Talk With the Preacher

I’ve been pondering how to write about this week I’ve had, which has perhaps been the hardest ever in my professional career.

Actually, in my life, pretty much.

Until now, I couldn’t seem to find a handle for writing my feelings down . . . the details of the week are too raw and too tender to put into words.

Thank goodness for my colleague Mary, who reminded me of one of the many powerful experiences we’ve shared over the course of this week. Remembering this experience gave me a way to think about this whirlwind in which I’ve been standing:

It happened late last Thursday night, when we left the ER at Children’s Hospital after spending several long hours there. Mary and I, along with our colleague Allyson, were making our way across the dark parking lot toward the car, all too tired and too numb to really say very much.

There was nothing one could say, really, so we mostly walked in silence.

I don’t think any of us heard the chopper approach, but we live in Washington DC where the sight and sound of helicopters is nothing notable. So it seemed a little sudden, the rushing wind.

When the wind started, though, we realized we were right in the path of an approaching emergency medical helicopter trying to land on the helipad about 100 feet in front of where we were walking.

As the helicopter got closer the wind picked up, rushing and whistling by us, growing and growing until it became almost violent. Gravel from the parking lot stung my skin and I shut my eyes tight to try to protect them. My hair was whipping around my head, and it felt like the wind would take my coat off all by itself.

We stood there, as firm as possible, feeling like we’d blow away at any minute.

And then the wind died a little. The helicopter landed right in front of us and we watched as ER personnel rushed in to unload a patient.

Then, we kept walking in the darkness toward the car.

The thing about pastoral ministry that never, ever stops surprising me, is the curious and sometimes utterly fear-inducing way my job ushers me into the most unthinkable moments in human life. I find, in times like these, that I’m getting better about putting on my “pastor’s hat” and doing my job. The choking sobs come later, when I’m home; my job is to stand as firm as I can and hold out a hand to help us all hang on.

But the wind . . . the violent, bone-chilling wind of human suffering . . . takes my heart and batters it right along with the battered hearts of those I find myself holding up, praying and crying with . . . .

Wind, strong violent winds have been blowing this week.

We stand here, as firm as possible, trying desperately to remember the God who reached out his arm and said, “Peace, be still.”

And it was.

Please meet the tremendous people with whom I spend most of my professional life. I write about them sometimes on this blog, and when we finally got together for a group picture I thought I’d share with you all a little about why I love them so much.

Front Row (l to r):

Edgar Palacios, Associate Pastor of Christian Education and committed peace activist, Pastor Edgar was one of the founders of the National Debate for Peace in El Salvador. He also is a really good soccer player.

Allyson Wisdom is disarmingly cute but don’t let her fool you. Allyson is one amazing, committed young woman who works tirelessly for her Horizons kids. She also turned 23 yesterday but the rest of us try not to think about that.

Harold Ritchie, church business manager, often looks like he’s asleep, but don’t let this picture fool you. Harold is a fabulous cook and spends a lot of time taking care of the rest of us. Spring means his garden is underway and I fully anticipate being the beneficiary of his efforts.

Back Row (l to r):

Eric Bebber, whose office nickname is really embarrassing, makes a striking Missions staffer, wouldn’t you say? Commissioned and supported by the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship, Eric sticks his sunglasses in his shirt a lot so we all remember how stylish he really is.

Church Administrator Paul Rosstead is the wind beneath our wings and, we feel, is probably genetically related to Jesus. Or at least the disciples. Paul handles the running of our building with a calm that, come to think of it, is really rather scary. And, while Paul has been known to have questionable fashion taste, he has made significant progress in the last few months.

Cheryl Branham is Calvary’s exceptionally talented Music Director. Cheryl is a fabulous pianist, but she’s also an incredible director. If you sing in Cheryl’s choir you suddenly begin to think you actually sound good. Cheryl teaches piano, too, and she does not like it when duct tape is put on the grand piano.

That’s me, next, with my braces for all of you who sent in requests for a photo. For the record, I don’t like the duct tape thing, either.

Mary Andreolli, our Director of Youth and Outreach, takes seriously the perfection of the “I am so cool” stance. She’d never want you to know this, but she is not that scary in person. Plus, you’ll note she has a very trendy haircut. Mary loves thinking deeply about social justice. Mary loves thinking deeply about, well, pretty much everything. She’s teaching me to love and appreciate introverts for the unusual, exotic creatures they are.

Al Jeter keeps everything running around the building. Yesterday was a banner day for Al, as he discovered that he might not dislike couscous as he’d previously thought. Al’s a really nice guy, but you should meet his son, Randy, who sings like an angel and heads for the Manhattan School of Music this fall.

I give them all a hard time (believe me, they reciprocate) but I know how incredibly fortunate I am to work with such a dedicated, honest, hardworking bunch. They are all amazing.

As usual, a variety of different experiences dovetailed in my life recently, bringing up the same themes over and over.

Some people see these things as the grace-filled work of God’s Spirit.

In my case, I think grace-filled nudges from God’s Spirit often sail right by me . . . this was more like a whack on the head by whichever member of the Trinity handles the difficult cases.

The first thing was that I just finished reading Leaving the Saints this week, which is not a book I would normally read because:

1. The woman who wrote it has made a fortune as a “life coach” and since I am insanely jealous that I did not think of that first I usually am rather dismissive, and

2. I’d read some about the author, Martha Beck, and, frankly, she sounded a little bit . . . well, maybe “unstable” is a little harsh. Let’s just say she’s had a wild ride so far in her life.

Upon the recommendation of a trusted friend, however, I went online and ordered the book from the library. Last week I sat down to read it

. . . and I cried all the way through.

(FYI, it takes a lot to make me cry while I read, with the notable exception of Love Comes Softly, which I dare you to read without tearing up.)

Beck’s story is one of abuse and secrecy, lies and instability, organized religion and genuine faith. Anyone who grew up in any tightly knit religious community and/or felt abandoned or betrayed by that community on any level can certainly relate to her story.

Okay, okay, some parts of the book, I’ll admit, were a little woowoo even for me, but in the end I have to say: this is a searing and heart-wrenching accomplishment of the task of telling one’s truth for the end goal of healing and hope.

And then, in the middle of reading this powerful book, I had the opportunity to join some friends to view the documentary film Shut Up and Sing.

I was pretty excited about seeing the film, and also a question and answer session with the film director, Barbara Kopple.

Plus, I love the Dixie Chicks’ music and all that.

In other words, I want you to know that I did not waltz off to the movie theatre last Thursday with the intention of uncovering any deep spiritual revelations (back to what I was saying about a whack on the head).

I have to say that the film itself and the comments of the director at the conclusion of the film made me start thinking long and hard about the cost of telling the truth about something, and the freedom that naming the truth can bring.

Sure, the Chicks have plenty of money and they could play their music regardless of what people think. But the ramifications of their comments (and, even further, of their unwillingness to back down or give in to a fracture of their group) ranged from CD burnings, a banning from country radio . . . and even serious threats on their very lives. Just for telling the truth as they saw it.

As far as I know, Martha Beck was not banned from country radio, but she’s STILL scared for her life after telling a story that violates a secret in her family and in the church in which she grew up.

In both the movie and the book, though, I heard the same message over and over and over again: the price of telling your truth must be paid. The alternative, you see–dying inside while trying to be someone you’re not–costs so much more.

We’re living now in a season of the church year when we proclaim our ridiculous truth over and over: the Gospel message that love will rule the day, even in the face of pain and even death. I read about it in Leaving the Saints and watched it in full color in Shut Up and Sing . . . come to think of it, I spend most of my life reading about, studying and proclaiming it through the life and ministry of Jesus the Christ.

(Being banned from country radio must be pretty bad, but look what happened to him!)

The Dixie Chicks decided telling their truth was worth it. So did Martha Beck . . . the alternative was certain to keep them in chains.

And as for Jesus, you may recall he had some thoughts on the subject, too:

They did not understand that he was telling them about his Father. So Jesus said, “When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will know that I am the one I claim to be and that I do nothing on my own but speak just what the Father has taught me. The one who sent me is with me; he has not left me alone, for I always do what pleases him.” Even as he spoke, many put their faith in him. To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Just add this one to the topics I must have missed in seminary: “horrible human disasters and how to deal with them”.

Recent events at Virginia Tech have certainly affected the Calvary congregation.

Specifically, three families in our church have members who are currently students, one who lived directly above the women who were shot in the dorm.

Why, why, why?

I am the pastor and . . . I DON’T KNOW WHY.

And I even went to seminary.

I feel just as horrible, just as scared, just as outraged . . . as everyone else.

One thing I know for sure: we clergy are stymied just like everyone else, wondering what to say and what to do, wondering how on earth a horrific event like this could have taken place when we believe . . . we believe in a God of goodness and grace?

Why?

I am asking the same question as I think about my kids at school every day and wonder about the state of this country, where anyone anywhere can pick up a gun and kill, kill, kill . . . it just seems so wrong.

Lord have mercy
Christ have mercy
Lord have mercy on us.

One of his friends called it “the best event in a young boy’s life”. (Who would have thought such an event could happen at church?)

Sammy, my 8-year-old sport-obsessed child and said friend, along with some siblings piled into the car and rode down to church last Thursday, off to see the Wizards.

The Washington Wizards, that is.

Last Thursday four members of the Washington Wizards came to Calvary to serve lunch to the kids in our after school programs. Lots of media gathered, along with about 150 kids and some star struck parents, staff of Washington Sports and Entertainment along with Calvary programming to usher in the re-opening of Abe’s Table.

For many years Abe and Irene Pollin (owners of the Wizards) helped financially support a program to feed the homeless at Calvary. The Pollins are well known in DC for their philanthropic involvement, but I do have to say that I think it takes extra guts for a well known Jewish couple (well, any well-known person, really) to partner with the efforts of a Baptist church (even one as unusually wonderful as Calvary!).

So, when Calvary’s new space opened up and we reassessed the ministry opportunities in our neighborhood, it soon became apparent that reopening a program to feed the homeless would perhaps not be the best way to meet community needs in our changing neighborhood (our program would add a fourth to three already serving a four-block radius).

But the kids need to eat, we thought.

Since reopening the new space, Calvary’s youth and after school programming has grown by leaps and bounds. Part of this is the collaboration we’ve been able to share with resident partners also working with youth: The Washington Theatre Lab, Brainfood, Kid-Power DC and the Washington Youth Choir. Very quickly it looks like we’re living into the prediction of Kid-Power DC’s Executive Director, Max Skolnik, who insists Calvary’s facility will soon become “the premier center for youth programming in the city”.

(A-hem. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.)

But it looks like Mr. Pollin believes in the dream, too, because Abe’s Table has re-opened with the mission of sending all the kids who come to Calvary for after school programming home . . . with a nutritious dinner four nights a week.

Last Thursday kicked it all off, with Abe’s Table T-shirts for everyone and the most delicious fried chicken I have ever eaten in my life. Some highlights of the event were: the unveiling of the new Abe’s Table sign; the sight of all the kids gathered in one place, tangible evidence of the lives involved in these efforts; performance of a rap song written by our after school kids just for Mr. and Mrs. Pollin . . . all of this.

But the best thing of all, the very best thing, was the experience of standing behind the players as they served lunch (they wore tall chef’s hats, in case they weren’t tall enough already) and watching the little faces in front of them: disbelief, awe, hope . . . all radiated off those faces, heads craned all the way back to look straight up.

It made me remember what it was like to see the world from a kid’s point of view, with all the possibilities and promise that life has to offer. Life will probably stifle that soon enough for those kids (and in the cases of some of these kids I can’t believe they can still summon looks of wonder and the possibility of hope) but for this one day they followed the Wizards around with eyes as big as the plates that held their mashed potatoes.

(As for my children, they reported with glee to their father at dinner that night: “Man, Mom looked short up there!”)

Later I got to thinking: maybe Max was right. Perhaps this experience was “the best event in a young boy’s life”.

But it was also pretty notable for the girls . . . for those who are not so young . . . for the many who have believed and invested in youth ministry and programming at Calvary for years and years and years . . . and even for the huge business of professional basketball.

Thanks, Calvary staff and partners, the Washington Wizards and Mr. and Mrs. Pollin. Together we’re making those little looks of hope and possibility even more common in lives that rarely have cause to look up with wonder. And that possibility, those looks of hope, are better even than fried chicken served by Antawn Jamison in a chef’s hat.

In fact, the experience the Wizards created . . . well, it was almost like magic.

The Washington Wizards don’t just make occasional, press-worthy appearances, either. Not too many folks know the players and staff are regular volunteers working to serve dinner to the kids in our programs. That’s putting hands and feet to faith, I say. Want to be part of the effort? We need committed volunteers in the late afternoon and evenings Monday through Thursday . . . believe me, you’ll get more than fabulous fried chicken; you may even be the recipient of a few of those incredible little looks of wonder. Email Director of Youth and Outreach at Calvary, Mary Andreolli, for more information about how you can help.

Posted here as a tribute to my very talented brother-in-law, Mark Lane. Deep spiritual meaning eludes me at the moment; feel free to add your deepest spiritual reflection on the new movie, Blades of Glory.

I totally stole that phrase from another church.

Or should I say, “borrowed with the highest sense of gratitude”?

Sinners, repaint! was appropriate for us, not because we’re sinners here at Calvary (that’s another issue) but because the Care and Upkeep Committee of Calvary Baptist Church mounted a successful campaign this last weekend to repaint Kendall Hall.

Having recently undergone major renovations, most of our church facilities look great. The part that we used to death while renovating, though, has been seriously in need of a facelift for some time. After hearing a cost estimate of $12,000 to repaint the space, the Care and Upkeep Committee felt suddenly called by God to guilt all the rest of us into spending a weekend together getting paint in our hair.

With military precision, Church Clerk and resident architect Phil Renfrow managed painting equipment, doled out jobs and scanned the walls for missed spots.

Care and Upkeep Committee Chair, Kevin Hagan, on the other hand, was the cheerleader of the weekend, inspiring us by various efforts including but not limited to: Starbucks coffee, regular lectures on why we were doing God’s work and many opportunities to hear him sing along with Air Supply.

It was a huge space to paint, but thanks to the efforts of a whole team of dedicated church members (I would have to guess there must have been about 30, all told), by the time the sun came up Easter Sunday, Kendall Hall was newly painted a cheery yellow.

I have to say, it was fun to hang out with church folks and work together in a common cause. I’m still rather sore from a day of climbing ladders and wielding roller extensions, but I think in the end it was all worth it, as Kevin has assured us all that we each have earned considerably more stars in our crowns than we already had!

And thank goodness for that, as I think crowns would be a vast improvement over bandanas . . . (no offense to Eric and Tanya, who clearly both looked amazing in their bandanas . . .).

The air was crisp, the sun was bright, the crowd was large and energetic. It was worship on Easter Sunday, of course!

Easter Sunday, the Super Bowl of Preaching, my friend Jim calls it, has unnerved me from the very first Sunday I celebrated Easter up front, looking out over the crowd, responsible in some way for leading worship.
I remember processing my thoughts with my boss, the Senior Pastor, the Monday after my first Easter on a church staff. Strangely, I found myself feeling . . . angry. I recall Steven looking at me incredulously (which, as he will tell you, was not really all that unusual over the course of our work together). Yes, I told him, I feel angry. I couldn’t really put it into words exactly, except to say that my job is to help create and build community all year long. When I looked out and saw all those people attending worship, people I didn’t know and strongly suspected I would not see again until Christmas, if not Easter next year, I got mad.

“This is not the church!” I remember thinking. Church is being here Sunday in and Sunday out, all year long, making a commitment to community, not just dropping in because you feel guilty, or your mom is visiting, or it’s the culturally expected thing to do.

Yes, I said that day that I felt rather used and angry.

I looked out over that crowd yesterday morning and saw, not people who are generally too lazy to get up on Sunday mornings every week, but people who took the time to find a place of worship, get dressed up and try something new . . . in a culture where it would have been just as acceptable to trot on down to the White House lawn and chase some Easter eggs.

They came because, on some level, they wanted to hear the story.

My job is still to help create and build community all year long, but I’m no longer angry and I’ve given up feeling performance anxiety. All those folks who come to church on Easter Sunday (the Super Bowl of preaching) come to hear the story because on some level (family, tradition, culture, whatever) the story touches their lives.

I’ve finally realized that the best thing I could do on Easter Sunday is to leave the preaching acrobatics alone and just tell the story. The whole show might not be a total success every single year, but I’m learning.