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.