Start Over, Again

I've always been a big believer in second chances. In my more honest moments, you'll catch me admitting that I very rarely do anything right the first time. One trip to the hardware store is enough to start a home improvement project, but it will take at least one more to finish it. I sometimes attempt crossword puzzles in ink, but only in light ink, and small letters, leaving ample opportunity for revision and correction. My best work in software design usually emerges after the second or third complete rewrite. And since I typically preach the same sermon twice each Sunday, I get an opportunity to rethink and rework it on the short drive up the hill. (Charles accuses me of "practicing" on them, before the "real" sermon with you.)

But these are the little things. I'm a believer in second chances in big things, too. Some of the healthiest marriages I have seen have been second and even third marriages. Many of the most fulfilled people I know have been in their second or third career. Several of the most deeply joyful people I have known have survived near-fatal illness, and are now living what they call their second (or third) chance at life.

We may not always learn from our mistakes, and repeated effort does not guarantee improvement, but I know that the best and most enduring lessons come after failure, or at least after the weaknesses of the previous attempt have been exposed and acknowledged. In fact, I've come to appreciate a recurring cycle of opportunity, where each attempt offers insights and understanding that can inform and enhance the next one. In the software business, we call this "iterative rapid prototyping", where each new version represents the accumulation of prior successes and lessons learned. In philosophy, we speak of the Hegelian Dialectic, where thesis and antithesis give birth to synthesis, in perpetual conflict and resolution.

Jesus spoke to Nicodemus of being "born again", in terms that clearly stunned and confused the educated man. In recent generations, that phrase has been so widely used that it has become little more than a label, identifying a subgrouping of Christians who emphasize individual conversion and global evangelism. Through all the bumper stickers and Gallup polls, I think the image has lost its initial force. Perhaps some fresh phrases could help restore the impact: "return to infancy", "back to kindergarten", "recycled childhood"... you can probably come up with a better one.

Today marks the 51st time I have begun a new year. (I don't remember the first few, but I imagine they were nevertheless significant). There are a few (okay, a few dozen) things that I would like to do better this year than in previous years. There are some things that I will certainly be better at, simply due to natural growth and experience. And, without doubt, I will make some mistakes I haven't made before (as well as some that I have repeated much too often). I have no specific ambitions or "measurable objectives" in mind, and I have no intention of reducing the "value" of this year into some pass/fail evaluation against a short list of resolutions.

I'm just happy to have another shot, to start over one more time. And I'm very happy to have people like you to learn from, and to grow with.

Happy New Year.

-- Brother Tom

"Because of the LORD's great love

we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning."

-- Lamentations 3:22-23

What I Can See

About six years ago, a bright young man whom I had just offered a job, after extensive interviews and a thirty-day trial, told me he wasn't sure he wanted to work for a man with no vision. I hired him anyway, and he did quality work for me for five years, leaving this past summer to attend law school. But the sting of that critique stuck with me. There was just enough truth in it to make it hurt.

Vision has always been an illusive topic for me. Certainly the desire is there -- to unleash prophetic imagination of change and growth, to paint enchanting landscapes of destinations not yet reached, to aim at mountaintops that inspire epic journeys. Perhaps there is an artist within (or at least a frustrated musician) that longs to find that creative medium which can yield unfaltering expression of the grand hopes and impossible dreams that wrestle beneath my skin. But there is also a mathematician in there -- an information systems analyst -- who restrains the artistic musician, by his unrelenting demands for deductive certainty and documented clarity. These two children inside me fight often, disturbing the peace of my restless mind.

In practice, I actually spend a significant portion of my time predicting the future. I compute, analyze, refine, and defend sales forecasts, cash flow forecasts, cost projections, profit predictions, and anticipated rates of material receipts, factory consumption, labor utilization, shop efficiency, and even global currency exchange, as well as the creatively-quantified probability distributions of a legion of risks and opportunities associated with running a manufacturing facility in an unpredictable world. (It's okay if you don't understand what any of those things mean; most of the people who claim to understand them are faking it.) I know how to gaze into a crystal ball and discern what is clear and what is not, and am constantly humbled by an awareness that the unknowns outnumber the knowns, by quite a lot. I sometimes feel like the astronomer who is overwhelmed by all that he can see, but even more overwhelmed by all that he can't see.

I can't see the future of our congregation. You are an unpredictable lot. And for all of my efforts to analyze and understand the subtle dynamics involved, the unknowns still outnumber the knowns, by quite a lot. But for just a moment, I'm going to direct my dominant mathematician to hush, and ask the recessive artist to speak, at least in broad strokes, about what his imagination sees.

I see a family -- a large, complex, sometimes dysfunctional, extended family of faith. I see a very loosely-defined "organization" (if you can really call it that) whose primary function is to help people stay connected to each other, to not lose track of each other. I see an organism that is mostly passive and permissive, allowing members to come and go pretty much as they please, which becomes active and effective when needed -- when a family crisis triggers an alert, or a grand celebration energizes a response. I see a pattern of worship that is deceptively flexible: despite the appearance of carefully-orchestrated assignments, people move in and out of designated roles as needed, almost imperceptibly "filling in" the predictably unpredictable gaps: praying, playing, welcoming, serving, doing whatever needs to be done.

I see a place where people come both to encourage and be encouraged, to greet and be greeted. I see a refueling center where some stop weekly, some monthly, some annually, for ritual remembrance and sustaining instruction. I see a people who are ever growing in their capacity and desire to care for the people around them. I see an invisible network of grace, appropriately centered on God (and not on the church itself), where the church offers facilities, guidance, help, and inspiration to energize the "real" work of ministry, which happens outside the walls and beyond the sight of the "official" congregation.

I see people who are growing in wisdom and maturity, with a slowly deepening curiosity about the ancient truths revealed in sacred texts, and a less self-conscious thirst for righteousness and understanding. I see people growing in faith, developing profound confidence in the trustworthiness of God, despite painful disappointments and discarded dreams. I see people finding acceptance, in a fellowship which often sympathizes and rarely condemns. I see people finding healing, from a wide variety of deep and private hurts, in an atmosphere of slow and patient compassion which demands little and hopes much.

I see people who love deeply, and often quietly, who sometimes hesitate too much to share their burdens, and sometimes worry too much about the burdens of others. I see people who love God, and who know they are loved by God, yet struggle daily to allow that love its full expression.

Like the astronomer, I am wonderfully overwhelmed by all that I see.

I am even more wonderfully overwhelmed by all that I can't see.

-- Brother Tom

Redemption Centers

My mom used to collect S&H green stamps. (If you remember those, you probably qualify for a discount at your local restaurant.) I would help in the surprisingly fulfilling exercise of gathering the stamps into piles, licking them (or moistening them with a wet paper towel, when the novelty of licking them wore off), and sticking them in little booklets. Sometimes I would go with mom to the redemption center, and trade the booklets for something clearly more valuable. The only thing I remember getting was a yellow blender. I remember using it to blend orange juice and ice cream, to make our own version of an Orange Julius. It struck me as somewhat odd that we could buy a blender with a bunch of otherwise worthless green stamps, but if the store was okay with it, so was I. Contemporary coupon-cutters regularly experience the same phenomenon. You don't have to understand the motivational dynamics of promotional marketing to experience the wonder of getting "something for nothing" (or almost nothing); you just need a pair of scissors, or a talent for a straight tear.

(Abrupt change of topic; but I will return...)

I have burned out more than a few brain cells in recent months trying to figure out what motivates (or fails to motivate) people to come to church. To repeat previous strong statements, I do not believe that church attendance is a prerequisite for admission into heaven, nor even that it is essential to personal righteousness. But there is something that draws you here - with more or less regularity - and having been a paid employee of the church for sixteen years (where my attendance is pretty much a condition of continued employment), I fear I may have lost touch with your reasons for coming, with your sense of purpose in being part of this church.

My background and education offered me this structured understanding, that people come to church for one (or more) of four reasons: Bible Study, Worship, Fellowship, or Service. In previous articles, I've revealed some of my thoughts and frustrations about this congregation's apparent "level of interest" (or lack of it) in these traditional cornerstones of church life. After many helpful conversations and considerable reflection, I think I may have discovered an important ammendment to my understanding.

Despite it's somewhat over-engineered organizational structure (our constitution and by-laws identify more leadership positions than we have adult members), ours is actually a very simple congregation. We do not attempt grand programs, nor do we engage in heated debate over competing priorities. We do not energize ourselves in aggressive fundraising, and we do not bombard our members with appeals for more generous donations. We do not see each other as potential assets and liabilities in the pursuit of organizational objectives. While we appreciate the diversity of gifts and contributions made, we tend not to evaluate each other in terms of institutional loyalty or "value added" to the congregation. We tend to do something very different from that.

I don't yet have the words to define this "something different", but I know that it has a lot to do with the way we get to know each other. It's a slow process, sometimes lacking in clear purpose or evidence of progress, but over time, we get to know each other's stories. When I first became your pastor, I was struggling to learn who was related to whom (and in how many different ways). As the years have passed, joys and sorrows have been shared, and I find that I have gotten to know many of you in ways that have surprised me. I have found value and depth in you in ways that have nothing to do with the church as an institution, that have no bearing on any organizational goals. I don't want to embarrass anyone with praise, but I have found some rare treasures buried deep in the hearts of this congregation, and I have been blessed by the discovery. To be honest, I have also discovered usefulness and value in myself that I did not know was there, in areas that have little or no connection with my job description as pastor.

There is a theme here. This simple, amazingly unpredictable process of knowing and getting to know each other is, at its heart, based on the God-given capacity to recognize and appreciate that which is good. We help each other see the value that is not obvious at first glance. We discover in each other the worth that is not readily apparent. At our best, we look past the scar tissue of sin and shame, convey the grace we have ourselves received, and embrace with compassion the healing and growing heart within.

We have been called to be a center of redemption.

Drop by when you can.

No green stamps required.

-- Brother Tom

In The Interim

An old friend of mine from college (Jeff C) just let me know via Facebook status that he's starting a stint as Interim Pastor, on top of his "day job" as a drug-rehab counselor. I've no doubt he'll serve well, and that both he and his church will be blessed by the exchange. (One of Jeff's favorite quotes is from Mary Cosby: ""A meeting of persons is an exchange of gifts." It's a good line.) But the thing that struck me about Jeff's announcement was the odd power of the adjective attached to his title: "Interim". Quite obviously, it means he will hold the position only temporarily, as opposed to those of us who serve in "permanent", "eternal", or "everlasting" ministries. An interim pastor is just the guy or gal who serves as pastor "in the interim", or in between the last guy or gal (who either got fired or "called away") and the next guy or gal (for whom the search has already begun, unless the search committee is procrastinating, which they almost always never do). I've never been an Interim Pastor. Either that, or that's what I've always been, and just didn't know it.

Technically, I guess, all the pastors between the first pastor and the last pastor are interim pastors. Both my brother and my friend Chuck were "first pastors", in churches they helped start. I watched them both ride the roller coaster of joys and anxieties that come with the birth and early growing pains of a new congregation. I don't believe I've known any "last pastors", though I've got a strong suspicion that I may soon become one. I do not know how many more years Big Spring-Bloomfield Presbyterian Church will be in existence, but I've known for some time that I will (most probably) be their pastor on their last day, whenever that may come. I can't see into the future, and we don't know yet what Trinity Baptist Church will do when the Presbyterians close their doors, but I've already been Trinity's pastor for more than half of their history, and I just might be their pastor through the rest of it.

These are thoughts I don't know what to do with. No seminary student imagines a "till death do we part" relationship with a church, certainly not with the first (and second) churches he or she might pastor. But I'm no longer a rookie; I've had a lot of time to think about this. Only the very young and the very foolish fail to come to terms with their own mortality, but rarely do we apply such timeless truth-telling to the institutions we form and support. Churches are not immortal; at least not the ones that have buildings, bank accounts, and board members. Businesses -- like Texas Instruments, Lehman Brothers, Saturn Motors, and someday mine -- likewise suffer the fate of limited life spans, despite our common desire for eternal employment security. We don't usually hold funerals for institutions; we don't have a pattern of mourning or a habit of grieving their loss. As in the last episode of Cheers, we simply turn out the lights, lock the door, and walk away.

Surely there is no reason that I should ever fear also becoming the last pastor of Bloomfield Christian Church. (That would be too much for one man to take.) About half the congregation is younger than me, so I have no fear of outliving all of you. I have every reason to believe that after my departure -- by death, dismissal, or "divine redirection" -- the church shall come together, find another pastor, and continue to worship and serve together for many years to come. Of course it will. Because you care deeply about this church, it's ministry and it's mission. At least, I think you do. I mean, you don't always act like it, but you would act different, if you really needed too. For now, you can go on acting like the church will always be there, whenever you feel like popping in to hear a sermon or some beautiful music, or just to catch up with friends. Someone will always be there to get the temperature in the sanctuary just right (or close to right), to print the worship bulletins, to prepare communion, to take up the offering, to pay the bills, to lead the prayers, to keep the nursery, to teach the children. The church will always have plenty of people to do all those things. Won't we?

Not always. Not forever. Only as long as you care; only as long as your heart is in it. After that, it's time to turn out the lights.

Forgive the melancholy, but I find this truly and deeply important. I do NOT want to be the last pastor of Bloomfield Christian Church. I want to be an Interim Pastor, the guy between the last guy and the next guy. I want to be a part of a congregation that is invested in its own future, focused on its own mission. Clearly I have not been a visionary leader; perhaps you have not wanted me -- or allowed me -- to be one. But I will be honest with you. When I look around me, I do not see the passion, the energy, the commitment to each other and to the mission of the church that I believe is needed, not in sufficient measure to last another generation.

If you see it differently, please say so. I would welcome a brighter, more hopeful perspective.

In the meantime, I will continue to serve you, to the best of my ability, for as long as you and God allow.

-- Brother Tom

Labor Day

After the fall -- that pivotal moment when Adam and Eve faced the consequences of their contrary curiosity -- the curse imposed was two-fold. For Adam, there would be pain and difficulty in bringing forth food from the ground. For Eve, there would be pain and difficulty in bringing forth life from the womb. I wonder if it's a coincidence that we now refer to both difficult endeavors by a common term. We call them both "labor".

Whatever work we do, whether focused on the birthing and raising of children or the cultivation of crops and careers, we have a certain unspoken understanding of the pain and difficulty that comes with it. Nobody ever told us that life would be easy -- none of the honest people, at least. Whether we find the curse of work closely connected to our own sins or inevitably inherited from the sins of our ancestors is somewhat beside the point; we simply learn, slowly but surely, that work is hard, and that hard work is necessary.

Recently I've been struck by conversations about the illusive balance between life and work, as if they were two independent and competing activities. I don't really understand that way of thinking. I could understand (and relish) a discussion of the eternal balance between life and death, and I would happily engage in dialog about balancing work and rest. But I do not see life and work as opposed to each other in any way. Life requires work, whether by direct employment or indirect obligation to one's own desires. Conversely, work enriches life, whether by direct enjoyment or indirect satisfaction of those needs. The two are deeply intertwined. My soul resonates with the ancient truth, "that it is good and proper for a man to eat and drink, and to find satisfaction in his toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given him". (Ecclesiastes 5:18) Labor is both curse and blessing, for it is central and deeply woven into the fabric of fulfillment and satisfaction in life.

For the next five days, I will be retreating from the routines of my work, enjoying an extended holiday weekend with my wife in Chattanooga. I am looking forward to the rest, but not because I hate working or hope to escape its demands. Rather, I find that I work better, more effectively, and more joyfully, when I am well rested. My coach of recent months, Scott, has repeatedly advised me, "don't rest from your work; work from your rest." Rest is best understood as preparation for work, not escape from work, and certainly not broken exhaustion from excessive work.

Labor may be a curse, but Sabbath rest is the blessing that redeems the curse and breaks its spell. Enjoy your rest, so that you may better enjoy the satisfaction and fulfillment of all the good work that you continue to do. I will do the same.

Happy Labor Day.

-- Brother Tom

Unresolved Anxiety

Krista is seven months pregnant. She doesn't know exactly when her first baby will be born, but she knows it will be soon. Her father is in a coma. They took him off life support this week. They don't know how much longer he will last, but they know it won't be very long.

There is a time to be born, and a time to die, and we have very little (if any) control over the timing of either. There is a peculiar anxiety that comes from not knowing, from both eager anticipation and lingering dread. The waiting is in so many ways the worst part. Something deep inside us seeks resolution, conclusion, completion, closure. The unfinishedness of life, whether pregnant with potential or struggling for survival -- or both -- strains our patience with uncertainty, and humbles our proud designs.

The question most frequently asked of me throughout my slow eight-year trek through seminary was, "What are you going to do when you graduate?" At first the honest answer came awkwardly, but eventually with comfortable ease: "I don't know." It is the most honest answer I have ever given, to any question. It's not that I didn't (or don't) want to know the future; I'm as curious as the next guy, and my Magic 8-Ball has been consulted more than a few times. But increasing age has brought with it some improvements in both wisdom and authenticity. I know myself now better than I ever have before, and this one thing I know most clearly and confidently: I don't know much, and much less that I used to think I knew.

***

My article from last month stirred up more response than anything I've ever written. All of the responses were helpful, and all appreciated. So many of you have demonstrated genuine concern, both for the church and for me personally, that I have been deeply touched and powerfully encouraged. Thank you for the many notes, calls, and conversations that you have blessed me with. On top of all that, the events of the last three weeks -- not least among them the youth mission trip to Harlan -- have refocused my attention and stretched my perspective. I would like to report that all of this has made my frustrations fade away -- but I can't. I can tell you that I am now seeing more clearly, and that the things that frustrate me are surrounded by things that are fulfilling, by potential that is promising, and by people who are loving.

My coach, Scott, challenged me recently to spend less time focused on the things that aren't working well, and more time focused on the things that are, trying to keep the two in balance. I don't have the words to express all the thoughts that this challenge has prompted, but let me mention just a few.

(1) Watching six young adults -- and my wife -- devote themselves to the service of others in need, with determined energy and uninhibited cooperations, was deeply inspiring. Being able to participate in the project was, well, priceless.

(2) Learning of Jane's recent fall and desperate circumstance reminded me of the fragility of life; learning of the attentive and caring response of her good neighbors reminded me of the strength of our community, and of the very good hearts of our leaders.

(3) Numerous conversations, over coffee, computer, and cell-phone, with friends and fellow disciples, have rejuvenated my passion for dialogue, my deep desire to share dreams and doubts, hopes and fears, frustration and fulfillment with those who understand and those who desire understanding.

***

I don't know what comes next. I don't know what will become of the frustrations I have expressed. I don't know how our church will respond to the many challenges it faces. I don't know what role you will play in our church's future.

I do know that God is good. I do know that the people of our church, and the leaders of our church, are good people. I do know that I love being a part of it.

I know that to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
I know that God makes everything beautiful, in its time.

-- Brother Tom

Venting Frustration

Anybody who has ever played golf understands that the little white ball rarely goes where you wanted it to. Unlike most other sports, there is nobody playing defense: no defender trying to block your shot, no cornerback trying to intercept the pass, no pitcher trying to throw the ball past you so fast you can't hit it. It's just you, the little white ball, and the big ball of dirt and grass upon which you both stand. Granted, the big dirt ball gets in the way sometimes, but mostly it just provides the gravity that stabilizes the encounter. You choose where to stand and how long a club to use. You control all of the big and tiny muscle groups that mobilize hips, shoulders, elbows, and wrists along a chosen plane. You provide the force and determine the angle of impact. You control almost every variable that dictates the flight path and destination of the ball. And yet, it very rarely goes exactly where you want it to go. When it does, it's exhilarating -- just cause for inward celebration for having mastered all of the intricate internal mechanisms. When it doesn't, it's exasperating -- humbling if not humiliating evidence that your physical, mental, and emotional components are rebelling against the authority of your will. I lifted my head; I dipped my shoulder; I bent my elbow; I lifted my foot; I stood too close to the ball; I rushed the backswing; I chose the wrong club; I misread the green. Whatever went wrong, I did it. I have no one to blame but myself, but my self becomes an uncooperative collection of parts that don't work well together, and I spin my mental wheels spreading blame among the offending parts.

Pastoring a church can be a lot like playing golf. Things very rarely go the way you want them to. Under normal circumstances, nobody is playing defense: no defender is consciously trying to make your task more difficult (though it often seems as if there's an army of them). It's just you, the church, and the world in which you both live. A pastor often sees the church much the same way a golfer sees the ball: sitting passively on the earth, waiting to be struck, lifted, guided to a chosen destination, gloriously envisioned by the pastor. Through green pastures, beside still waters, over shifting sands, and around treacherous hazards, the pastor intends to guide his flock by the passion of his vision and the skillful mastery of all his shepherding skill. You choose the tools, take your stand, and focus all of your energy on the effectiveness of the swing. But it almost never works out the way you planned. When it does, it's serendipitous -- a joyous fulfillment of God's trusted promise. When it doesn't...

I mentioned last Sunday that I have grown quite frustrated. Don't get me wrong: there have been many fulfilling moments, many relationships formed that I value and treasure, many opportunities to walk difficult paths together, many affirmations that strengthen my resolve and confirm my conviction that God has led me to this place at this time, and that He is able to make my ministry here useful.

But if you look at who we are, who we claim to be, why we have come together, and what we claim as our purpose, you might just notice that something seems amiss. Allow me to be specific:

(1) If our purpose is to gather together to worship God, then it is surprising what a large percentage of us are content to worship only when it is convenient, or only when we have a scheduled duty to perform.

(2) If our purpose is to learn and grow in wisdom, then it is surprising how few questions get asked, how little interest there is in deeper study, how many seem content with a weak understanding of scriptural teachings.

(3) If our purpose is to support each other in the warmth of Christian fellowship (perhaps our strongest trait), then it is a bit surprising how shallow an understanding we have of each other's struggles, how loosely connected we are with each other, how little effort is shown to befriend the stranger, to visit the sick, to carry the invitation of communion and community to those outside our walls.

(4) If our purpose is to serve our community (perhaps our weakest trait), then it is quite surprising how little evidence we have of organized effort to that end, how many seem content with directing a few dollars to fund someone else's work.

Of course, it could be that I have simply misunderstood my role. Perhaps in a congregation historically accustomed to student pastors, it is the congregation who is the golfer, and the pastor who is the golf ball. Perhaps you see the purpose of the church as one of providing funding, guidance, and encouragement to some young, ambitious minister, so that he or she may go do the "work of ministry". Perhaps you see your task as one of striking your pastor with just the right club, to send me off into the community and throughout the congregation to minister on your behalf: preaching, teaching, counseling, serving -- with your full and enthusiastic support. (The more I think about it, the more I must admit -- this seems to be what is happening.) Perhaps you are the ones more frustrated, because this golf ball rarely goes where you want it to.

I'm going to need to think this through carefully, and I sincerely hope that many of you will do some deep thinking as well. One thing I know for sure: if you had told me eight years ago that you wanted me to be a golf ball -- that you wanted me to do the work of ministry, so that you don't have to -- I never would have taken the job.

Frustration is a tough enemy. Please work with me as I attempt to deal with it.