On disappointment

When you answer the call to serve others, it puts you on a roller coaster of emotion. You learn to expect the highs and lows. You buckle in for the ups and downs, each experienced with great intensity.

Celebrations are often met with pettiness.
Big promises co-exist with deep betrayals. 
Achievements become bedfellows with indifference. 
High aspirations get stuck in the slough of despond.
Every mountaintop descends into a valley.
Every baptism is followed by a funeral.

Today I am feeling deep disappointment. Painfully so. Were my expectations too high? Or was I so full of myself that I couldn't see what was going on? Both, certainly. And it hurts.  

I know about let-downs. They are always scheduled about three hours after the cheers. Acclamations disperse and the sinister voice of self-doubt whispers, "See? All that preparation, competence, and devotion did not matter." A murky cloud rolls in, and we cannot see the glowing faces of those who were awakened or transformed.

The human condition does not help. One of my go-to Bible verses is overheard on the lips of Jesus on the cross. The Crucified says, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." (Luke 23:34) That phrase "do not know" comes from a Greek work signifying cluelessness. It's our condition. We don't see the whole picture. We get it wrong. We miss the holiness in front of our eyes. We dismiss the Light from the vantage point of our own darkness.   

And if there is a Tempter, he is the one who keeps rolling over the same refrains in our ears. A sleepless night can be punctured by, "You deserve better than this." Justifications are cataloged. Self-righteousness becomes a resolution. Muted anger develops into a belly ache.

Is there no health within us?

Today, I choose to replace the dark refrain with another. It appears three times in Psalm 42-43: "Why are you cast down, my soul, and why are you disquieted within me?" I will repeat that one until it can perform an exegesis on my heart. Or an exorcism. 

In praying these words, I might moderate my own bitterness and claim the rest of that blessed refrain: "Hope in the Lord, for I shall again praise him, my help and my God." Nothing is ultimately about me, even if today I am hurting.

And I'll be OK.

Three Who Taught Me Ministry: Rev. Sheldon Seibel

As I prepare to retire from 42 years of pastoral ministry, I reflect on three pastors who were part of my early formation. This is the second installment.

His signature was on the front page of my second grade Bible: Sheldon Seibel, Pastor.  A graduate of Yale Divinity School (1952), he would have been a hundred years old last year. My memories of him are slim, but we are often influenced by others even without realizing it at the time. 

What I remember most is the day he wore blue jeans to a Saturday morning class at the church. It was a shock. As far as we knew, he slept in the same dark business suit that he wore on Sunday mornings. It was hard to believe a minister lived on the same planet as the rest of us.

I cannot tell you how much that simple fact affected me. The pastor did not live on a cloud. He did not walk three feet off the ground. He did not dictate how we should live - and then hide out of sight. He lived among us. Fully incarnational. Just like Jesus.

One night, after sharing a few margaritas, my father confessed he didn't agree with every sermon he had heard from Rev. Seibel. Two years before the pastor signed my Bible, he had marched in Selma with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He talked regularly about it. No doubt it was a transforming moment for him, even if it took a while for my dad and many others to catch up with his passion for justice and goodwill. 

Sheldon Seibel was a witness to righteousness. He believed this life matters. Like the biblical prophets, like Jesus himself, he declared fairness is holiness, equality is God's gift, and all people are worthy of love and respect. As I reflect on my spiritual growth, his engagement with the powers and principalities planted a seed in my own faith. 

Nearly thirty years after he signed my Bible, my first collection of sermons was published in 1996. I dedicated the volume to him, tracked him down, and sent him a copy. He replied with an exceedingly gracious letter. "I had no idea you were in the ministry," he admitted. Then he  added, 

"When a bit of the vibrant and graceful past comes to knock at your heart there is most of all a sense of wonder about our influence upon one another in this rich and sometimes troubling existence which God has given us . . . I am touched that my Owego service contributed to your growth and development in the Christian Faith. I think I can risk saying I'm proud of you."

We don't always know how we affect others. Sheldon Seibel served our home congregation for eight years. The church folks did not remember him with a marble plaque on the sanctuary wall (nor should they). But his name is inscribed on my heart. 

And I still have that Bible. 

Three Who Taught Me Ministry: Rev. Edgar Frank

As I prepare to retire from 42 years of pastoral ministry, I reflect on the three pastors who were part of my early formation. This is the first installment.

In my home church in Owego, New York, there is a plaque on the back wall of the sanctuary. It memorializes a pastor who served the congregation for thirty-eight years. Rev. Edgar Frank was thoroughly old school. He prayed to “Thee” and “Thou,” preached formal sermons, and offered long prayers. He also phoned church members on their birthdays. There wasn’t much else for him to do – no programing, no staff development, no real community engagement. He was our Christian-in-Residence, a Protestant rabbi who strolled beneath the maple trees. My family remembers him fondly from the days when we moved into town.

One of our Sunday School teachers suggested with a snicker that the pastor was buried behind the marble plate. That seemed a little creepy, even if it was untrue. The clear inference was that it would always be Rev. Frank’s Church – and that he would never leave those walls. With that feeling in the air, it was no coincidence that the next pastor who followed him stayed only a short handful of years. Who would want to follow a saintly predecessor who was perpetually looking over his shoulder, even from the grave?

According to the New Testament, the church belongs to Jesus Christ. Only Christ, who outlives us all. Pastors come and go. Some pop in for a short stint, others tarry a while. Presbyterian clergy are not subject to the needs and whims of bishops, who might yank them around like pawns on a chess board. And there’s that whole “listen for the call of God” thing. I’m sure Rev. Frank wondered sometimes if God might have nudged him to depart for greener pastures. Yet he stayed. He dug in and stayed.

It was a remarkable tenure. Three years after he began, the stock market tanked and a global depression began. Then a second world war broke out in his fifteenth year. American optimism surged after the war was won, yet the last decade of his tenure brought its own challenges. IBM built a huge facility outside the village, bringing an influx of highly skilled engineers and dramatically changing a small town in a rural county. This coincided with a national reckoning of the aftershocks of slavery. While far from the front line of the civil rights struggle, our monochromatic community was shaken.

Pastoral ministry takes place while a lot of other things are going on. I give thanks for the Rev. Edgar Frank. My childhood pastor kept pointing to Christ’s work of redemption and reconciliation in every season of his work. His faithfulness kept him grounded as the world kept changing. He served his people with perseverance and grace. His life has been a model for my own, even though I am thoroughly convinced the only marble tablet bearing a minister’s name should be a tombstone. It should be the same size as everybody else’s. The church belongs to Jesus, not to anybody else.

The funeral that hardly anybody attended

"What did you say his name was?" Bob. 

"Not sure I remember him." Ah, the short memory of suburban life. My fellow consumers don't always know nor recall the people behind the scenes who make their lives possible.

Bob's name has been on a highway sign for decades. He selected a neglected section of roadside that he would adopt for cleanup. Even after he moved to Indiana for a while, he returned to pick up burger wrappers, aluminum cans, and the other detritus that human locusts leave behind. Not that many people noticed.

We worked together for a few years. It was a reciprocal relationship: Bob was the church sexton, I was the pastor who left messes. I left lines of powdered sugar from my donuts, Bob vacuumed behind me. We laughed about it. He claimed my messiness was intentional. I told him that I was committed to his job security. 

He was a jack-of-all-trades, naturally curious, and committed to solving problems. Our church building has always been in continuing need of repair. It is used hard, and "Safety First" was Bob's motto. He took his life's work seriously. An E.M.T., he saved a lot of lives, often in dire circumstances. He was an elected official, a stockroom manager, and a comedian with a bone-dry sense of humor. And he would do absolutely anything for anybody in need.

When he passed, his only child apologized that the family was small and the funeral would be poorly attended. "No matter," I replied. I was there to bear witness to the Gospel. To announce to the world that Bob's life mattered, that he was significant, that he was loved, that he was appreciated, that he lived and died under the promise of resurrection.

This is what pastors do. It is one of the honors of our lives. And we do it joyfully. 

What did you do on your vacation?

In the last note, I wrote about a good vacation - and we had one. As hoped, I enjoyed ten days that felt like a rehearsal for retirement.

And yet, it wasn't as quiet as I had hoped. Here are the work-related issues that found me while I was away: 

• A young mom reached out to schedule a baptism. Hooray! 
• I received four notices of the death of a member who moved away many years ago.
• The daughter of the deceased requested a funeral for her mother. Completely understood!
• A couple who didn't know I was away asked to meet and plan their upcoming wedding.
• I was notified about a guest organist for an upcoming worship service.
• A church member with significant financial need asked for assistance.
• Someone whom I've not seen for a while asked to meet for coffee and conversation.
• A controversial presbytery decision prompted texts, emails, and long phone calls.
• Two different church members reached out to schedule meals with me.
• Two of the lay pastors that I mentor asked to meet with me.
• Two friends in far-off states wanted to discuss the early retirement of a national church leader.
• The sanctuary piano needs a fall tuning and I forget that I agreed to set that up. 
• Volunteers for a church program needed me (?) to connect them to one another, even though I don't manage the program.

As I survey the list, there are a few items that (a) I did to myself, or (b) could not be neglected. I get that. Yet the ubiquity of text messaging and cell phone calls makes it difficult to be away. And a pastor who needs to be needed is easily hooked. 

I will share this list when our church leaders create a transition team this fall. By writing all of this down, it's obvious that I carry a lot on my shoulders, even when I'm officially off the clock. In months to come, I will need to be gracious and clear in giving it all away.

Lord, have mercy.

Rest is the Condition for Restoration

A week on the coast is tonic for the soul. We have returned to a favorite seaside bungalow on a beautiful cove. It's quiet. The bed is comfortable. There is a Trader Joe's just minutes away. As we lift the morning shades, we see sailboats and small families of water fowl. The world is rightly ordered.

We are not disconnected, of course. Amtrack snakes along the coast within sight and sound; I haven't counted, but there might be twenty trains passing by each day. The local airport, just a few miles away, has a good bit of traffic in morning and late afternoon, suggesting the flights are for commuters enroute to more significant ports of departure.

My phone has rung a few times, mostly friends buzzing in. E-mail and text messages attempt to tether me to the world I've abandoned. It's just like being on the job. Except I'm not. Not this week. This week is for watching ducks.

Last night, we met a favorite nonagenarian for dinner and pre-celebrated next April's retirement. We chatted quietly in the corner of an ancient inn. Blue Note music swirled in the air and I enjoyed lobster ravioli in the added company of Lee Morgan, Hank Mobley, Wayne Shorter, and John Coltrane. How fun to chew in syncopation!

We stepped out of the restaurant to perceive the sea air is good for flowers. A garden of hydrangeas is flourishing - and so is this unnamed fountain of beauty. No clue what to call it, so it blooms anonymously. Beauty praises the Creator simply by being called forth. The world is better as a result.

The message? Pay attention. Slow down and open your senses. Marvel at those who imagined high bridges before they were built. Savor the crispy halloumi and the raspberry sorbet. Cherish long friendships. Receive fresh insights. Tap your feet. And look.

The primary task for a good vacation is vacating. Stepping out and slowing down. A gentle providence settles on the evening and lingers into the next day.

Now that the news is out

Last Tuesday, I began to announce my pastoral retirement. We put a letter to the congregation in the mail on the previous evening. Then I announced verbally to a gathering of church leaders. Many may have seen it coming, but were in suspended disbelief. 

Of course. It is my retirement, not theirs. And I've been plotting it, even rehearsing it, for a couple of years.

The church will be fine. There is a long runway of nine months before I hang up my pulpit gown on April 15. The board will establish a transition team in the fall. They will ask me to give them a brain dump of things I know and do. An interim job description will be crafted and a transitional minister will be recruited. There is already a shift in the wind. That's OK.

And I will be fine, too. My work with late career clergy for the denomination's CREDO program has helped me imagine a post-congregational life. I will begin with a six month sabbatical from church work, breaking it only briefly to help out a couple of colleagues. Frankly, I need the head space. My brain is prone to clutter. Spaciousness must be claimed.

Not that the future is an empty canvas. My musical adventures will continue. I will reinvest in my relationships with the people who are God-given gifts. Appropriate friendships will continue and wider friendships will develop. There are recipes to try and a thinner waistline to pursue. Just to name a few.

Meanwhile the news is out. The milkweed has left the pod. I'll be using this blog as a way to narrate where the seeds are landing.