They're Everywhere

I just found a whole bunch of new people far away from home who have become my good friends. I’m not talking about acquaintances, I’m talking friends. It’s odd that you can bond so easily with folks you’ve just met, but we’re already at the hugging stage. I’m talking about my new friends at a little church in North Port, Florida. It wasn’t even my idea to meet them; it was Ron’s plan that, if we spent some time down here, he wanted to serve the community in some way. So, my daughter in law did some research on her phone and immediately came up with the name of a church that serves a dinner to the hungry every Monday night.

And so Ron made the first connection by introducing himself and offering to do whatever they wanted him to do. The group of church ladies that has taken this on was delighted to show him the ropes. The dinner is small, serving thirty to forty people, and there’s no kitchen in their current building so everything is pre-made and kept warm in roasters. And while it can get crowded in the small space they have allotted, they unapologetically to do what they are called to do.

The first time I went with him, I felt like I was kind of in the way, but they put me to work as well. I sat behind a little table and I was the official “counter.” Every time someone new came into the room, I had to make a little mark on the paper—that’s it, but I sensed that it was a big responsibility. Of course, while I was doing that, Ron was schmoozing with the church ladies and the dinner guests—one of his many spiritual gifts.

We’ve also attended the worship services on Sunday morning that are held in their rented office building. I’m amazed at how they’ve adapted a small room with low ceilings to accommodate their praise band. Generous cups of coffee and baked treats are served in a narrow little hallway just before the service. Everyone knows each other in this small congregation and we were immediately drawn into the group.

Since my tasks at the dinner have been minimal, I’ve enjoyed many conversations with the other helpers, including Pastor Gary. I’ve heard about his postponed retirement goal, I’ve heard about major health struggles and miracles within his family; we also had great discussions on the similarities and differences in our religious denominations. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the solid little group of church ladies that we’re all familiar with who run the show, and have earned the almost fearful respect of the pastor.

But what moved me the most was the strong desire of everyone in that church to have an impact on their community. Free dinner isn’t the only thing offered here; there’s a clothing closet and a food pantry; people are also encouraged to attend “Celebrate Recovery” which ministers to those with “hurts, habits and hang-ups.” Each Saturday morning there is a massive bread give-away. (Apparently when they say “bread,” they mean cakes, pastries, and sometimes other groceries as well. I wouldn’t know—I don’t get up that early.) They’ve been looking for a new building, but staying within their neighborhood is very important to them because of whom they serve.

As Ron and I left the dinner last Monday I was feeling rather emotional about my experience. Ron had just prepared the meal of ham, cheesy hash-browns and beans, but somehow I was thinking that the gift he/we had given and received was not about a meal; it was about so much more. I believe that when followers of Jesus connect with each other, and we serve Him together, we breathe new life into each other as well. We’re not alone in this!

We have so much in common as individuals and as congregations. Many of us struggle with inadequate facilities, over-worked pastors, struggling budgets and unique personalities. It’s okay. Sometimes we do the right things in inadequate ways and we easily lose our focus—but then God sends someone to remind us why we’re here.

It’s hard for me to adjust to new places sometime because I need to connect with others. Other circumstances may have led us to attend a large church when we’re away from home, just out of habit or obligation. But because of Ron’s desire to serve, here’s where we ended up. I love this little church in Florida—they’re my people now—we’re friends and co-workers and I’m going to miss them when I leave. But I know that wherever I go I’ll be able to find more people like them because followers of Jesus are hard to miss.

Take Time to "Wallow"

I think I need to tell my high school English Literature teacher how awesome he was. Plaid sport coats, bowties and a brush cut . . . along with a little smirk on his face—these are the things I remember about him as he stood in front of our class. He was an artist in every sense of the word; he loved the English language and music and for some reason he loved teaching high school seniors, most of whom had no interest in Shakespearean sonnets, much less how to write a heroic couplet .

I remember walking into class one day and telling him that our school choir was singing songs from “South Pacific.” I told him that I loved the song “Some enchanted Evening” and asked him if he loved it too, fully believing that he would tell me it was “schmaltzy crap.” Instead he said, “Love it? I wallow in it.” I’ve never forgotten his totally unapologetic response to a song that, as a seventeen-year-old, I thought was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. (I wonder what he’d say if I told him that a few years later I did meet a stranger that I had spotted across a crowded room, sent someone to introduce us, and we’re still together after forty years. Somehow, I think he’d wallow in that story too.)

For reasons that totally escaped my high school classmates, Mr. Haan made us memorize poetry. There were at least six things he insisted that we recite, including works by Shakespeare, Blake and Tennyson. I didn’t understand the logic behind memorizing these works either, but since it was an easy thing for me to do, I never minded being called up to his desk to recite the latest poem. And guess what? I can still do it, much to the annoyance of my family and friends. In fact, I even learned more than what was required of me because in the process I discovered that there’s something so beautiful about putting words together in poetry.

Shakespeare’s description of love in Sonnet 116 was pretty good when I first learned it, but now it has become beauty and truth borne out by experience. Love is . . . “an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken;” it is the “star to every wandering bark . . .” I’m thinking that a little Shakespeare along with I Corinthians 13 read at wedding ceremonies might be a great idea.

I’ve also thought a lot about Tennyson’s description of prayer when he says, “more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” He describes prayer as a “golden chain” that binds the entire world around the feet of God. I can’t find a more beautiful description than that and I never tire of reciting it. And, speaking of prayer, I can’t think of anything better (other than the Lord’s Prayer of course) than John Donne’s “Hymn to God the Father.” In this poem of confession, Donne talks about all of the possible ways he has sinned, confesses them and ends each verse by telling God that there will always be more. Donne asks God to remind him that at his death, the work of Jesus will be complete and his final sin—the sin of fear—will be gone. I wasn’t required to memorize this poem, but after Mr. Haan explained it to our class, I claimed it as mine. Whenever I fly in a plane—you know during those few moments of take-off when all of those crazy “what if” thoughts go through your head?—that’s when I recite it.

Let me tell you one more thing about poetry that I’ve learned recently. It can get you out of a jam. You see, I love studying church history, creeds and theology—that’s one of the luxuries of my life. However, when I have to write papers sometimes I get stuck with things that seem illogical. And let’s face it, there are things we believe that are difficult to explain and sometimes seem to defy logic. That’s when I pull out John Donne. It’s not that he can explain things any better, but he’s an artist and has the ability to celebrate those things that are incomprehensible. I could write a pretty long paper about the virgin birth, but when it’s finished Donne’s words “immensity cloistered in thy dear womb” speak to my heart rather than my logic. “Immensity cloistered”—I’ll never tire of that phrase.

Donne can’t really explain the Trinity much better than I can, and admits that reason “proves weak or untrue;” yet he can confidently say, “batter my heart, three-- personed God” because “I dearly love you.” He desperately wants all of the qualities of each person of the trinity present in his own life. And that’s what matters most.

I hope that there’s a little poet or a little artist in all of us—I have to believe there is. I know it’s different for everyone, but we tend to push that inner poet pretty far back sometime. I had a teacher recently, who taught a creeds and confessions class, that would periodically interrupt himself and begin to recite an appropriate poem while looking each of us in the eye. Talk about getting my attention! Maybe we should try that more often.

I would have missed lot in my life if I had never learned to appreciate poetry or any of the arts. We don’t always have to be logical you know. A lot of people believe that artists will change the world and I’m starting to think they might be on to something. Whether it’s true or not, I’m grateful for that high school English Literature teacher, and I’m going to continue to read and recite poetry because it’s given me clarity in life, it makes us all like each other a little more, and . . . it has also kept me out of a few jams.

The Time-out Chair

So, did you know that there’s actually a “time out” chair in heaven? I’m pretty sure that’s what one of my commissioned pastor classmates told me. Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but that’s kind of what he implied when he said that my behavior here was going to have some eternal consequence for my husband. No . . . he really didn’t say that either—I guess I better start from the beginning.

Isn’t it amazing what a well-placed “good job” or an “I’m proud of you” can do? And isn’t it also true that one bit of negativity or perceived “judgy” behavior can quickly put doubts in our minds? Affirmations and discouragements—they’ve all taken on many different forms in my life, and have sometimes come from the most unlikely places. I’ve always responded well to praise (who hasn’t?) but one of the things I’ve begun to recognize is that, not only can I respond positively to criticism, I can learn and grow from it and eventually (ouch) even be grateful. When I decided to embark on a new journey a few years ago, I gained a lot of insight and help along the way from those who were my cheerleaders, but also from those who didn’t quite understand.

I’m relatively impulsive, but I usually don’t make major decisions based on a “whim.” However, when I first decided to follow in the footsteps of my new friend, Jan, that’s probably what many were thinking. When I first met her a few years ago she told me that she was a nurse . . . and a commissioned pastor. I knew that she was close to me in age and that the pastor thing was relatively new for her, and something deep inside of me said, “You’re going to do this.” Even I was shocked at the intensity of my reaction, but there was no turning back. I knew that his was no “whim,” but it was the Holy Spirit speaking clearly through my own passion.

When I brought the subject up to my husband, I barely had a chance to explain what I had in mind when he said, “Do it—I’m with you on this one.” (He had no idea that this was going to put him in the “time out” chair.) My close friends, my kids and my pastor all expressed joyful support which made my plunge into this crazy plan a lot easier.

And so, just a few short weeks after my sixtieth birthday, and feeling the weight of great expectations, I began my first classes. I loved studying and writing papers and I loved learning from some great pastor/teachers. All of the creeds and catechism that I had learned as a child came back and breathed new life into me. I was more organized than ever and believed that I was able to accomplish almost anything. And when my final paper was written and all of the oral exams were complete, I celebrated—with my friends and family, but also with a deep joyful satisfaction that God was completing a work in me that He had started many years ago.

But, as I’ve already hinted, not every part of this journey was filled with encouragement. I know that there were those who didn’t understand my decision and those who aren’t sure how they feel about women being pastors. I’ve wrestled with this myself and I can’t even say for sure how my parents would feel about my choice. I think they would be in that awkward place of “proud disagreement.” One of my required classes was a huge struggle for me because I felt “tolerated” but not accepted by the teacher and by the solid group of male students. As I fought my weekly insecurities, I gained a new level of appreciation for those who are misunderstood. I learned to speak up without giving up even when my voice wasn’t heard.

I learned a lot from those who were going through the program with me. I figured out what kind of pastor I wanted to be, and what wasn’t going to work. I also learned that not everyone was my fan. There was one classmate in particular that I suspected fell into this category. We disagreed on almost everything except a shared assessment about the way some people treat their pets. (Sorry if I just lost the animal lovers.) But when he and I started to talk about women as elders and pastors, the conversation was harder and more hurtful than I anticipated. There are many people in my life whom I love and respect who would agree with him to a degree, but when he told me that my call to become a pastor was merely a case of my heart deceiving me as scripture warns, I was dumbfounded. He also went on to tell me that my husband would be held accountable for allowing me to follow my “deceptive heart.”

I was kind of shaken by all of this until my pastor told me that my husband would only have to spend a little time in the “time out” chair when he got to heaven—whew! That’s a relief for both of us. Seriously though, during that painful conversation, I learned things that I never would. I’m continually examining my heart, to make sure I’m not being deceived; I‘m also learning not to question God’s call in other people’s lives—they can figure out their own hearts.

So that’s briefly a story of my recent adventure. I’m so grateful for the affirmations that came from everywhere: people from my church who were excited to hear about what I was learning and actually attended the oral exams; those who were patient when I was too focused on studying and got a little cranky; my family who insisted on throwing a “fancy” party in spite of my urgings to keep it simple. And the list goes on.

But I’m also grateful for the difficult times and the challenging people. Don’t get me wrong—I never felt persecuted, rather compelled to pause, pray and refocus before proceeding. If it had been too easy, I would believe that I had done this on my own and that’s far from the truth. There were lots of people who attended the commissioning service held in my church and I felt loved and affirmed. But I was also keenly aware of the “cloud of witnesses,” that surrounded me –especially those parents and grandparents who perhaps observed from that place where the “time-out” chair is no longer needed, remembered or mentioned.