Talk With the Preacher

I knew Allie Bucy when she was about 8. Her mom, Carolyn was the youth minister at the church where I was a member. I was pretty self-involved at the time (what’s new?), planning for my wedding and going through the process of licensing to the ministry at the church. I left soon after those two events, that year, in fact, to go to seminary and on my way in life.

My path recently crossed Allie’s again when her mom, Carolyn wrote an email telling me that Allie was living in DC . . . flurries of emails ensued and reconnection was underway. It was just a few weeks later, last Friday, in fact, that I got the call to go down to the hospital. Only 23 years old, Allie had died of complications from Type IV Vascular Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. The sadness was overwhelming.

Allie’s community in Texas is mourning her loss. At her memorial service in Waco last Tuesday Rev. Sharlande Sledge prayed the following prayer, putting in words the unspeakably difficult, as she always does so well. I thought I’d share it here:

Good and Compassionate God, this morning we are here to think about Allison, and we are here to think about you.

We bless Allison–the beautiful, spontaneous young woman who knew that the world is wildly alive in all directions, extravagant and bright, who dreamed of a vocation that ushered in God’s kingdom of justice and peace for every person on this earth.

Blessed be Allison–daughter of God, child of joy, generous spirit, holy gift of our Creator. Blessed be her life. She lived not the length of it but the width and depth of it as well.
O God, from the moment of her birth, Allison lived as one of your wounded healers who found energy and life in the midst of it all, who admitted her vulnerability and showed us how to live with illness and grace.

Bless Allison, O God, and bless those who loved her throughout her life and will love her forever–for these are the ones who today know that searing pain of loss, whose grief is raw or tender or numb; for all who have a huge Allison-shaped hole in their lives.

Lord, have mercy on all whose hearts are breaking. When they cry to you and it seems that morning will never come, and the aches and pain seem unbearable, hear their lamentation. We call upon your healing power to be their consolation and their comfort, their refuge and their strength, a very present help in trouble. Catch their tears in your hands and attend to their sorrow. Care for them as they reshape their lives in the context of grief and try to make sense of the chaos of their feelings. Bless the cleansing release of tears. Bless them as storytellers as they create a scrapbook of memories in their hearts.

Hear our trust and our hope, for we believe that your faithfulness is great and your promises are sure.

We trust in the community of friends to care and be present, even when we cannot fully understand the family’s loss, for we believe in God’s power to offer strength in the midst of suffering. We believe in the mystery of prayer that has drawn us closer to you and to each other as we have prayed for Allison and her family.

Our hope is in You, the Living God, the Christ of resurrection, to live what we have learned from Allison and what we continue to learn from you–that life is a gift and you are the Giver . . . and that nothing shall separate us from the love of Christ, in whose name we pray. Amen.

It’s the first thing you learn in basic pastoral care class. The role of a pastor in a crisis situation is to be a non-anxious presence. That means that the pastor is supposed to be calm and reassuring under all conditions, even when everyone else is freaking out.

The irony of this critical vocational skill is that there really is no learning a non-anxious presence. No class, practicum, study guide or tutorial . . . only really hard situations in which you are required to show up and, if you can muster it, pray. You learn on the job, oftentimes feeling utterly and totally anxious, trying to communicate a non-anxious presence while in the throes of what feels like an anxiety attack.

Yesterday I spent most of the day at the hospital. A young family worked to support each other as their baby was born dead. It was pain on all levels—a young father crushed but trying to support his wife; a sleepy three-year-old not understanding much except “Mommy’s sick” and a heartsick mother unable to ease the pain of labor and a broken heart.

I was there, trying diligently to provide a non-anxious presence as I was told to do in that pastoral care class all those years ago, all the while feeling almost tangibly the heartbreak of the situation. There were no magic words I could call to mind. There was only Kleenex and ice chips, back rubs and prayers, all offered with what felt to me like a lot of anxiety despite my determination to practice what I learned in seminary.

In this situation like many others in the work of the preacher, I found myself at a curious intersection of human life, the crossing of utter pain and redeeming grace. There was nothing right about it, nothing at all. Nothing just, comforting, helpful or relieved. No, there was none of that, but there was great love, the presence of God, the painful but reassuring knowledge that life goes on even with the grief. It’s a poignantly beautiful, painful place.

And I found it hard not to feel anxious.

Yesterday I finally felt my anxious pastoral presence easing when I got to hold that just-born baby. He was a precious little guy, perfectly formed; wrapped in a blanket, warm and solid in my arms. After hours of anxious anticipation I felt at that moment nothing anxious at all . . . just the calm assurance that this baby is surely loved by his parents and by God. Strangely enough, as we cried and prayed and said goodbye it seemed to me that all of us around that hospital bed had stumbled unexpectedly upon few holy moments, an oasis of grace, a true, almost tangible, enveloping non-anxious presence.

And, sorry Dr. Blevins, but I’m fairly certain it was not mine.

After this week of poignant opportunities to try to be a non-anxious presence in situations that make me hyperventilate when I just think about them, I’m starting to suspect that this non-anxious presence we learned about in seminary is not the pastor’s presence at all.

What our task as pastors must be, I got to thinking, is not necessarily to BE the non-anxious presence but rather to WELCOME that non-anxious presence precisely because when we step into situations like that we are so anxious. Most days the best we bring is the expectation of God’s pastoral, non-anxious presence–not our own.

The writer of Lamentations must have known what it felt like to welcome God’s Spirit into a heart-wrenching, utterly anxiety-provoking experience because that writer describes God’s non-anxious presence so vividly:

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, God’s mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in God.’
Lamentations 3:21-24

For the holy honor of walking through the pain with parents who are grieving . . . I feel uncommonly grateful today. And that’s about the sum of it, because my tearful and, yes, anxious presence at the hospital last night certainly did not meet the standard we learned that first day in pastoral care class.

But I wonder: could it be that my professor was mistaken? Maybe my job is to show up, anxious or not, and just to point to the horizon in expectation. Yes . . . I think my job might be to pass out Kleenex and ice chips, back rubs and prayers, and just hold hands while we all wait for that non-anxious presence, God’s tender mercies like a soothing balm to an utterly anxious situation.

The words to Sarah McLachlan’s song Black and White keep echoing in my head today. You know them? “ . . . everybody loves you when you’re easy, everybody hates when you’re a bore; everyone is waiting for your entrance so don’t disappoint them . . . everybody loves you when you’re easy so don’t disappoint them . . . don’t disappoint them . . . .”

Life’s hard at the moment. All my hang-your-hopes feelings about the healing power of the community of faith have proven to be rather . . . uh, pollyanna-ish, these past weeks. (That’s actually very surprising, as I am a very committed pessimist who can expertly find the negative in most anything. It’s a gift.)

But the thing is that I take my role as a leader who models healthy community very seriously, so when cracks appear it feels disheartening. And I’m the one who is supposed to be carrying the banner of hope and optimism, so when I feel disheartened I find it difficult to do my job well.

Specifically I’ve lately been finding it such a dismal curiosity that situations completely untenable in “normal” life are acceptable within the church. I think it’s because we church folks sometimes promote the fallacy that “healthy” means “conflict-free”, but the reality of human interaction means conflict is part of life.

And when you’re supposed to be in charge, sometimes you have to manage conflict.

And NOT be easy.

In fact, be rather boorish, as Sarah would sing. Then everybody DOESN’T love you, which is a violation of the basic (admittedly misguided) quest of preacherdom: Everybody like me! Everybody like me! Everybody like me!

It’s true that one of the hardest parts of being the preacher is taking the criticism. I sometimes think that we take more criticism in our positions than in any other profession I have ever heard of (whenever I am fielding a comment about my hair or a suggestion about my preaching I always wonder if the person speaking would ever consider offering the same to their doctor . . . lawyer . . . dentist?).

Such a challenge . . . to be loved by everybody all the while being a ready target for criticism in doing our jobs. Can we do it? Can we pull off the impossible?

So far no luck.

Here’s the good news. My mother in law says that some days are good and some days you have to remember that not everybody loved Jesus.

I guess he wasn’t easy.

And even though it’s likely I’ll disappoint them, today I hope I’m not either.

The sky was gray today. In the middle of a heart-achingly beautiful springtime filled with cherry blossoms and dappled sunlight, today the sky was flat, slate, gunmetal gray.

The gray dulled the light so that everything looked a little subdued. As I made my way to the hospital I dodged in-between the raindrops, all the while watching the sky for the coming deluge.

Even inside the hospital I noticed the gray. Gray halls with what seemed like miles of gray tile stretching out down the hallways. When I got to the morgue all I saw was gray. Shiny gray gurneys, big, swinging gray cooler doors. Gray, gray, gray.

And when I left the hospital the sky opened. Gray, all gray as far as the eye could see. Gray sky and gray raindrops, God crying.

Goodbye, Allie. Rest in peace.

One thing I’ve learned recently is that if you are a mother you can never guarantee pristine shoulders.

I thought for awhile that this was a side-effect of having babies and I’m happy to say that, in the case of the babies, I always planned accordingly.

I remember the first thing I did after learning our daughter Hannah had been born and we were going to travel to pick her up at the hospital the next day was to dig through my clothing for the ugliest, oldest, most ratty t-shirts I owned, in which I lived for several years after her arrival.

Having already served as mother to Hayden for almost four years when we adopted Hannah I was well aware that being a parent means you frequently have any number of substances (some mentionable in polite company, most not) all over your shoulders.

I was right then and again when Sam was born, and the end result was that I spent years in old t-shirts covered with spit-up, mashed food, formula and, well, you know. I am not proud to say that I think one of those t-shirts had a picture of Winnie-the-Pooh on it. (You would think I would have at least tried to preserve some semblance of dignity. Sadly, no.)

The thing that has me unprepared of late is that I thought I was done with all of that. It’s true we have occasional bouts with the flu here, but we’ve been pretty successful in teaching the life-skill of dealing with the resulting effects in the appropriate manner. Preferably independently. The end result is that there is no more spit-up, burp clothes, mashed carrots, or anything else, really, of that nature on my shoulders, and there hasn’t been for some time, thanks be to God.

In fact, until yesterday I had been giving serious thought to going through drawers and tossing old, ratty t-shirts (please know Winnie is long gone already). It’s a new day . . . a new day accessorized by pressed linen shirts, professional blouses and occasionally a really great suit coat. In other words, non-spit-up attire.

Once a mom always a mom, I guess I learned yesterday when I was rushing out the door to a very long work day. I was dressed in appropriate preacher attire because I was speaking at a conference in the morning, had appointment after appointment back to back all day long, culminating with an evening Bible study that would see me coming home sometime after 8 p.m.

As I walked out the door I repeated instructions for getting to the bus stop. I believe I threw in a few threats about homework after school and also reiterated the myth that is currently fact in our house: that parents have a special, secret way of ascertaining if the television has been in use in their absence.

As I dragged my bag, the dry cleaning, a pile of books and whatever else I was carrying toward the door my little guy Sammy said, “Hey Mom, what time will you be home again tonight?” I told him I had Bible study and I’d be home after he was in bed, but that I would be sure to come in and give him a kiss when I got home.

As I continued my exit I heard Sam say goodbye but noticed out of the corner of my eye a very little 7-year-old chin quavering bravely.

You know what happened then . . . the built in neon sign that says GUILT started blinking rapidly in my head, sirens went off and I felt, as I do from time to time, that I can’t possibly successfully juggle all of the responsibilities of my life.

That’s what I began to think.

My thoughts quickly deteriorated from that point until, within just a few seconds, I was fairly sure my gross inability to parent has already damaged my children irrevocably and, best case scenario, has insured a steady income for some future therapist.

Teary goodbyes are not typical for my stunningly bright, fiercely independent, happy little son. I put my stuff down and went over to hug my little guy who, I am finding, is not so little anymore. He clambered up on my lap and laid his head on my shoulder. I think it was just tiredness and missing Mommy, but, well, you know what I felt. GUILT, GUILT, GUILT.

I rubbed his back and told him we’d take a nature walk at the creek on Saturday (I wanted him to feel better . . . but anything to ease the guilt, you know). As I held him I thought, once again, about whether this job I do is worth what it costs. I quickly put THAT thought out of my mind—too painful, you know.

I then moved on to more critical issues.

I thought next about the fact that I would soon be speaking in front of a large group with a blouse once ironed but now completely wrinkled. And just in the middle of that thought I looked down at my Sam and as I stroked his hair and I saw it . . . one very fat tear perched on the edge of one of those big eyes.

It fell. Right onto my shoulder, where it settled in on my blouse and spread a wet spot where it landed.

The longer I live the more I know in the marrow of my bones that a healthy balance of mothering and pastoring will elude me as long as I try to do both; there just are no easy answers. With each new lesson, though, I’m acquiring critical insider information.

Today it’s the reminder that there’s something graceful and beautiful about having wet shoulders. It means there are people in my life who feel like they can lay their heads on my shoulder and cry the tears that every human life sheds.

There’s no easy answer to the question of how you shoulder it all, but no matter how you end up doing it, I guess I hope to always have shoulders well in use by people I love. Makes the drycleaning bill worth it, don’t you think?

It’s the stuff you read in the newspaper way in the back by the comics. Or on The Onion. What I am trying to say is that this stuff just does not happen in real life.

Well . . . it happened. Just yesterday, in fact.

Downtown DC churches have been victims of a vicious crime spree over the last few months. I’m proud (?) to say I was first to have my office burglarized, although the resulting hours spent on the telephone with credit card companies did not make me particularly happy. Since that time most of the neighborhood churches have been robbed of cash, equipment and other valuables (right at this minute I can’t think of anything else valuable in the church building, unless you count fake flower arrangements, a category in which we are very wealthy. Very). The DC police have been working on it; last I heard the detective assigned to the case was on vacation in Florida.

Well, I am happy to report that just yesterday, in between the hectic and demanding work they perform nonstop, several Calvary staff members solved the crime. (We only employ talented, multi-tasking staff at Calvary. “Other duties as assigned,” you know.)

There was a strange man in the building who claimed to be “helping unload equipment.” Turns out he was, in fact, unloading equipment . . . into his backpack, to be exact. The quick-thinking, crime-solving Calvary team whipped out the church digital camera and took the man’s picture as they escorted him out the door and called the police. (This is not his picture, in case you were wondering.)

I’m sure that it is only a matter of time (whatever length of time until the detective is back from vacation, that is) until the perpetrator is apprehended, thanks in large part to the picture that was taken and has since been identified by church staffs all over the city.

The photograph, that is, plus the completely filled-in tax return listing name, address, telephone number and social security number inadvertently left by the man in his hurry to vacate the premises.

I wish I had checked before we turned it in as evidence . . . I’ve been wondering how exactly you list “stolen goods” on your annual tax return . . . ?

I’ve met some really interesting folks through the interweaving of church and blog life. One is Tripp Hudgins, whose blog is at this link: http://www.anglobaptist.org/blog/

As you might imagine, I like Tripp’s irreverent approach to life. I also like that one of my wonderful new church members, Amy Dale, recently moved her membership from Tripp’s church in Chicago (thanks!).

However, in the throes of Holy Week last week I visited Tripp’s site and encountered this list of 12 Characteristics of an Effective 21st Century Pastor:

1. The ability to maintain personal, professional, and spiritual balance.
2. The ability to guide a transformational faith experience (conversion).
3. The ability to motivate and develop a congregation to be a “mission outpost” (help churches reclaim their role in reaching new believers).
4. The ability to develop and communicate a vision.
5. The ability to interpret and lead change.
6. The ability to promote and lead spiritual formation for church members.
7. The ability to provide leadership for high-quality, relevant worship experiences.
8. The ability to identify, develop, and support lay leaders.
9. The ability to build, inspire, and lead a “team” of both staff and volunteers.
10. The ability to manage conflict.
11. The ability to navigate successfully the world of technology.
12. The ability to be a lifelong learner.

Excerpted from When Better Isn’t Enough: Evaluation Tools for the 21st-Century Church copyright © 2004 by the Alban Institute.

I am tired. So tired in general, but especially after Holy Week. I really hope I can show up for work with my hair brushed; some days I’m not too hopeful for “develop and communicate a vision,” you know what I mean? I have to believe Tripp understands this and was not intentionally trying to make me cry in desperation, because he also posted this passage from the book of Job right before the list, and that helped put everything into perspective.

Some days we’re communicating a vision, and some days we’re just sitting in the ashes. My deepest conviction and most heartfelt prayer is that it takes a little of both to be an effective 21st century pastor.

Hats off to this funny lady . . . I had to reprint a blog entry she wrote called “Ministerial Attire,” which, as you may know, is a personal interest of mine. Who knew, however, that an entire blog could be devoted to this topic? A good, long laugh was most welcome today.

“I had occasion to talk about dressing for the ministry with a group of seminarians recently, which was a kind of fulfillment of my secret desire to host a show like “What Not To Wear.” You’ve seen it, right? You trust and love Stacy and Clinton, right?I was a bit nervous about leading this session because I did not want to come across as hopelessly shallow and/or judgmental, because who am I? Just a little fat chick with a penchant for Franco Sarto shoes and liquid black eyeliner.But they LOVED it, and we had such fun analyzing outfits, talking about the necessity of a good tailor, the comfort in having some classic, timeless pieces in the closet, why not to wear casual sandals while officiating weddings or funerals, and why not to preach in drippy sleeves (you might set yourself on fire during some chalice ritual). We talked about hair and make-up and panty hose and the Norelco nose hair trimmer, which is your friend.We determined the following truths:

1. If you insist on wearing sandals, have a pedicure. Men, too. Feet are intimate. We do not want your hairy fungus toes near us at a meeting, and we do not want to see them peeking out of the bottom of your vestments. We know Jesus wore sandals. He probably also bathed once a month, and you wouldn’t do that to us, would you? Also, he is Jesus. You are not.P.S. This does not give you permission to simply add socks to your sandals.

2. Don’t be afraid to accessorize!P.S. Don’t over-accessorize. And don’t get too matchy-matchy. Your necklace does not need to match your earrings and shoes. Gentlemen, what do I have to do to make you stop wearing bolero ties? Nothing says “Hey, what’s your sign?” like a bolero tie. If you don’t live in the Southwest, we should not be seeing any bolero ties on you, unless you’re wearing them ironically with an otherwise very spiffy outfit from the 21st century. [They're called bolo ties. Sorry.]

3. We are living in an extremely beauty and body-conscious culture. You do not need to dress like a sexless, shapeless being. You can be a human being with a body and not go overboard into “sexy.” Ladies, it’s high time to lose the long, shapeless A-line skirts. They’ve been OUT since 1985. Anything above the knee, however, is too short.

4. Church going is an entirely voluntary option in today’s society. In most parts of the country, no one will look askance at you if you do not attend church. So clergy can no longer slide by assuming their and their congregation’s relevance to today’s world. If clergypeople believe their ministries are hip and relevant to today’s world, they should look hip and relevant. Even if you wear a collar, you should have a hair style of some kind, and there’s no need to persist with those aviator frames you bought in 1972 because they looked so good on Lee Majors or the guy on “Welcome Back, Kotter.”

5. If you wear a chalice necklace, there’s no need to wear chalice earrings. And vice versa.P.S. Sticking a chalice around your neck does not mean you’re “dressed.” Did you shine your shoes? Are your pants appropriately hemmed? Did you check that your blouse isn’t gaping at the bosom? Are there sweat stains at your armpits? Have you asked anyone you trust if your perfume is too strong? Have you trimmed your beard and if necessary, your eyebrows? (Milo O’Shea can get away with crazy stickin’ out eyebrows. It just makes you look eccentric and distracts from your eyes). Have you cleaned your spectacles and gotten off the smudges? You know you were up ’til 3:00 a.m. working on your sermon. Your congregation shouldn’t be able to tell. That’s why God made ice packs and concealer (which works just as well on male skin as on female).

6. Just because you’re on your feet a lot does not mean you need to move into Cobbie Cuddlers. Women, heels are not just a torture implement designed by the patriarchy. They are also elegant as hell and very much in fashion. A little 1″ heel won’t kill you. I can stand around all day and run for the bus in my 2″ pointy-toed Franco Sarto cowboy boots. They look smokin’ and they’re comfortable. My personal rule is: I don’t get into orthopedic shoes (or the rough facsimile thereof) until I’m eligible for Medicare.

7. Eyebrows! According to my very small sampling, 50% of female ministers over 40 have invisible eyebrows due to gray or just fading. Eyebrows frame the face. Invest in a $1.99 Maybelline eye pencil and experiment. You’ll be glad you did. Men, see my above point about Milo O’Shea.

8. I know we’re feminists who believe everyone is beautiful without make-up and facials. I agree wholeheartedly. However, without make-up, my beauty resembles that of Ernest Borgnine. As Sister of PeaceBang says, “You don’t have to wear your political convictions.” If you look fresh, vibrant and camera-ready from the pulpit with nothing on your face but Ivory soap, God bless you. I require a bit of concealer, a luminizing powder from Revlon on the cheekbones and eyelids, blush, lipstick/gloss, mascara and eyeliner. I also pencil in my brows (see #7). You know why? I am a PUBLIC leader. Which means that PEOPLE need to look at me. If only *I* (or my mother) have to look at me, I’m gorgeous with a freshly scrubbed face.Wait, scratch that. Even my mother would say, “Sweetie, you need a little lipstick.”

9. T-shirts are OUT. Again, you don’t need to wear your political convictions. If you’re 22 and have a great figure, maybe you can rock that “Free Leonard Peltier” shirt under a fitted blazer with a pair of bootcut black trousers, but if not, then not. Unless you’re meeting with the youth group, in which case they don’t know who Leonard Peltier is. Get with it.

10. If you’re clothes-phobic and you have no idea what looks good on you, or what basics to shop for, take a friend.

11. So, would it kill you to look at a fashion magazine once in awhile?”

Read more at www.beautytipsforministers.blogspot.com

This song has wandered in and out of my life for some time. Most recently a friend emailed me the words . . . appropriate thoughts for this new day.

Blessed Easter.