Chapters 7 & 8

What do ministers do? 

Lillian Daniel suggests they “play in the band.”   It’s hard to disagree – the New Testament image of the church as the “body of Christ” plainly asserts that the church isn’t supposed to be the realm of superstars – no, it’s a organic system that works best when an assortment of various characters play coordinated roles to accomplish a God-driven outcome.

But a lot of time it doesn’t work that way.  Instead of being an orchestrated symphony of many players working together for a common end, many churches seem to be textbook examples of systemic under-function/over-function.  It’s a solo act, masquerading as a band concert.

In too many congregations, clergy run themselves ragged while the folk in the pews can’t quite figure out whether they have a part to play.  It’s as if all but one of the band members are standing to the side while one hyperkinetic person desperately moves from guitar to bass to drums trying to produce something resembling music. 

It doesn’t work very well.  The temptation, of course (for clergy), is to blame lazy lay folk.  But as often as not, someone DID try picking up an instrument once upon a time.  Upon hitting the first poorly tuned note, however, the “professional” stepped in, politely took over the “axe” and has been playing it (and all the other instruments) ever since. 

Not only that, but in her spare time, the pastor can be heard to complain about her uncommitted people.  Hmmmm…….

Martin Copenhaver’s essay just may suggest a way out of this sorry state of affairs.  Copenhaver assumes that the act of praying can produce prayerfulness – that choosing to care can make one caring – that acknowledging failure can produce humility.

Sometimes we clergy fall into the trap of approaching our work as if its essence were a technical thing which if done with technical excellence will produce….well……excellent ministry.

But I doubt it.  For all of my pastoral life I’ve been inspired (and more than a bit chagrined), by Paul’s admonition in Philippians 4:9 – “Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me – put it into practice.”  On the whole, Paul didn’t lack for self-confidence, but I don’t think Paul was extolling his own virtuous piety when he wrote this stunning line – I think he was endorsing a remarkable kind of transparency and acknowledging that humans mostly grow and are transformed not so much by wonderful and lofty ideas, as by genuine and transparent relationships.  Paul lived his life – the good and the bad (and there was both), for all to see. 

I work hard to be honestly transparent – in good times and bad; on days of admirable achievement and on days of embarrassing failure – in the doing of my pastoral ministry.  It’s easy to do so when things go well, but when they don’t, rather than trying to hide my failure, I ask for forgiveness and seek grace to do better next time. 

I’m a member of the band – trying to play the bass (I think Daniel is exactly right about that) in a way that sets direction and invites cohesion.  I try not to usurp the role of the other players, and when I get my line wrong – I try not to cover it up, or pretend it didn’t happen, but to acknowledge my screw-up and ask the band’s help in getting it right next time.  In so doing, I’ve often found that I’m made better than I am.

Amazing!

Rich Pleva

"So, You're a Minister?" Chapters 5 & 6

The first time I got a taste of the reality of being a minister was when I hadn’t even started seminary. I was talking with the group of women with whom I went to a step aerobics class. While standing in our sweaty workout gear, talking as we often did after class, I confessed that I was planning to attend seminary and become a minister. One of these women (one who I knew to be a college-educated professional), said immediately, “Oh, I don’t believe in women being ministers.” I was so stunned by her comment that I had no snappy comeback. The group just stood staring at each other for an awkward moment and the conversation moved onto something else.

After several of these kinds of conversations (most of which are far more benign), I learned, like Martin Copenhaver in Chapter 6 of This Odd and Wondrous Calling, to avoid telling people what I “do” – particularly on an airplane or other similarly confined spaces. The minute that cat is out of the bag, you can almost guarantee that you’ll be involved in a protracted conversation about the church (and your companion’s uncensored feelings about it) that you’d generally rather avoid.

What I dislike more than the often annoying conversations that erupt from this revelation is the fact that I have to be “on.” I am no longer Nicole Havelka, average airline passenger; I am Rev. Nicole Havelka, representative of church and God and all things holy. I can’t roll my eyes at the passengers who just can’t seem to find a place for their baggage in the overhead bin. I can’t mutter swear words under my breath when I can’t get a connection to the in-flight Wi-Fi.

In Chapter 5, Lillian Daniel tells a version of this story when her neighbor, with whom she used to share beers on her porch, became a member of her church. The friendship (appropriately) went away. She became his minister, which gave her access to her former friend’s spiritual and religious life in new and amazing ways. But, she lost the times of “talking about nothing” on her porch while enjoying a bottle of beer.

Even with all this griping about the loss of “normal” relationships when you’re a minister, I wouldn’t go back. There are few other professions that would give you opportunities to witness to the wonders of the divine in random public places. Not many other people get to talk very often about how their faith is different than the ones people typically hear about on cable news networks. I get to tell people that it’s OK to swear in front of me; that I think that God has more important things to worry about than a few “bad” words that slip out of our mouths. I get to hear people struggle honestly with their faith, trying to make sense of God and the world.

This reality of living a minister’s life simply makes me appreciate even more the people who allow me to just be “me.” Those people are the friends and family who knew me before I was a minister and the colleagues I know through work in the church. They keep me honest and engaged; they tell me if I’m straying from my core values; they tell me quite simply when I’m being a jerk.  Having these supportive relationships are not only good for a minister’s soul; recently, they’ve been found to actually grow the church. In an article published recently by Duke Divinity School’s Leadership Education program, Dave Odom writes about how effective minister leaders are the ones who have vibrant peer relationships.  He writes, “Congregations are more robust, growing communities of faith if the pastor is a part of a robust community of faith. By practicing the essential elements of Christian community, pastors are likely to nurture such practices in others.”

Isn’t this true of everyone? We are at our best when we have the right kind of support, when we take the time to nurture our spirits.

For me, this means that I am more likely to shut my book and have a conversation on the next plane I step onto, opening to the possibility of a holy conversation.

Nicole Havelka
Associate Conference Minister for Youth and Young Adult Ministries

Chapters 3 and 4

Chapter 3

Entertaining Angels Unawares

            So much has been written about church growth, but so little of it with the charm, grace and warmth of Entertaining Angels Unaware. I can’t remember the last time I read something that made me cry, and it may simply be that I am turning to mush in my old age. But Lillian Daniels’ description of her experiences trying to grow her congregation in New Haven did just that. The real beauty of it all is the tears were not tears of frustration or sadness, but tears of joy, joy at the way the folks at Church of the Redeemer were able to employ the tools of friendliness, hospitality and a simple sense of welcome. For many of our congregations, this story has to be an optimistic one, for these are qualities that we possess in spades.

            At the same time, however, we need to hear the rest of the story. Many of us are straddling the third rail as the demographic express comes roaring through the subway station. As folks stare at empty pews and wonder where Ward and June Cleaver have gone, they need to face the sobering reality that Ward and June aren’t coming back. All the friendliness in the world isn’t going to help a congregation whose idea of growth is to put more butts in the pews that look just like ours. As Rev. Daniels’s tale powerfully illustrates, if we are to grow, the folks who will be joining us are going to look a lot more like Tim and Jack than Ward and June. And I, for one, think that is a good thing.

Chapter 4

Learning to Pray

            A couple of days ago, I attended a meeting that was chaired by a good friend and colleague of mine who opened the meeting with a prayer. What a prayer it was! It was warm and human. It was lyrical. It just made you feel good about yourself and your relationship to God. In fact, I am sure that if you were to look up “prayer” in the dictionary, there would be a picture of this prayer right next to the definition.

            Later, I was called on to close the meeting with a prayer and as I stumbled my awkward way through something formulaic and graceless, I thought of an old cartoon. It featured a Native American sitting on a hilltop sending smoke signals. As a few pitiful puffs of smoke rise from his blanket, you can see, off in the distance, the immense mushroom clout of a nuclear explosion. I have long sense forgotten the exact words of the caption, but my sense of it was something like “Gee, I wish I’d have said that.” Well, that’s how I felt as I compared our prayers. Thus it was with sympathy and a sense of identification that I read of Martin Copenhaver’s first halting experiences with prayer as an intentional discipline.

            I’m not sure what the overriding lesson of the essay is, or even if it has anything like an overriding lesson. But here is what I took from it: Prayer is at its best when it comes from the heart.

Tony Stoik

Associate Conference Minister – Western Iowa

Chapter 2

     I imagine the rueful laughter as pastors read Rev. Copenhaver’s heart-pounding, palm-sweating description of trying to greet (and remember the name of!) a new member in the odd and wondrous commotion of shaking hands following worship.

     I remember saying that if I ever bought a new alb, I was going to have great big Captain Kangaroo pockets sewn onto the front – to hold a big tablet for writing down all the “Pastor Jonna, don’t forgets” that came with handshakes after worship and to capture all the notes and scraps and clippings and drawings and single gloves and earrings handed to me after the benediction.    

    

     When I had read nothing more than the title, I remembered a saint from my last parish, Virgil McArthur.  He was faithful in worship (and in life) and always came dressed in his Sunday best.  Each Sunday, it was a gift to shake hands with him and to hear him say – simply, always, “Thank you, Pastor.”  If you will be shaking hands with your pastor this Sunday, I commend to you dear Virgil’s gift!

   Shaking hands.  I never know how much belief to invest in reference pieces explaining the origins of long-practiced customs.  But sometimes even when the explanations are uncertain, they point us toward other truths.  A common explanation for handshaking is that it began as a way for two men to show one another that they were unarmed.  A picture from days of swords and daggers is not quaint in these days as we Iowans find our way through our state’s new gun laws and as we begin to talk to one another about what we feel and think as we take in the horrible news of shootings in Tucson.     

     A plain and earthy thing – shaking hands – that can be so filled with holy grace in church doorways.  We haven’t seen one another in too long awhile, and we begin our way back to one another with a handshake after worship.  We’ve disagreed with one other.  We’ve ruffled one another’s feathers – both unintentionally and very intentionally.  We don’t see eye to eye and yet we offer one another a moment of hand to hand.  And say in this plain and earthy way that we are – in all ways - unarmed.  We say in this plain and earthy way that we are – beyond all ruffling – brothers and sisters in Christ. 

   

      I expect that as we read Pastor Copenhaver’s stories of profound griefs and joys shared in the doorway, we began to recall such doorway moments of our own when heights and depths of human life passed from hand to hand.

     I was especially moved by Martin Copenhaver’s reminder to pastors that the doorway is not the pulpit; that it is the space for more listening than speaking.  If you will be shaking hands with worshippers this Sunday, I commend to you the holy work of listening as hard as you can through all the commotion.

     I’ll watch for you this week to send in your own experiences – odd and wondrous – in the sacred space at the doorway, in the sacred practice of shaking hands.

Jonna Jensen
Associate Conference Minister - Eastern Iowa

Minute 54

Can Lillian Daniel possibly have it right?  Can it really happen in minute 54 of a committee meeting apparently lost to arcane deliberations on preparations for a chili mac dinner that grace can break through?

I suppose it depends on what one looks for – or even what one plans for.

It’s no secret that I chafe at the mind numbing minutia that often passes for important business at church meetings.  It must be evidence of God’s perverse sense of humor (or else punishment – plain and simple!) that one as impatient as I should end up as a church bureaucrat.  Meetings are my professional destiny and it rarely occurs to me to expect to encounter grace in those places.

But it does happen.  A couple years back, toward the beginning of what has seemed an eternal assignment to work on the governance structures of the national settings of our church, I found myself in the middle of an experience of grace.  There was an elephant in the room – at least it seemed so to me.  I struggled – the easy and habitual thing to do was to merely keep my mouth shut and wait until the awkward situation passed.  But for reasons not entirely clear to me, I spoke up.  Maybe it was something as mundane as the awareness that precious OCWM money was being expended for me to be in that meeting room.  Whatever it was, I swallowed hard and named the elephant I was sensing. 

I don’t claim for a moment that my perceptions were “right” or even particularly insightful.  They were, however, honest.  I said what I really felt and perceived, and that (together with others who took similar steps) precipitated ongoing conversations that broached issues of race and privilege that are rare even in a church so committed to diversity and inclusivity as is ours.

Lillian makes clear that she had pretty much checked out of that particular Trustee committee meeting.  I’m not faulting her for that – I’ve checked out of plenty meetings in my life – probably more than she has.  I’ve also no doubt that grace comes unbidden – that the unanticipated moment she describes toward the end of that chili mac conversation is the way grace – and perhaps insight – often comes.

But I’m not content to passively acquiesce to the hope that grace might intrude on boring meetings.  Lillian’s point is well taken and I affirm the reality that God does not abandon us to graceless life even when we participate (and sometimes take the lead!) in the artless and poorly constructed realities of life in the institutional church.  Nonetheless, I do wish to strike a blow for pastoral courage and deliberate intention in the midst of the sloppiness that too often characterizes the way we do church. 

If God is powerful enough – and GOOD enough – to intervene into chili mac conversations, isn’t it even more likely that God might intervene into a Trustee meeting that was intentionally organized with a gentle but firm intention to do the work of the divine? 

Lillian Daniel helpfully reminds us that much of the work of the pastor is situational and resistant to intentional structure.  Even then God’s grace breaks through.  She is playfully reminding us of the prospect of finding joy even in the most unlikely place.  But I hope we don’t abdicate to sloppiness (whether in worship or in committee meetings) in those areas where we do have influence.  After all, if God’s grace won’t be precluded even in the absence of thoughtful intention, think how much it might be experienced in the presence of the same.

How and when have you and your people experienced grace in the ordinary rhythms of parish life?  Does it matter if those rhythms are practiced and intentional or not?  I’m curious about your experience and about your practices. Do you have a “minute 54” experience to share?

In Joyful hope!

Rich Pleva