The Wonderful Church of Disney

On a recent trip to Orlando with 320 high school music students I spent three out of four days at Disney theme parks. On day 1 we were at Animal Kingdom from the moment it opened until 4:00 when we “park hopped” over to Epcot staying until it closed. The next day we spent 13 hours at the Magic Kingdom. Two days after that we spent the day at Disney’s Hollywood Studios theme park, again from open until close. I spent much of that time with another chaperon who, like me, was content to see a few attractions but also spend significant amounts of time sitting on a bench watching people and thinking about what the world’s number-one-tourist-destination says about our culture and how similar it is to the Christian church in America.

It Is a Small World

I recently returned home from Florida where I helped chaperon 320 high school musicians on a six day trip to Disney. On the third day of that trip I found myself wandering the streets of the Magic Kingdom on a Sunday morning instead of leading worship in my congregation. We had turned the clocks ahead for Daylight Savings Time in the middle of the night so there were relatively few people in the park when it opened. It was the best way for me to experience the Magic Kingdom but Disney’s nightmare: A individual walking the park alone without any lines to wait in and with no desire to buy a souvenir.

The first attraction that caught my eye was the infamous “It’s a Small World” ride. I hadn't been on that ride since the first time I visited the park in 1976. I don’t know why it called out to me that morning but I jokingly thought to myself that this would be penance for missing worship on a Sunday morning.  So I walked through the maze of metal guardrails and climbed aboard the aqua-colored plastic boat and began floating down the twisting canal of this world-famous ride.

My Soul Cries Out

 If only everyone could experience the joy of being Christian, being loved by God who gave his Son for us!  - Benedict XVI ‏@Pontifex

In his last days as Pope, Benedict XVI sent out this heartfelt message through his Twitter account. I have no doubt that it is a sincere sentiment, expressing the joy that he himself has experienced knowing God’s love. I am also aware that English is not his first language and that sometimes we misspeak when trying to express deeply held emotions. So I acknowledge that the message he intended to give may not have been what was ultimately sent out to the masses.

But this is what was sent out: A message that implies that God only loves Christians. Or, if one admits that God loves all of the creation, it is a message that implies that only Christians can truly experience that love.

Healing and Heaven

I was working on a sermon about healing last week and had an amazing insight. Usually when we think about heaven we imagine a place where everything is perfect, a place where nothing is broken. We imagine a place where our physical and mental selves are whole and strong and healed. We envision healed relationships with loved ones who have died before us. And we envision an eternity in the presence of God; spiritual healing, if you will. In this picture of heaven all of the broken places in our lives have been healed.

But then I thought of the Gospel stories of Jesus’ resurrection.