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.

Learning to Preach

We all try to fall into a groove where life becomes more manageable and we can be comfortable. But then something happens to move us out of that comfort zone and we have the opportunity to learn and grow. When that happens we are faced with a choice: Do I return to the old way as soon as possible or do I take a risk and open myself to a new way of being in the world?

At the three-point parish where I started ordained ministry, the senior pastor and I presided at four worship services every week. One of us would lead worship at the two churches in town on Sunday morning. The other would be at the Saturday evening worship in town and then drive to the country church on Sunday morning.  We would do this for a month and then trade. This rotation meant that I had to write and deliver a sermon every week. Most associate pastors don’t get to preach that often or even close to it. Since I enjoy preaching it was a great opportunity to do something I felt I was good at. The frequency also helped me get better.

Coming out of seminary I worked hard to craft each sermon, carefully choosing phrases and editing my words until they were just right (or until I ran out of time and couldn’t work on them anymore). Having put all that time into them I would print them out on the dot-matrix printer connected to my computer, double spacing them so that I could easily read from my manuscript as I stood in the pulpit. I would rehearse by reading through a sermon two or three times before worship, making sure I was able to look up from my text and make eye contact with the congregation. This, I was told in preaching class, made it more personal for the people in the pews. At the end of the first service I would greet the worshipers at the back of the church, pack my bible, sermon, and whatever else I needed into my briefcase and take it all with me to the next service.

If I was in town for the month the drive was just six blocks to the next church. If I was going to preach at the country church it was a beautiful, winding drive through the hills, valleys and farmland of western Wisconsin that took between 15 and 20 minutes. It was, of course, one of the days when I was at the country church that I arrived for worship and discovered that I had left my sermon manuscript sitting in the pulpit after the Saturday evening worship.

I dug through my briefcase one more time hoping that it would miraculously appear. Looking at the clock I did the math with the sickening realization that I didn’t have time to run back into town and retrieve my sermon. It occurred to me that I could send someone from the congregation into town but there was no guarantee that they would be back when it was time for the sermon. I either had to explain to the congregation what had happened and tell them there would be no sermon that day, or I would have to preach from memory. I chose to risk the embarrassment of preaching from memory, possibly forgetting part of the sermon over the embarrassment of admitting that I was unprepared.

When it was time for the sermon, instead of stepping up into the pulpit, I descended to the floor in front of the congregation. In that old, country church the pulpit was a raised platform that jutted out from the front wall above the congregation. Whenever I stood in the pulpit my feet were at eye level with the worshipers sitting in the pews. The architectural design was meant to be impressive and authoritative. Stepping down to be at the level of those in worship had a very different feel; definitely more casual but more intimate too. Instead of being someone who stood over them I was standing among them. I realized the symbolism and significance of that gesture immediately.

As I preached that day without manuscript or notes I discovered a sense of freedom. I had been using my manuscript as a crutch. I knew what I was preaching but was too worried about the exact way in which I said things. I knew the points I wanted to make and the illustrations that I had chosen to make those points. I had been telling stories by memory for years and a sermon is simply a story of how we understand something written in the Bible. By stepping away from the manuscript I sounded more like myself. Preaching became a personal thing, a way of sharing what I understood about the text, faith and life.

The encouragement I received after the service caught me off guard. The sermon I preached was not as concise as my regular sermons with a manuscript, but it seemed to have struck a chord with those in worship that day. Sheepishly, I admitted the real reason behind the change in preaching style while in my mind I committed myself to making the change a permanent one.

Noted media professor Marshall McLuhan said that “the medium is the message.” Preaching a sermon from the heart, without notes, sends a message to the listener beyond the meaning of the words. For me it meant more work rehearsing what I wanted to say. It also brought a change to the way I prepared sermons. I no longer spend time fretting over exact wording in front of a computer screen. Instead, I spend time listening to the words that come out of my mouth, wondering how I would hear it if I were sitting in the congregation.

Had I never left that manuscript in town I might never have discovered the style of preaching that works so well for me. In the years since then I have continued to experiment with that style, searching for my voice in a world that is ever changing.

Detours

Following the path we believe God sets out for us doesn’t always take us straight where we think we are going. Sometimes we go a different way on our own and sometimes we are forced to take a detour we wouldn’t choose for ourselves.

I love physics and engineering. I am absolutely captivated by the way things work. But I’m really bad at math. I think in words instead of numbers; metaphors instead of symbols. So I naturally gravitated towards English as a major in college. Because I like to live in my head instead of the external world I added minors in philosophy and psychology. Having finally come to terms with my call to ordained ministry, this seemed like a pretty good education in preparation for seminary. What it wasn’t good for was finding a job right after college.

When my dad attended seminary I witnessed the difference between the second-career students and those who attended immediately after college. Those who had been out in the world of work and careers seemed to have a different perspective than those who had been in school their entire life. In addition to being more mature and world-wise, the second career students didn’t seem to get as caught up in the theory and theology. They seemed to be more connected to the people in the pews, so to speak; to know the side of life where church was a piece of, but not the whole, puzzle.

I decided that I wouldn’t go straight from college to seminary. I would take some time to work, to gain some “real-life” experience and to begin paying off some student loans before accruing some more. Additionally, Amy and I were getting married the summer after I graduated and she was taking classes for her Master’s Degree while working full time. My plan was to get a job in the publishing field or as a technical writer and work for a few years before going to the seminary.

The problem with the plan, I quickly found out as I began sending out resumes, is that companies don’t want technical writers with English degrees and a fascination with the way things work. They want engineers who can write well. And the publishing field wanted people with editing skills not someone who could talk about the nuances of a novel and its meaning.  This would have been great information to have prior to my graduation but I hadn’t even thought to look for it.

Two weeks prior to my wedding I was shopping for gifts for my groomsmen when I noticed a “Help Wanted” sign at a sporting goods store in the mall. I couldn’t bear the thought of getting married while being unemployed. No, that’s not completely honest. I couldn’t bear the thought of looking my father-in-law in the eye on my wedding day if I didn’t have a job. So I filled out an application, had an interview a week later, and began working as a stock boy exactly one week before I got married.

After the wedding I continued to look for a job that was worthy of a college graduate but I kept running into dead ends. The few interviews I got all ended with, “We’re really looking for someone with other qualifications.” Meanwhile, at the store, I was working 9-5 with weekends off and I could wear jeans to work and no tie. I unloaded trucks, organized the back stock and was responsible for inventory.

One day the district manager called me into the office to ask if I would be willing move out to the sales floor as an area manager. I accepted and began selling weight lifting and exercise equipment. I learned about the other departments and became a certified ski tech and a certified bowling ball technician. (That’s right. I have skills now.) Within a year I was promoted to Assistant Store Manager and transferred to a different store about an hour’s drive away. 

Working in retail management wasn’t part of my life’s plan. But it kept me out of a career where I would be working in a secluded cubicle and got me to interact with strangers on a regular basis. As a natural introvert I needed that experience. I learned management and motivational skills. I found out that people like choices but don’t want too many of them. (Next time you’re in Wal-Mart notice how they have lots of things but only a couple of choices for each item.)  I met con artists and thieves and I learned about the politics of business when the union went on strike. I learned to give people a chance to prove themselves when I hired them and I learned that some people will work harder to get out of working than if they had just done the job in the first place.

I eventually brought all these lessons with me when I started ordained ministry. And it’s a good thing because I’ve needed them all. Accepting and keeping that job in the sporting goods store was difficult and humbling for me. But in the end it proved to be exactly what I needed.

Soaking It In

Sometimes when we are paying the least attention we gain all kinds of knowledge and experience that will benefit us in surprise ways later in life. During the time that I quit thinking about becoming a pastor I gained so much knowledge about leading a faith community that I am still sorting out what I learned.

Moving to Dubuque changed everything about my life. The three places that my life took shape; home, school and church, all seemed to be completely reversed. Dad was now home instead of mom who was working in a department store. There was less income, a smaller house with a tiny yard and neighbors so close it felt claustrophobic. School was huge; an overcrowded limestone monolith containing more than 1600 strangers. Church was bigger too. It was more formal, less friendly and it certainly didn’t need the kind of help that I was familiar with offering.

What choice did I have but to make the best of it? That doesn’t mean that I did so happily or quietly. I remember making my family, and especially my parents, miserable at times. In those four years of high school I did my share of rebelling and of being a jerk. But I did some good things too. I got more involved in music. I explored some artistic endeavors. (Don’t ask my mom about the way I painted my bedroom. She still gets the shakes when she thinks about it.) I eventually made some good friends and learned to navigate the changes at home, the hallways and social situations at school and the very different feel of faith in the new church.

While I was preoccupied with my particular strain of teenage angst and ignoring any sense of call to ordained ministry two things became everyday events that would shape my understanding of ministry. First, my dad took a part-time job as custodian of the church we attended and he invited me to join him. I emptied wastebaskets and cleaned floors in the evenings and on Saturdays. I witnessed all the behind-the-scenes activities that keep a church going. I got to know the people on staff; the pastors, the secretaries, the youth director and some key volunteers who were frequently present. I found the people who work at a church to be ordinary people. They had lives outside of the church. They struggled with family issues, grief and stress. They showed up to work exhausted because there was so much going on in their lives. They had good days and bad days. They lost their temper when things weren’t going well and they could be very forgiving and encouraging too.

The second thing that happened is that my dad started processing what he learned at seminary as we sat at the dinner table. He told us about conversations in which he and his classmates speculated on different subjects. What if Jesus had gotten married? What if he had died a different kind of death? What if Mary wasn’t really a virgin when Jesus was born? For the first time I was becoming aware that open-minded speculation about some of the hard and fast doctrines of the church was okay. Suddenly, faith became something that I could participate in beyond memorization and regurgitation. Faith was something that could be tested and explored. God became bigger than my Sunday School lessons and catechism explanations. It was as if all the recorded scripture and theology was a leaping off point instead of a landing zone. It was there to help launch us into a life-long experience of finding God wherever we find ourselves to be physically, emotionally or spiritually.

The lessons I learned when I wasn’t paying attention have done more to shape my understanding of ministry than any class in seminary. They are the places I fight the hardest to maintain my sanity and dignity in this calling. They are the issues that cause me the most heartache and joy. Perhaps being an ordinary person willing to explore extraordinary possibilities is what we are all called to in whatever ministry we serve.

Stranger in a Strange Land

At some point the charms of suburban living began wearing thin on my parents and they started talking about moving again. I was too caught up in riding bikes, building forts and joining my friends in tormenting neighborhood girls to pay attention to what my parents were going through. Even if I had paid attention I imagine it was one of those “grown up” things that I wouldn't be able to understand for years to come..

When it was all said and done my parents bought an old farmhouse and forty acres of land about 25 miles from the subdivision. Neatly landscaped lawns and paved streets were replaced by cornfields and a dusty, gravel road. Instead of being surrounded by similar looking homes the farmhouse was encircled by barns and sheds. The closest neighbor lived over a quarter mile away. The nearest town, and the place I would attend school, was five miles away but the bus ride to get there was over an hour long.

The farm held all kinds of new experiences for me: There were trees on the property that were actually big enough to climb. There were barns to explore. There were fields to play in. The old house still had a coal-fired furnace. Every morning in the winter my dad or mom would go down to the damp and dirty basement to shovel coal onto the fire so the house would warm up for the day. My parents began remodeling almost immediately. Walls were knocked down, a stone fireplace was installed and we started living in what would become and endless construction zone.

Moving from a suburban culture to a rural lifestyle and having to make new friends was difficult enough without having to adapt to a second cultural change. Our new community was predominantly populated by the spiritual nemesis of Lutherans around the world: Catholics.

Evidently 480 years hadn’t been enough time to forgive each other for insults spoken during the Protestant Reformation. There was (and still is to some extent) a fear among parents that conversion was a real possibility and would result in eternal damnation if not eternal parental shame. For five centuries the animosity has run so deep that even today I still get surprised looks when I acknowledge that my Catholic friends are indeed Christians. Nobody was hostile towards us but there was always a sense of awkward wariness.

 The most surprising part was just how Catholic the new community was. I was one of only four kids in my grade who were not released to participate in religious education and attend weekly Mass (and whenever there was a feast day if I remember correctly). In fact, the public school system arranged for the middle school classes to be held in the school building owned by the Catholic parish that stood adjacent to the elementary school. I can’t imagine such an arrangement in today’s climate of church/state separation but it worked out well enough for the community back then.

I learned a lot from my new friends. I learned that they got bored during church services just like I did. I learned that they also wondered why church doctrine seemed so important to adults. I learned that, like me, they weren’t supposed to talk about these things but were to obediently attend worship and learn the rules. What I really learned is that we are more alike than I had been led to believe.

In the Bible, as people move to new places there is a dynamic tension between being integrated into the culture and maintaining a strict separation for purity reasons. (Since each group had its own god/s it’s hard to separate the racial and spiritual reasons for maintaining this separation.) It seems that no matter how strong the urge is within us to meet new people and learn from them there is always someone (sometimes ourselves) telling us that it is dangerous and that we should stay apart.

What I am learning is that I enjoy life a lot more when I can find the similarities between other people and myself. It’s easy to spot the differences and to be captivated by them making us wary and afraid. Seeing the way we are similar is harder. It often requires looking deeper into ourselves as well as the other. And when we see similarities it often reveals things about ourselves that we would rather not admit.

Moving to a new place always puts us in the position where we need to decide if we are going to stick with the habits and ways to which we have become accustomed or if we will expand what we know about the world and ourselves. The fact that God so frequently calls and leads people to new places makes me think that perhaps there are more blessings to be found for everyone as we learn from those who are different from ourselves.