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.

The View From Here

It is notoriously difficult to describe a forest when large trees block your view in every direction. I could describe the trees, but that wouldn't tell you much about the forest; or would it?

When other pastors ask me how "my church" is doing, my thoughts do not turn to statistics of membership or attendance, budgets or offerings. I think about how the people are doing. I think about the ones that I know are sick, or grieving, or looking for a job. I think about marriages that are struggling, parents frustrated with their children (and vice versa), teenagers navigating the drama of dating and the anxiety of adolescence. I think about fifty different ways that fellow worshippers wrestle with how the foundations of their faith inspire, instruct, confront and challenge them in their daily encounters.

Reaching for a broader perspective, I am sometimes drawn into nostalgic reflection and fond remembrance. Tomorrow I will officiate the renewal of vows for a young couple, Hawk and Stephanie, whom I married eight years ago -- mere days after my predecessor, Ken Blanton, was killed in a tragic wreck. I remember how it felt to step into Ken's office, seeing his robe still hanging on the door, as I prepared to perform a wedding that he was supposed to perform.

Then I remember the first day I met Ken, several years before, when he was the new pastor in town. We met in the driveway of Hunter and Jana Shehan, the day their son Kevin died. I was from the Baptist and Presbyterian churches, Ken from the Christian Church, and Hunter and Jana were Methodist; but the Methodist church was between pastors at that time, and denomination didn't matter anyway. Ken brought a quiet sensitivity and mature compassion to that horrible day.

I remember several of the pastors before Ken, too. Randy was a sincere friend. Alan joined me and Dan (the Methodist minister) for fellowship and musical fun as the "three amigos" sang and played at a Campground Church reunion. And, of course, I remember Scott. I met him on my first day in Bloomfield, fifteen years ago, when Alice, the Methodist organist at the Presbyterian Church, introduced this young Baptist to the pastor of the Christian Church. (I was indeed confused.) Scott Kilgore became a friend, an encourager, and an inspiration. In some ways, I still think of Bloomfield Christian as his church. The day he left Bloomfield, Scott asked me to look after his flock from time to time. I'm doing my best, Scott.

And it's not just the pastors that I remember. Most of the last column on the memorial plaque on the back wall of the sanctuary are names of people I knew and buried. Some I knew but briefly, others well and deeply. I hesitate to mention names; it's so hard to keep any sense of perspective when remembering the faces and impact of those who used to sit in that pew, who would always say a certain thing, whose love and influence stretched far beyond any words I can say or recall. But I have to mention Bear. For me and so many others, Bear was something like a High Priest, a constant communicator of the love of Christ and the grace of God. It was a great privilege to know Bear. I miss him.

It is quite humbling to recognize that my journey with Bloomfield Christian Church represents such a large slice of my life, yet such a small fraction of the history of this church. Many great men and women have gone before, and many will likely come after, whose names I will not know, whose contributions I cannot measure. I simply cannot make sense out of my role in this grand history -- in many ways, I do not seem to belong here. Yet God has led me here, and the good people of the church have allowed me to stay, to grow, to journey with them in the pilgrimage of faith. I do not know how much longer I shall be permitted to stay, nor how my ministry here will be remembered. I really can't see the forest at all from here.

But there sure are a lot of magnificent trees.

-- Brother Tom

May Day

When Debbie and I were planning our wedding, choosing the date was among the first steps. She had always wanted to get married on May 1, partially because of many positive associations with May Day celebrations from her childhood in Europe. On the other hand, my father was a pilot. A pilot's associations with the phrase "May Day" are a shade short of positive. (I could just picture myself approaching the wedding with panic echoing in my head: "May Day! May Day!" Not the image I wanted!)

We settled on March 14, primarily because I wanted to be married at least a couple of months before the Army sent us out for training in the summer, but also because I really liked how the numbers turned out. As you know, I'm a math guy, and 3/14 is like 3.14, the first digits of pi, and "pi" matches the first characters of my last name. It was also 14 months (exactly) from the day we got engaged, and we would get married at 1400 hours (2 pm for you civilians). I didn't realized it then, but as it turns out, Debbie was born exactly 3 months and 14 days after I was. I also liked the fact that in that year, March 14 fell between a Friday the 13th and the Ides of March: a good day standing between two traditionally "bad" days. It turned out to be a very good day.

But every May 1, I remember that Debbie has not always gotten what she wanted. She always wanted a daughter; we had three sons. She always wanted our children to be close to their grandparents; we live 500 miles from her parents and 2000 miles from mine. She loves to go the the beach; I love the mountains. She never wanted to be a typical preacher's wife; let's just say "she ain't typical." She rarely complains, but I know her well enough to know that her dreams haven't always come true, and that she has wrestled with disappointment on more than one occasion.

I read long ago that one of the strongest desires in a man's heart is to please his woman. (I get at least three emails a day from marketers who claim they can help me with that.) I believe there is truth in that, but also a warning. I do want to make Debbie happy, and I want to give her the life she's always dreamed of. But I've also learned that any man who makes his woman's happiness the key measure of his own worth is in for a rough ride over tough terrain. The same applies to any woman who thinks it her mission in life to make her man happy, or to any parent who believes success as a parent centers on making your children happy. As strong and beautiful as the impulse is to please each other and give each other good gifts, the truth is that none of us is worthy of being the central focus of another person's life. (Debbie understands this well, and she has helped me to understand it.)

If by chance you have been caught in the futility of constantly trying to please someone you love, only to fail repeatedly and blame yourself for all those failures, then you understand the panic in the words "May Day! May Day!" You need to eject from this flight (not necessarily the relationship) and pray your parachute opens.

If, on the other hand, you have figured out that the only one truly worthy of trying to please everyday is the One who created you, and that pleasing each other is simply a way of sharing the abundance of God's love, then you may well celebrate the bright beauty of this day, with singing and dancing if you like, as a fresh new beginning.

Welcome to the merry month of May.


-- Brother Tom

Final Preparations

Every pastor I know stresses a little (or a lot) in the preparation for Holy Week. Partly due to the added services, partly owing to anticipated crowds, partly stemming from elevated expectations, we all seem to sense an extra urgency during these days.

There's someting ironically appropriate about unusual urgency at Holy Week; Jesus surely sensed it as well. His execution drawing near, he had so much left to do, and so little time left to do it. For Jesus, to "live like you are dying" meant teaching a few more gatherings, spending one more day with those dear friends in Bethany, having one last dinner with the inner circle, and spending some precious moments in deep reflection and prayer.

Life is short. A certain urgency is appropriate in allocating your time and energy. But don't let the urgency rob you of the significance each day holds. Take your time; it was offered you as a gift. Spend it well and fully and wisely.

On occassion, you may need to remind me to do the same.

-- Brother Tom

Missing Pieces

Did you ever near completion of a 2000-piece jigsaw puzzle, only to discover at that late stage that some of the pieces were missing? Or try to play cards with something less than 52 in the deck? Or assemble a bicycle, only to wonder where that leftover part was supposed to go? Whatever the endeavor, I'm sure you know what it feels like to realize that "something is missing."

When Debbie and I were dating, the days apart from each other (at different colleges two hours distant) cultivated a recurring sense of longing, a deep desire for togetherness. After twenty-eight years of marriage, the longing now is of a different sort. Apart for three weeks, it feels a bit like an engine missing on two cylinders, or a bicycle with a flat tire, or walking with one shoe on: it's just not quite right, not what it's supposed to be. It's not that Debbie and I are overly dependent on each other -- Debbie is one of the most independent, self-reliant women I know, and I certainly know how to take care of myself (though I don't always demonstrate that expertise). It's more an issue of balance. I just don't find my equilibrium as well when she's not around. (I suspect she would say something similar.) Certainly I still miss her in sentimental ways, but the deeper truth is that I am simply not at my best without her.

Most loving relationships have that in common. The love that is shared does more than satisfy a longing or fulfill a desire -- it enriches the personality and strengthens the heart. When me miss the love of friends and family, through distance or discord, we are somehow diminished in our capacity to live fully, weakened in our ability to enjoy. When we miss the love of God, through alienation or neglect, our spirits shrink and our courage wanes. You might experience it as a deep longing or a passionate desire, but the more seasoned among us are more likely to notice a persistent imbalance, a vague uneasiness, an annoying unfinishedness.

Blaise Pascal (my favorite philosopher) said it this way: "There is a God shaped vacuum in the heart of every man which cannot be filled by any created thing, but only by God." Nothing else works. Everything else, everyone else, comes up short.

Pay attention to that hole in your heart. It's probably trying to tell you something.

-- Brother Tom

The Pace of Change

A wise professor once shared with me a quirky rule of thumb for managing change in a congregation: the pace of change should be slow enough that the younger and move progressive members are a little bit restless, and fast enough that the older and more traditional members are a little bit uneasy. It sounded as if he were saying (and he was) that if almost everybody was just a little bit unhappy, then you've hit it just about right.

Seven years have now passed since I began preaching at BCC. Considering that through most of the church's history student pastors have filled the pulpit, seven years is quite a long time for us. (If I have my history straight, it is the longest any one pastor has served.) While I wish to claim neither credit nor blame for the changes that have come our way during my stay, there is much that is different here from when I started. A prolonged glance at the memorial plaque on the back wall of the sanctuary reminds me regularly that much of the change has been ushered in by grief and loss. A brief stop at the nursery door on my way in each Sunday morning responds that much change has also come through new life and new birth. Efforts to keep in touch with young adults who were rambunctious youth just yesterday (or was it the day before?) condition me to expect change, even when I have no idea what form that change will take.

Although I lack the objectivity to offer details, I recognize also that I have changed. Gerald reminds me frequently (with that familiar smile on his face) than older does not guarantee wiser, but I sense nonetheless that I am both. Being involved with this congregation has afforded me not only many fine mentors and valued voices of encouragement, but also challenging circumstances and engaging opportunities to stretch and grow, both personally and professionally. This place has been good for me.

I have no doubt that more change is on it's way. Some of it will be by design and determination, some by chance and circumstance. One change which I intend to champion is an adjustment in my communication pattern. I intend to write articles for the newsletters; I intend to lead discussions among the Cabinet (committee leaders) at least quarterly; I intend to meet with elders (perhaps as much as quarterly); I intend to stay in touch and stay available by phone, email, text message, MySpace, FaceBook, and BlogSpot. If you want to stay in touch with me, I intend to meet you more than half-way.

I am old enough to realize that my intentions do not always result in actions, and that my efforts do not always prove fruitful. Chance and circumstance may overwhelm and redirect my energies at any moment. Nevertheless, intentionality is a significant component of constructive change, so I thought I would take this opportunity to make my intentions known. I intend to continue to grow with you.

Feel free to hold me to it.

-- Brother Tom