Tonight we had a small group for my Altar in the World study. This at first seemed like a slight disappointment, but I think it was actually a blessing. We had some of the best conversation we've had up to this point. The chapters we talked about tonight had to do with pain and how it can lead to spiritual growth, and the how and why of prayer. The people there had some really powerful stories to share relating to these chapters, things that might not have been shared in a larger group.
Their stories had to do with personal struggles and sickness and fear and the loss of loved ones. They are not my stories to tell, so that's all I will say. But I was humbled as I sat surrounded by these people who have been through so much more than I have and come through these struggles with grace, at least in retrospect. None, I am sure, are struggles that anyone would choose to go through again, but these people have become stronger, more faithful, and more grateful people through them. And when I shared some of my own experience wrestling with how to pray and what to expect from prayer, they had advice for me. Not know-it-all, obnoxiously certain advice, but helpful thoughts born and cultivated in the important experiences of their own lives.
So tonight I am thankful for people in my life who have gained wisdom through pain, and I am thankful for their willingness to share those stories so that we all might gain a little bit of that wisdom. I'm reminded of how much I have to learn spiritually from those who call me their pastor. And I hope that when I inevitably face struggles in my life harder than those I have encountered thus far, that I will be able to see--at least eventually--grace and growth in those times, too.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The compassion game
On the first Wednesday of every month, people from around Williamsburg come to see me, and I give them money. Sometimes it is money to help with rent, sometimes a few nights in a motel, sometimes making a dent in a power or water bill. Sometimes it is money for prescriptions or gas. I'm the one at church whose job it is to hear these needs and decide whether and how much help is appropriate.
I've written and talked a lot at church about how hard this part of my job is. I never know whether I'm being stingy or gullible and mostly end up feeling both at the same time. I see a lot of the same people from month to month and am acutely aware of how little difference this money actually makes, at least most of the time, and how powerless the church and I are to actually make that difference. Sometimes I think--though most of the people I see would probably disagree--that the most important part of this job is the fact that it makes and allows me to listen to people. I hear stories from parts of the community that I don't hear on Sunday mornings or evening Bible studies. And I get to put a face to the fact that the church cares about helping its neighbors, whether or not we can do much.
Every once in a while I meet someone who thinks that, too. They will thank me not only for the check I hand them but also for listening to them. "I've been everywhere," they've said, "and no one else has listened to me." I feel good when people tell me this. It makes me feel like what I am doing is ministry. It makes me feel like I have succeeded in treating my neighbor with dignity, as a child of God. Sometimes it also makes me selfishly feel like we're doing better at that here than whatever other church they were at last.
But I know also that it probably works the other way around. When the budget has run out for the month, when someone's come back for the third month in a row and I have to tell them no, when I have to tell them no for any reason, I'm sure they must find another church, and another pastor to sit down with, and they must sometimes say, "Thank you for listening to me. I've been everywhere, and no one else has listened to me." And by no one else, they will mean me. Maybe what they mean is I didn't give them what they wanted. But maybe they really mean that I somehow failed to see them in the process, too. From the point of view of someone in need, those two things must blend together.
Ministry is so imperfect. I remind myself of Bonhoeffer's view of ethics, how not to do anything for fear of sinning is really the worst sin of all. I hope in the end, I've listened to more people than I haven't. And I hope that when I haven't, someone else will have--money or no money--at the church down the street or somewhere else in this community.
I've written and talked a lot at church about how hard this part of my job is. I never know whether I'm being stingy or gullible and mostly end up feeling both at the same time. I see a lot of the same people from month to month and am acutely aware of how little difference this money actually makes, at least most of the time, and how powerless the church and I are to actually make that difference. Sometimes I think--though most of the people I see would probably disagree--that the most important part of this job is the fact that it makes and allows me to listen to people. I hear stories from parts of the community that I don't hear on Sunday mornings or evening Bible studies. And I get to put a face to the fact that the church cares about helping its neighbors, whether or not we can do much.
Every once in a while I meet someone who thinks that, too. They will thank me not only for the check I hand them but also for listening to them. "I've been everywhere," they've said, "and no one else has listened to me." I feel good when people tell me this. It makes me feel like what I am doing is ministry. It makes me feel like I have succeeded in treating my neighbor with dignity, as a child of God. Sometimes it also makes me selfishly feel like we're doing better at that here than whatever other church they were at last.
But I know also that it probably works the other way around. When the budget has run out for the month, when someone's come back for the third month in a row and I have to tell them no, when I have to tell them no for any reason, I'm sure they must find another church, and another pastor to sit down with, and they must sometimes say, "Thank you for listening to me. I've been everywhere, and no one else has listened to me." And by no one else, they will mean me. Maybe what they mean is I didn't give them what they wanted. But maybe they really mean that I somehow failed to see them in the process, too. From the point of view of someone in need, those two things must blend together.
Ministry is so imperfect. I remind myself of Bonhoeffer's view of ethics, how not to do anything for fear of sinning is really the worst sin of all. I hope in the end, I've listened to more people than I haven't. And I hope that when I haven't, someone else will have--money or no money--at the church down the street or somewhere else in this community.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Time, why you punish me?
Two or so weeks ago, I wrote my monthly article for our church newsletter, about revisiting our chosen Lenten disciplines mid-Lent. Our newsletter deadlines are the 15th of each month, and they don't come out until the beginning of the next month. So I wrote this mid-Lent article at the beginning of Lent, you see. By the time this article actually appeared in the newsletter, I had already let my discipline slide for almost a week. So I thought in the name of integrity, I'd better revisit it.
I've let my Lenten blogging slide in past years, too, because I found that I had a hard time thinking of new, fresh theological thoughts to write each day. That's not really my problem this year. Spending my days at church lends itself to having lots of theological thoughts. I might not always want to write publicly about things that happen at church, but at least I am thinking theologically. The problem this year is more one of time.
I know I work less than many of my friends who are bankers and lawyers and even some who are pastors. But I don't know how. Even if I get home from work at a "normal" time, say a little after 5, there is running to do, dishes to be washed, dinner to be cooked, laundry to be laundered, and Spanish to be practiced. Sometimes there are also TV shows to catch up on on Hulu--but cultural literacy is important too, right? Something's gotta give, whether it's laundry or dishes or blogging or sometimes a mixture of all of those things.
One of the chapters we read in my Barbara Brown Taylor group this week was on saying no, and I think I felt like that gave me a little freedom to loosen the reins of discipline and make a grasp at regaining some sanity. It also made me think a little more about the value of actually giving things up for Lent.
Giving something up for Lent is traditional, of course, but I've heard lots and lots of people express a preference for adding something meaningful instead. Giving up chocolate doesn't seem to do much spiritually, so we'll commit to a half hour of meditation a day instead. It sounds so reasonable. And we encourage things like this at church--I'm doing this Lenten study for people to add to their busy schedules, after all.
There's nothing inherently wrong with that if it works for you, but I wonder if for some of us it's missing the point a little. Those of us who are busy know how to add things to our schedules. We're good at it (to varying degrees.) Taking something away is harder. It's counterintuitive. Why subtract from life when we can add instead?
BBT talks about sabbath as "taking a break from earning our own salvation for a day." I think giving up something meaningful for Lent--maybe not just chocolate--could be a powerful reminder of that. The real self-denial might be in believing we don't need to add more things, do more things, be more things. A friend posted a link to Facebook recently to an article about how sleep tends to be the first thing we sacrifice when we're busy, and what a bad idea that was. Could a Lenten practice be getting a full amount of sleep, even when things don't get done? I don't know if that's the most meaningful spiritual practice, either, but it's an interesting thought. When did the self-denial of Lent become about more instead of less? Can we really go for less and trust God to be our More?
I think these thoughts will remain theoretical for this season, which is already winding down. I don't want to stop blogging altogether, but maybe post-Easter it's time to transition to an occasional practice of writing down theological thoughts year-round, and leave Lent for giving up. Of course, there's always the hope that by next year I will have mastered the art of adulthood and manage my time brilliantly. There's always that hope.
I've let my Lenten blogging slide in past years, too, because I found that I had a hard time thinking of new, fresh theological thoughts to write each day. That's not really my problem this year. Spending my days at church lends itself to having lots of theological thoughts. I might not always want to write publicly about things that happen at church, but at least I am thinking theologically. The problem this year is more one of time.
I know I work less than many of my friends who are bankers and lawyers and even some who are pastors. But I don't know how. Even if I get home from work at a "normal" time, say a little after 5, there is running to do, dishes to be washed, dinner to be cooked, laundry to be laundered, and Spanish to be practiced. Sometimes there are also TV shows to catch up on on Hulu--but cultural literacy is important too, right? Something's gotta give, whether it's laundry or dishes or blogging or sometimes a mixture of all of those things.
One of the chapters we read in my Barbara Brown Taylor group this week was on saying no, and I think I felt like that gave me a little freedom to loosen the reins of discipline and make a grasp at regaining some sanity. It also made me think a little more about the value of actually giving things up for Lent.
Giving something up for Lent is traditional, of course, but I've heard lots and lots of people express a preference for adding something meaningful instead. Giving up chocolate doesn't seem to do much spiritually, so we'll commit to a half hour of meditation a day instead. It sounds so reasonable. And we encourage things like this at church--I'm doing this Lenten study for people to add to their busy schedules, after all.
There's nothing inherently wrong with that if it works for you, but I wonder if for some of us it's missing the point a little. Those of us who are busy know how to add things to our schedules. We're good at it (to varying degrees.) Taking something away is harder. It's counterintuitive. Why subtract from life when we can add instead?
BBT talks about sabbath as "taking a break from earning our own salvation for a day." I think giving up something meaningful for Lent--maybe not just chocolate--could be a powerful reminder of that. The real self-denial might be in believing we don't need to add more things, do more things, be more things. A friend posted a link to Facebook recently to an article about how sleep tends to be the first thing we sacrifice when we're busy, and what a bad idea that was. Could a Lenten practice be getting a full amount of sleep, even when things don't get done? I don't know if that's the most meaningful spiritual practice, either, but it's an interesting thought. When did the self-denial of Lent become about more instead of less? Can we really go for less and trust God to be our More?
I think these thoughts will remain theoretical for this season, which is already winding down. I don't want to stop blogging altogether, but maybe post-Easter it's time to transition to an occasional practice of writing down theological thoughts year-round, and leave Lent for giving up. Of course, there's always the hope that by next year I will have mastered the art of adulthood and manage my time brilliantly. There's always that hope.
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