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