Here's Looking at You

In a recent sermon I said that there’s nothing all that miraculous about love at first sight. What is the miracle is that someone can continue to love you after 20 years of looking at you.

As my partner and I celebrate our 20th year together I’ve been thinking about this a lot.

I know that there are people who question just what it is that V. and I share. We still have the occasional disagreement. Sometimes we shout at each other over things, that in the great scheme of life, make absolutely no difference whatsoever. There are still the off days in which we are cranky, ill-tempered and downright bitchy to each other.

I have a bad habit of being snappy when she can’t read my mind.

Over the years she has seen how frightful I can look first thing in the morning.

She’s brought me any number of capricious requests when I’m sick and whiny – mostly just to shut me up.

She’s supported me as I’ve looked for my calling and tried to make a living that made sense to my soul. In 20 years she’s never complained as I’ve worked:
- at a workout facility
- in an insurance office
- as an elementary school teacher
- in graphic arts
- in marketing
- at a t-shirt place
- as a missionary in the United Methodist Church
- mowing grass
- back in graphic arts
- as a janitor
- as a pastor

Some of my jobs have cost her a lot. She lost her sense of place as we were forced to move. She lost a lot of her privacy as we moved into a church parsonage as she became a “pastor’s spouse.”

In spite of all my flaws and eccentricities she continues to look right at me – sometimes right into my soul.

We might have lost a lot of things in 20 years together. Not much the other thinks or does is very surprising anymore. There aren’t a ton of topics of conversation that we don’t know how the other will respond. We know a lot of the minefields to avoid stepping into.

But there’s another assortment of things to take the place of what we’ve lost over the years.

A pot of coffee on a Sunday morning, shared as we watch the birds in the feeders with no conversation being needed – just companionship and quiet. We don’t have to wonder any more what the other’s motivation is at any particular moment. There’s no price that can be placed on trust earned over what seems like a lifetime.

So, as we prepare to enter our 21st year – here’s looking at you (still!)

Our Dog has Issues

Our dog has issues.

Besides her ears.

She’s a prime candidate for The Dog Whisperer. She’s wasn’t properly socialized as a puppy before we rescued her from the Humane Society, so everything scares her. Her tail, which is long like a German Shepard’s, but curls up into question mark, frequently causes her much distress. When we’re at home it’s constantly wagging, but if it touches something when she’s not looking, she’s a candidate for resuscitation.

Sometimes I leave my bookbag in the kitchen overnight. Earlier this week, at 5:30 a.m. when I stumbled downstairs to take her out, she nearly made ME a candidate for resuscitation when she stood in the dining room with all her hair standing on end barking at something in the kitchen. I thought we were goners – ax murdered for sure. . .”goin’ to the morgue in my pajamas” kind of thoughts racing through my head. . .

“Just protecting you from that dangerous, stripey bookbag Mom!”

Thanks Sophie.

Over the last few months I’ve noticed another of her issues coming out.

She has a particular affinity for people in pain.

Being pretty shy, when folks come to our house to visit, our dog doesn’t do much interacting. She barks and then keeps her distance. Except for those who are hurting. Emotional pain – pain just below the surface, seems to be her specialty. Within minutes, she’s sitting at the feet of someone who needs comfort, shoving her wet nose into their hands and laying her head on their knee. If allowed, she’ll slowly slink her 60 pound body up into their lap so that she can lay her head on their shoulder.

At first, I wrote it off to coincidence. Then I began to watch more closely. If there are a dozen or so people in the group, she’ll make her way to the one who needs her most. If no one appears to be in pain, she spends the evening at my feet.

Occasionally I have taken cues from Sophie about who needs a phone call or an encouraging note.

One night, someone was at my house who was in an emotional crisis. Sophie had never really liked her all that much, having spent about a dozen Wednesday evenings with her. This particular night the woman was feeling very sad and alone. She arrived to talk, and immediately Sophie was right there, soothing, calming, and comforting her. She spent the entire evening that way.

Sophie hasn’t had anything to do with her since. “No need to Mom! She’s OK now. . .I’ll let you know if there’s anything else she needs!”

I guess it isn’t the fact that and ordinary mutt with a curly tail and big brown eyes can discern another’s pain that I find to be so amazing.

It’s that she’s so willing to just wade right into the middle of it, offer them a grip on her question mark tail and tow them back into safer water. No questions asked, no bill in the mail.

Change and Cardboard Boxes

Our little church is changing.

We’ve been worshipping together on Sunday nights for something over three years. We started as a little Bible study that had big dreams for a church where anyone would feel welcome – young people, older people; gay people, straight people; physically challenged people. . .you get the idea.

We wanted to be the church a lot of other churches claim to be, but from our particular, individual perspectives – aren’t.

Our little church is changing. We’re not quite so little anymore.

It used to be easy for me to keep up with everyone. I knew the ins and outs of people’s struggles. It was an informal system where nobody really fell through the cracks too often. The informal system just doesn’t seem to be working so well these days.

The task of what fulltime pastors get to so vaguely call “pastoral care” might be a lot easier for me if I didn’t work two other jobs. The church is my calling but working in graphic arts and swabbing toilets pays the bills. (Another janitor in the congregation calls herself a “DNA Specialist.” I like that!)

I’m starting to realize that if I don’t do something different soon, keeping up with the spiritual needs of the congregation is going to become a point of great stress for me. The questions are what changes should I make and how to implement them. Those questions inevitably lead to examinations of how much change is good and productive and at what point it is just bringing on more stress.

I don’t mind change. I just have to remind myself to replace old habits with new ones every now and then. Seems that the old grooves that have been worn in my brain are the ones that come back so conveniently.

An example:

One night about 14 years ago we were cooking dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m a “clean kitchen cook” – I do all the dishes as I go. This particular night there were a lot of dishes because we were cooking something kind of intricate. So, there was a sink full of cold, greasy water. You know, with the chunks of food floating in it?

I decided it was time for new water so I reached down into the sink and pulled out the drain. Below me, there was a funny sound. Reaching down and opening the door of the cabinet, I saw that the curved pipe had completely come off of the straight pipe running down from underneath the sink, and that all the nasty grey water was running right down into the floor of the cabinet!

That pit of the stomach “what the hell am I supposed to do now” kind of feeling kicked in. Being somewhat organized, I had a cardboard box full of cleaning supplies under the sink.

What a relief!! That stinky water wasn’t running all over my kitchen floor! The cardboard box was catching it all!!!

I allowed the sink to drain fully and I carefully pulled the box out from inside the cabinet. Another problem immediately reared its head however. The cardboard is rapidly disintegrating in my arms and in a split second I have an important decision to make. . .

What does one do with a cardboard box full of garbage water?

This is where the old grooves that had been worn in my brain kicked in. . .

Reason and experience and habit and the mindset that “I’ve always done it this way” took over and I think you’ve guessed it by now. . .I poured that box full of water right back into the sink and down the broken drain.

I should have just taken it and poured in on the floor. . .that would have saved me from feeling so foolish. . .

At least I can laugh at myself. But this story comes back to haunt me in the moments I think about doing things the way I’ve always done them. It’s starting to haunt me now when I fear that individuals are disappearing from lack of care in our little community.

I have a few ideas. Could we envision a spiritual mentorship program that somehow would make congregational connections that don’t need a “pastor” at their center? Could we make the concept of the “priesthood of ALL believers” something that has flesh and bones in our midst? It might work. It might be a disaster. I’m willing to try.

Ideas and change are good. Just keep a cardboard box handy.

To Be A "Pastor"

Last Wednesday I went into a United Methodist bookstore looking for funeral resources.

Never feeling like I’m smart enough or prepared enough to deal with whatever is around the next bend in the road is one of my deepest insecurities. Not feeling like a “real” pastor is another one. This trip to the bookstore managed to encompass both.

I got to the counter, lugging what had turned into a whole PILE of books (most of which I just had to have because they looked so interesting and had nothing to do with funerals!). The very friendly clerk asked, ever so nicely, if I was a pastor – they give a 15% discount if you are.

I said no.

Let the insecurity begin.

What exactly qualifies one to be a “pastor?”

Here’s the official Merriam-Webster take on the matter at hand.
“Etymology: Middle English pastour, from Anglo-French, from Latin pastor herdsman, from pascere to feed: a spiritual overseer; especially: a clergyman serving a local church or parish”

When 20 or more from our congregation gather in my dining room on Wednesday evenings and pore over what we call the clobber passages in the Bible and wrestle with Scripture and push each other, am I not serving as a herds(wo)man?

When we gather on Sunday evenings for worship, am I not feeding and stoking spiritual flames. . .or at least trying?

When we go to the church basement after worship to share food and conversation, doesn’t that qualify as pascere?

When I sit with people – when I hold people, who are so wounded that they can’t fathom that God could possibly love them, isn’t that seeing something that God wants SOMEONE to see?

It’s that last clause in the definition that trips me up: a clergy(wo)man serving in a local church or parish.

Good old Merriam-Webster to the rescue again. Clergy: a group ordained to perform pastoral or priestly functions in a Christian church

I once heard someone (who is ordained) describe job security for clergy – the only difference between “them” and “us” is that they have the spiritual authority to make bread something more than just bread during Communion and make water something more than just water during baptism.

Forgive me for my impertinence, but isn’t it GOD who does that?

And there is my dilemma. When I look into people’s eyes and when I speak their names as we break communion bread together, I’m just the conduit. God gives the grace.

When I baptized a woman who had endured unspeakable abuse and was terrified of the water, yet chose to be baptized by immersion – what role did a human being play in that? When she came up out of the water and found a new source of strength and power that she didn’t know her gut contained – what role did “clergy” play in that?

I want to be a conduit. If you need to call me “pastor” I suppose that’s OK too.

Still doesn't answer that question about the 15% discount though. . .

What's In A Name?

There are 45 pine trees that surround my home. To be more precise, there are 45 blue spruce trees that form an outline around the two acres that our house sits on.

I think there's a deep seated human need to be encircled.

When we were little people we knew that when we were hurting all we wanted was for someone to hold us until the bandaid was on the skinned knee. All we really wanted was for our mother's arms to assure us that nothing more was going to hurt us. And we were honest enough – perhaps brave enough – to ask for what we needed.

Now, as big people we rarely have the courage to be truthful with ourselves about what we need.

The 45 pines around our property comfort me. They tower 50 or more feet into the sky. They've been there since 1880, when the house was built. They build semi-transparent "walls" between our house and the neighbors. They moan and sway with the wind. They have been through every kind of trauma that the weather could send their way. Incredibly, they are all roughly the same height and there are no gaps in the outline where a tree has died or been replaced.

These trees remind me of the best of community: encircling, shielding, alive, accessible, enduring.

These trees, for me, are the physical manifestation of the arms of God. These "arms" are encircling, shielding, living and are enduring for me.

I pastor a small church of people who have been marginalized by traditional Christianity. We're trying to learn to be all the things the 45 pines in my backyard can teach us about community and can teach us about God. It's not easy. We try to be gentle with each other. We are learning to be more gentle with ourselves as well.

Welcome to my blog. I'm not sure where we're going. It will just be one day at a time. Learning about community together.