Bloomfield Christian Church

Snow

2010-12-01T09:20:00.002-05:00

Snow is my favorite form of H2O. Not that I have anything against water, ice, steam, or fog - each is valuable and appropriate to its place and season. But there is just something about snow, something about the soft playful descent of unique flakes, the semi-random patterns of gathering on the ground, the way it highlights trees and shrubs, the beautiful blankets it makes on rolling hills - it quiets my soul, and stirs a peaceful joy within. Perhaps most of all, I am in awe of the simple way that snow conveys lightness and warmth, in a season marked by cold and darkness.

It is just like God, part of his unique artistry, to bring random flakes of grace from unseen places on high, dancing down into a world braced for long nights and shivering days. God has a way of stirring our hopes and warming our hearts, with the simplest of gifts, given in unique form. Perhaps your grace, and your love, like God's, takes a variety of forms, in diverse times and seasons, bringing simple smiles and deep reminders of happiness to people all around you.

It also strikes me that snowflakes, like people, are known for their uniqueness, the distinctive patterns of shapes that make each flake interesting on it's own. But in the combined effect of many many flakes, gathered together, each flake seems to lose its distinctiveness, blended in to a surprisingly beautiful blanket of comfort and tranquility.

If you'll excuse the word choice, the church at its best is a gathering of distinctive flakes, each unique and interesting in its own right, but blended together into a beautiful fabric of shared grace, generous comfort, and deep remarkable joy.

May the peace of Christmas, and the love of Christ, shower tranquility and warm comfort into your season. And may you gather often with other flakes, caught up in blankets of transcendent joy.

Merry Christmas.

-- Brother Tom

Convictions

2010-11-01T18:18:00.002-04:00

Just in case you haven't already heard, I announced on Oct 17 that I will be completing my service as pastor of Bloomfield Christian Church as of the end of this year. A very wide range of thoughts and feelings fill my heart and mind regarding this decision, and in no way was it an easy one. For nearly nine years, I have had the privilege of being your pastor, of sharing my thoughts with you on Sunday mornings, of being with you from time to time in hospital rooms and funeral homes, at weddings and through divorces, at births and through deaths, sharing joys and sorrows, walking together with you along trails of many kinds. To say that these nine years have changed me would be a severe understatement. Certainly I have been challenged in ways I could never have foreseen. The relationships formed here have reached and molded my heart in ways I could not have understood before.

As those of you who know me know well, this experience has been one to test my self-understanding in significant ways, forcing me to face my limitations at levels I had not known. You have been patient with me, understanding and accepting of my weaknesses. And God has been gracious, proving again and again His ability to use imperfect instruments to do work that only He can conceive and understand. The notion - graciously affirmed by many of you on many occasions - that my words and ministry have sometimes provided blessings to you - that notion fills me with humble satisfaction and overwhelming gratitude for the opportunity to be a part of your lives.

A significant part of this decision is my renewed desire to return to school, to study more, to earn a PhD, and ultimately teach. This has been a deep dream of mine for 34 years, and it seems that the time has come to take that step. Your encouragement and support in this pursuit have been priceless to me, and I will always be grateful for the many ways in which you have strengthened my spirit and my resolve.

Transitions always come with mixtures of pain and sorrow, and indeed I will miss my weekly connection with you. But transitions also crystalize convictions, and I will leave firmly persuaded that this is a good church, that you are good and loving and caring people, and that God will continue to love you and bless you, and to love and bless others through you.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

-- Romans 8:38-39

Peace be with you.

-- Tom

Dreams

2010-09-30T08:32:00.004-04:00

The first law of thermodynamics is that energy is neither created nor destroyed. It is always there; it simply changes form. Sometimes I wonder if the same can be said of dreams.

Waking or sleeping, dreams seem to appear out of nowhere. They fill our heads and hearts with awesome images, both beautiful and frightening. And almost as quickly as they appear, they fade away, rarely retained in much detail at all. But like the mist of a morning fog, perhaps they simply change form, and reappear in playful afternoon clouds, and again in the rose expanse of sunset.

The energy that inspires our work, fuels our passions, strengthens our resolve, and gives meaning to our most tedious efforts - the power that propels us forward each day - often manifests itself in dreams. Richly envisioned possibilities, beautifully adorned imaginings, deep sweet internal longings - these are the mists that motivate, when cold hard objectives lose their appeal. These are the enduring images that refuse to yield to frustration, that adapt and shift to withstand every earthquake, that persist in whispering timeless truths when everything else is just noise.

Each phase of life, each season of each year, bears witness to death and birth, growth and decay. Yet each is a part of the other, as morning is to night. As we age, we are often tempted to put away childhood dreams, box them up in the attic, not bothering to remember in which box they are stored. But dreams don't stay in boxes. They pass through walls of time and circumstance, reinvent themselves in creative ways, and introduce themselves to us again as a renewed old friend.

Some of my dreams from 34 years ago have reappeared in recent days. I recognize them, although they have changed a bit. They still have that old familiar charm, the special aura that stirs my soul. I know I can't grab them, like some leprechaun thus obligated to grant me my pot of gold. But I'm watching them, paying attention to them with renewed interest, more confident now than ever before that they are here to stay.

What were your dreams? How have they transformed? Where are they now? I know they're not gone. You may not see them now, while focused on the concrete urgencies of each day. But they are there. Close your eyes for a while, and open them again with renewed vision. Pay attention to your dreams. They are here to stay.

"I will pour out my Spirit on all people.

Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your old men will dream dreams,
your young men will see visions.
Even on my servants, both men and women,

I will pour out my Spirit in those days."

-- Joel 2:28-29

More Time

2010-08-07T09:42:00.002-04:00

June wanted me to finish this by yesterday. I had a pretty bad case of writer's block going, and couldn't get it done. So I fretted, and stressed, and tried to push myself a little harder, to no avail. Creative juices were not flowing, and I couldn't turn the valve. Finally, I surrendered to humility, texted June, and asked for more time. She granted my request, with her usual grace.

Then I had to laugh at myself. What an amazingly powerful woman June had become in my mind! She had the power to enforce a rigid deadline, requiring of me immediate results, regardless of my state of mind. She had the authority to revoke my privilege of publication, to declare that my procrastination was unacceptable, that anything I wrote today would be rejected, scored with a big fat red zero, because it was turned in too late. I had made June my grader, my evaluator, my judge, the one upon whose opinion my success and self-esteem would depend.

But June knew of a different kind of power. She knew the power of grace. She had at her fingertips the capacity to lift my burden, to ease my stress, to open up windows of enlarged opportunity, when I felt the walls closing in. She had at her disposal the words that would seem to create time, to put more sand in the hourglass. And she chose to use them. She chose grace.

I know it sounds silly, and I don't mean to make too much of a simple matter. But that's what stress does; that's how anxiety works. They make too much of simple matters. They amplify consequences of small failures. They exaggerate risk. They take schedules and deadlines and turn them into dungeons. They take disappointments and shortcomings and turn them into condemnation.

It is sad that so many of us so often see God through the distorted lens of anxiety and stress. We see him only as grader, evaluator, and judge. We expect him to use his infinite powers of perception to detect our every flaw and shortcoming, to bleed red ink all over our papers, with harsh words of criticism and condemnation. We fear his sentence, as he may judge all of our efforts to be inadequate, unacceptable, too little, and too late.

But the blood of Christ sends a different message. He did not bleed to condemn - we were already condemned. He bled to redeem. He bled to deliver. He bled to save. He bled to lift our burdens, to ease our stress, to rip down barriers to our happiness, to open up pathways to enduring joy. The power of the cross is the power of grace. And God has chosen - continues to chose - to give it to me and you.

We simply must do the same. We must cease using our red pens to critique and judge and condemn the errors and shortcomings of the people around us. We must use the blood that pumps through our hearts and veins to bring warmth and life to those we touch. We have more power than we realize. We have the power to lift burdens, ease stress, and open up windows of enlarged opportunity. We must chose grace.

... So next I turned and asked God if I could have a little more time. More time to deal with all the stuff I haven't dealt with yet, more time to learn and grow, more time to rest and think, more time to feel and breathe. He smiled, and laughed, and told me he would give me all the time I need, all the time there is. He offered me eternity.

... Now if I could just think of something to write about ...

The Way the Ball Bounces

2010-06-02T22:25:00.003-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the unpredictability of life. Perhaps this is because so much of my consulting career revolves around forecasting and anticipating probable risks and opportunities, and because that is so fundamentally difficult to do. Even more likely, it is because so much of what happens each day surprises me. Things bounce and curve in ways I simply didn't see coming, which is in itself neither good nor bad, just a bit unsettling.

This is the season of many sports - baseball, tennis, golf. And I've been talking to my old life coach, Scott, about spin, and how it plays in each. Spin seems to represent the dynamic of unpredictability. Picking up the rotation of the seams on a curve ball, in order to try to anticipate its movement. Adding topspin or sidespin to a serve, to keep the opponent a litle off-balance. Hitting a drive with just the right draw or fade, to suit the contour of the fairway, as well as the eye of the golfer. Artistry, creativity, and personal interpretation all play a free-form role in the application of and response to spin.

In every task, no matter how ritual or routine, there is an implicit need to see the spin, to recognize the unique foreshadowing of imminent movement. In every effort, there is opportunity - indeed, undeniable impulse - to add unique personality, to apply creative force, to influence the bounce, beyond initial impact. And it is precisely the unique individual creativity that each of us adds to our work - the spin we put on the ball - that makes things a bit less predictable (and a bit more challenging, and perhaps more fun) for the people around us. In a sense, each of us has this amazing opportunity to participate in the glorious unpredictability of creation, to pour new wine into new wineskins, to draw new pictures and write new songs, to spin the world around us in a slightly new and different way.

On the receiving end, we simply need to be ready, and watch closely. Rather than be thrown off-balance by things that don't go as planned, by events that unfold in unexpected ways, and by words and gestures that weren't in the script, we need to learn to expect the unexpected. We need to look for the rotation of the seams on the curveball, to prepare for the bad hop on the uneven ground, and most of all - if we can - to watch with childlike joy and fascination, as the crazy spinning balls bounce and dance.

Stay ready.

-- Brother Tom

His compassions never fail. They are new every morning. -- Lamentations 3:22-23

Places To Be

2010-05-06T08:28:00.004-04:00

I've got things to do, people to see, and places to be - and that is how I like it. I know, I know - it can be overwhelming at times: too many irons in the fire, peanut butter spread a little too thin, burning the candle at both ends and in the middle too. Many of you, like me, experience the struggle of an overly-full life. The fatigue, exhaustion, and loss of joy that accompany that condition are both common and chronic, and we need to continue to encourage each other to simplify, release, and focus our precious attention on fewer, more enduring things. But that doesn't mean we should become idle, passive, and withdrawn - that's not a worthy vision. We all want to be fully alive, vibrant, actively engaged in the world around us. So how do we stay engaged, without yielding to exhaustion?

The key insight that has been helpful to me in this battle over the past few months is the radical notion that I can trust my heart. When the heart leads well, the list of "things to do" becomes not an array of "ought"s or a stream of "should"s, but a banquet table of possibilities, a bucket list of promising adventures. When the heart leads well, the group of "people to see" becomes not an angry mob of demanding patrons, but a fellowship of friendly faces, a rolodex of replenishing encounters. When the heart leads well, the map of "places to be" becomes not an overbooked itinerary, but a guided tour with scenic views, a long walk down an inviting avenue. When the heart leads well, the most deeply desired blessings of life take center stage, unhindered and uncrowded by trivial obligations and pestering demands.

I've got things to do - things that I love to do, things that I long to do. I've got people to see - people that I love dearly and enjoy being with, people that replenish my spirit. I've got places to be - places that are beautiful and interesting, places where I feel at home and at peace. Next Sunday, I will be at church, with you, worshipping God. Because that is one of my favorite places to be, some of my favorite people to be with, and my favorite thing to do. May your heart lead you well - to places, people, and things that nourish your soul.

-- Brother Tom

Gathered and Dispersed

2010-04-02T16:53:00.002-04:00

I just spent the last few hours going through email for my brother. As most of you know, he's living in a part of the world where one has to be careful what one says, and unfiltered email traffic can be problematic - so I'm his filter. When I first agreed to do this, I had no idea how many friends my brother had, in how many different places. We have now "trimmed" the list down to 271 "subscribers", and I've already heard back from people in Japan, Honduras, the Dominican Republic, and all over the U.S. It's been pretty cool to read the wonderful things people say to (and about) my brother, and it kinda got me thinking. He's probably in one of the most isolating careers there is, having lived on four different continents, in quite diverse cultures and language settings. And yet, he strikes me as one of the most well-grounded people I know. He has raised his children in an environment of perpetual change and unpredictability, and yet, from all indications, they are remarkably stable and well-balanced. Hmmm.... perhaps "rootedness" is not strictly based on geography. Perhaps "connectedness" and "isolation" have little to do with "place", and much to do with "person".

There is no small irony present in the way Easter is celebrated, in churches around this country and around the world. More than any other day of the year, people will gather in houses of worship on Easter Sunday, because - at some level - that is the "place" they feel they should be on that day. Not to be overly cynical (but still transparently honest), for many simply "being in church" on that day makes them feel "connected" to the church, even if only in a superficial way. Even if they don't know the other people there, and don't particularly care to get to know them, "being there" is important to them.

This irony is that the gathering of a crowd to celebrate Jesus has a lot more in common with the story of Palm Sunday (and the so-called "Triumphal Entry") than with the story of Easter. The crowds that gathered to cheer his arrival in Jerusalem - waving palm branches, shouting "Hosanna", and all the rest - had completely dispersed within a week. Even by Friday, the only crowd gathering around Jesus was the one yelling "Crucify Him!" By Sunday morning, crowds had scattered, friends had betrayed, and the scene became one of isolation, desolation, and emptiness. (More along the lines of what the typical church looks like the Sunday AFTER Easter.)

I don't begrudge those who wish to gather for worship - on Easter, or any other day. But as I look through the email from my brother's friends - friends who have "stuck with him" across the years and across the continents - I can't help but wonder how many worshippers tomorrow will seek the right "place" to worship, and neglect to know the people they worship with, or - more to the point - the "person" whom they gathered to worship. Just wondering "out loud".

Happy Easter, my brother. Wherever you are, wherever you go, I am with you.

-- Brother Tom

It's Just a Hat

2010-03-03T23:31:00.003-05:00

Today I had a really, really good day. Really.

For almost the whole day. Almost.

It started early this morning, when I awoke in my hotel room at 5 am (VERY out of character) with an idea. I suddenly knew how to solve a problem that had frustrated me for hours yesterday, and had been hanging over my head for six weeks. I got up, logged in to my computer, made the appropriate modifications, and watched it work - exactly as I knew it would.

Off to such a good start, I went ahead and got showered and dressed, and drove into work. The long list of unsolvable problems that had been handed me just yesterday now seemed like a simple grocery list. I ticked off the items as the solutions emerged, as if lined up on the shelf awaiting my grasp. Fielding phone calls, text messages, emails, and instant messages from coworkers and customers in four different states, I never lost my momentum. Even the nervous urgency of the phone call that interrupted my lunch - a high-level client with an unclear request and an unrealistic deadline - didn't distress me; I knew I could help him, and I knew I had enough time. And I did... with five minutes to spare.

But it wasn't just that the tasks were going well; it was the relationships. In fact, it was primarily the relationships. Every heavy conversation also included levity, every sad truth was accompanied by comic relief, every concerned frown was transformable into a relaxed smile. And I felt at every moment that I was surrounded by friends... and I was. Serendipitous interruptions of electronic encouragement, playful thoughts punctuating a continuous connectedness, a virtual cloud of camaraderie and fellowship followed me throughout the day.

And it got even better. A short 90-minute drive on a warm, moonlit evening brought me to a half-way point where I met our oldest son, Ryan, for a long and jovial steak dinner. He had had a really good day, too. In his own words, the best day he could remember. I can't remember every seeing him this relaxed, confident, and thoroughly happy. It was wonderful to be able to share this day with him.

It was a terrific day. Almost all of it.

On my way back to the hotel, I heard from a close but far-away friend who wasn't feeling well. Chest pains, with shoulder pain, too. Wasn't at all clear how serious - somewhere in the broad range from "take two asprin" to "call 911". I tried to offer encouragement and wise counsel, but I won't know until morning what course events have taken. It's a very helpless feeling, to be so far away, so powerless to solve the truly important problems, unable to provide the help that is really needed. Everything I had accomplished today suddenly felt small and insignificant. Thoughts and prayers gush out, with hopeful confidence that God will protect and sustain. But God knows that we still feel helpless and weak; God knows our hearts.

And then there's my hat. It's embarrassing even to mention it. Trivial, silly, inconsequential - especially in the context of what is happening with my friend. But... I think I may have lost my hat. You know the hat - the one Debbie got me for Christmas. It's a Tilley. I wasn't sure I would like it at first, but it grew on me quickly. I've never gotten more compliments for anything I've ever worn. The security guard at work tells me every single morning, without fail, "Nice hat!" And Debbie picked it out, because she thought it would look good on me. I actually feel handsome, when I'm wearing my hat.

And I think I may have lost it. Sadly, it wouldn't be the first time. A few weeks ago my secretary was kind enough to retrieve it from the restaurant where our staff has lunch every Monday. Debbie has picked it up a couple of times, at church or a restaurant, after I have walked off without it. I think it is my own absent-mindedness that is so embarrassing, so humbling. As many complex mental tasks as I tackle and resolve each day, you would think I could learn to keep up with my own hat.

I called the restaurant where Ryan and I ate tonight. Twice. A very kind and patient young lady explained that they had looked everywhere, even under all the benches, and the hat is not there. She took my number anyway, just in case. I called the gas station where I stopped for gas, thinking maybe I left it in the men's room, though there's no conceivable way I would have set that nice hat down in a gas station men's room. They checked; it wasn't there. I drove back into work, thinking maybe in my excitement to go meet Ryan, I could have left it there. I even prayed on my way that it would be there, as if asking God to put it there, even if that wasn't where I left it. It wasn't. Next I drove by the Mexican restaurant where I had lunch today. It was already closed. I tried to peer through the windows to see if someone had left it at the cashier's stand, but I couldn't tell. I'll stop by and check tomorrow. I really hope it's there. Really.

How fragile a thing a good day is. Three days ago I stood and preached about how all the "stuff" in the world was worthless rubbish compared to the joyous privilege of being a child of God. And today, here I sit, anxious about a hat, like Jonah fretting over his withered gourd. Perhaps the hat is a symbol, a metaphor of sorts. It represents all the good things in life that I would like to keep - knowing all along that all things perish. It represents the things that I would like to keep track of, to stay on top of, to remember always - painfully aware that I often forget. And, in a way, it represents the people I care most deeply about, and who care deeply about me. And if I can't even do what it takes to hang on to my hat, then how in the world... well, you understand.

Before I send this to June tomorrow, I'll check in on my friend, and let you know what I find out. And then I think I'll go by that Mexican restaurant.

I know. It's just a hat.

-- Brother Tom

Next morning: my friend is doing okay.

God is good.

(Still don't know about the hat.)

Start Over, Again

2010-01-01T08:55:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-04T07:47:00.004-05:00

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

2009-10-27T23:36:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-02T00:06:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-03T20:45:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-30T21:02:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-10T16:52:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-23T19:16:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-01T09:07:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-04T14:53:00.001-04:00

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

2009-03-03T21:57:00.005-05:00

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

2009-01-26T10:30:00.001-05:00

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