Settling In

I've been at New Church for nine days. On the one hand, it feels like about nine months. On the other, about nine seconds.

I find myself more caught up than I had anticipated in the grief process for my previous congregation, and like all grief journeys, it takes me by surprise when it shows up. I'm doing fine, I'm not thinking about them at all, and then I meet someone with the same name, or who looks like or sounds like, a previous parishioner, and poof! I'm back at stage one again. I suspect this will go on for a long time. It helps to know that the interim pastor there is someone I trust, who will shepherd them well into the next phase of their ministry. But still - I'm not there. And they are fine, of course, which is even harder than the idea that they are NOT fine without me.

This tightrope between then-and-now hit me full force last week on my first Sunday. I suppose it would have in any circumstance, but it turned out that two of my former parishioners showed up to hear my first sermon here. I found myself torn between gratitude that they would make the trip and, to be perfectly frank, irritation that I was being pulled backward on a day when I wanted only to try and leap into this new place. It felt a bit inappropriate for them to be there, even as I appreciated the gesture. I know those people will be in my mind and heart for a long time to come - I just didn't figure some of them would be there in the flesh on Sunday Number One.

So that threw me off a bit and I was relieved that they only stuck around for the first service. New Congregation has three worship services (aack!) but that was less difficult than I'd imagined (though boy, did I sleep like a rock that night). I think that preaching the same sermon three times on a routine basis will provide a challenge for me, since I was fairly sick of my words by the time the third service rolled around. I'm a manuscript preacher, so although I don't read my manuscript - it's more or less memorized by the time I give it - I do have weaknesses when it comes to spontaneity from the pulpit. I have also had some bad experiences with spontaneity, so it's not a virtue I hold in too much esteem when it comes to preaching practices. (Bad experiences as a listener, to be precise. As in, wondering what on earth the POINT OF THIS SERMON is and WHEN we might actually GET TO IT.)

We had a staff retreat on Monday and Tuesday of this week. Bad: didn't get a day off. Good: great, great staff. I'm so excited to work with these people. And it turns out that one of the staff, four years older than me, has gone through in-vitro twice (unsuccessfully, sadly) and is now in the process of adopting their second child. She had shared her faith story, including a tiny sentence about infertility, before it was my turn, so when my turn came around, I - to my own surprise - shared quite a bit about our infertility challenges.

This was a huge change for me. In Previous Congregation, I never told anyone about that struggle except for one colleague who was, in many respects, like a spiritual director. Otherwise, I did not feel ready to share that story nor did I want it to be a topic of discussion in the congregation. I told the staff the gist of the story and, although I did say that I do not want to talk about this with parishioners, it felt very good to include other people in this struggle. I know that our decision-process will speed up this summer and chances are, we'll have doctor appointments of one form or another which might prompt questions. I shared partly to explain what might yet come.

But I also shared because I realize two things: one, as much as I might believe with every fiber of my being that people ought to talk about infertility when it affects them because there is no other way to get rid of the shame around it, I am only adding to the problem if I can't talk about it myself; and two, that this has become a huge part of my faith story and I would not be telling the truth about myself if I didn't include a real description of the valley in which we find ourselves these days.

It came to me when I was writing the sermon for Sunday about the woman at the well. She came trying to hide the deepest pain in her life, and Jesus went straight for it. He refused to let her hide, and then he refused to walk away. When, "I have no husband" came out of her mouth, I'm betting that, "Oh, God, why did I say that out loud" immediately followed in her mind. Naming your pain out loud is terrifying.

But it is also freeing in the most amazing way. Now these people know me, the real me. And they did not walk away. And I have another conversation partner along the journey. Pain transformed by being borne among the many instead of one. Praises be for that.

So week one is down - week two is underway. This is the right place for me, and praises be for that as well. Now if we can just find Beloved a job and sell our house and buy another one...but these will come.

adiaphora

Today was my first Sunday in New Congregation, and I realize there should be lots of important and theologically meaningful things to say, but it's also Oscar Sunday. So I need to get back to the good stuff. Thus far:

1. George Clooney is still the most attractive man ever. (I love Beloved, don't get me wrong, but WOWZA. Clooney in a tux is hard to beat.)

2. Renee Zellweger's dress is great but what the HELL is with that haircut?

3. Marion Cotillard's dress - amazing.

4. Sean Rogan (is that his name?) and The Other Dude from Knocked Up - hilarious.

5. Much as I otherwise love him, John Stewart as host...eh.

Gotta go. More watching. Meaningful reflection on first Sunday later.

I did say EVERYTHING was new...

New call = new office = new computer = new blog template.

Besides, it's really, really time for spring.

Hope you like it.

Everything Old is New Again

It's hard to start over. This is my first week in New Congregation (which won't be new for long, so I need another name for it) and part of me is just now starting to remember how much work it is to do the pastor thing in a new place. I feel a bit like I'm watching people in a raquetball court from that viewer window they always have upstairs: the only way to learn to play is to actually get in there and do it, but it's much more attractive to watch from above given that it looks like that little blue ball would really hurt if it hit you in the head.

Of course, I hate raquetball, so this is probably a bad metaphor.

Anyway. I started on Wednesday, and now it's Friday. I'm preaching on Sunday, and the sermon is actually done, though I'm not entirely pleased with the ending. It's also a bit on the long side (I'm typically a 12-15 minute preacher and this one is probably pushing 15-18). However, I'm not sure about this because I'm using a new computer with a new font, and it would seem as if more pages is a result of the font rather than wordiness on my part.

One of the many complications of sermon-writing.

My office is very beige. Literally. Blah. I've unpacked all my books (joy of joys, I have plenty of shelf space!) and that perks it up a bit, but I'm looking into a new paint color for a few of the walls. That and some pictures on the walls will help a lot.

Yesterday I had coffee with the quilting ladies and chatted with the newsletter-folders. I talked for a bit with two staff members about confirmation ministry and with another staff member about children's ministry. I also got to go to Office Max and buy things for my office, including a box of my very favorite pens. If it sounds mundane, that's because so far I've done a lot of mundane things - and that takes some getting used to. This morning, my colleague was in his office talking to the mother of a 26-year old guy who made it through his tour in Iraq but died last night after contracting a staph infection in his heart. I asked him if I could do something to help, but he said no - and truthfully, that's right. I really can't do much of anything for anyone right now, which is REALLY STRANGE (if also a bit of a relief). If I were the only pastor, it would be completely different. But being the second pastor when the first has been here for twenty-some years really does render me a bit useless when that kind of thing happens in my first week on the job. This is a little hard on the ego.

It will be good for me not to be so beloved. There's no way to say it without sounding like an arrogant jackass, but it's the truth: my former congregation loved me (okay, okay, not everybody, but the vast majority) and it made me wary. I feel like that level of beloved-ness makes pastors do dumb things because they feel invincible. I understand that pastors get a certain level of love because of a million different reasons, some of which have absolutely nothing to do with the pastor him/herself, but still...I get nervous. And I fear that I also get lazy. Becuase once they love you, you don't have to work so hard. That's not all bad. But it sure isn't all good, either.

So now I'm brand new again, and no one loves me. We will have to start over, which is very exciting and completely terrifying. This is the first sermon I have written in a long, long time for a group of people I don't know at all. Writing those kinds of sermons is hard, like throwing at a dartboard while blindfolded. Will you hit them where it counts? Or will you miss and poke a hole in the wall?

I'm not sure how this post about starting in a new congregation ended up being about raquetball and darts, but it might indicate something Freudian about my fears of being hit by unexpected flying things. Maybe I'll put a dartboard up in my office. This would take the edge off the beige, anyway.

This Post Brought to You by the Letter Q

This summer, Beloved and I went to New York to visit my brother and sister-in-law. Among the highlights: seeing Avenue Q, perhaps the best. Broadway. show. ever. At least for anyone in the Sesame Street generation.

This week I got a belated birthday peresent from said brother - the Avenue Q soundtrack. I listened to it four times as we drove to New Town, where I will start at New Congregation tomorrow. Beloved has taken the week off and we are staying at my parents' house, about 15 miles from New Congregation. He'll go home on Sunday and I'll stay here, thus beginning the temporary separation part of our marriage: a reflection only on the complicated process of selling a house, buying a new one, starting a job for me, and finishing up a job for him - not, in other words, a commentary on the state of our relationship.

But let me tell you this: staying in a house where you have nothing to do all day is not exactly the best thing for your marriage. Beloved is driving me not a little bit nuts at this point. This is a man who needs projects. And he is stuck in a house that is not his own, with almost nothing to do except bug his wife.

One of my very favorite songs in Avenue Q is called "The More You Love Someone, The More You Want to Kill Them." Ah, yes. How true. A selection of the lyrics (which, by the way, are sung by a woman with a highly stereotypical Asian accent - and if this strikes you as prejudicial, then be sure to check out the song, "Everyone's A Little Bit Racist"):

The more you love someone,
The more you want to kill ‘em.
The more you love someone,
The more he make you cry

Though you are try
For making peace
With them and loving,
That’s why you love so strong
You like to make him die!

The more you love someone,
The more he make you crazy.
The more you love someone,
The more you wishing him dead!

Sometime you look at him
And only see fat and lazy,
And wanting baseball bat
For hitting him on his head!

Don't get me wrong: I do love this man. But we HAVE to find something for him to do. RIGHT BLOODY NOW.

Of course, the end of the song is accurate too...

So if there someone
You are wanting so
To kill ‘em.
You go and find him.
And you get him.
And you no kill him.
‘Cause chances good
He is your love.

Damn, I must really love this man.

Farewell

It's been two weeks since I left my first congregation and I'm still not sure quite what to say about it. I've been searching for some kind of biblical link, or a metaphor, or an image which would summarize it - and I can't find anything. What I wanted to do was write a really meaningful, tightly-constructed reflection on leaving. But that doesn't seem to be working out. Which in and of itself might be the only image I have for leaving; it's kind of a mess, which is not altogether a bad thing.

This was my first call, and I stayed for eight years. I started as the associate pastor and (although this is wisely frowned on by the powers that be) became the senior pastor after my colleague was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Had I been blogging at the time of his illness and catastrophic biopsy procedure, I'd have a thousand entries by now - it's enough to say that that experience changed my life in profound ways. Among which was my decision to stay in the congregation, which I had been preparing to leave (not that they knew that). Which led to five more years of ministry there. And to a very tight bond with a great many people, and a fondness for that place which seems hard to believe could be repeated again. I've said that before, though, and been gratefully wrong: I thought no friends could be better than those I found in college, until I went to seminary. It's a good thing God sustains hope a lot longer than I can.

I was worried about my last Sunday, because there's no way around the fact that you, the pastor, are the center of attention that day. You're always up in the front, of course, but not as yourself; you're there to facilitate worship, to lead the service, and to offer something meaningful in the sermon. The office of pastor is your reason to be there, not your own personality. On your last day, however, this is not true at all. It's all about you. This is a bit intense for me.

I did fine through the first worship service, although I choked up a few times here and there. During the children's sermon; at the end of the regular sermon; and during the benediction, which I knew would happen. The standard handshaking time was very emotional, but I did quite well until the very end.

At the very end of the line of well-wishers came the high school youth group. Keep in mind that these kids were in the first or second grade when I got there, and in many ways, that is how I still think of them. I did their first communion class and trained them as acolytes and spent the night with them at camp for the grade school retreats. They are not children anymore, and they regularly tortured me during confirmation class given the fact that several of them are constitutionally incapable of shutting up for more than thirty seconds at a time.

They had been sitting in the balcony, so I couldn't really see what I realized when they came down the stairs to hug me, which is that they were sobbing. I do not exaggerate here. Sobbing. And I lost it. It was lovely and wonderful that they were so sad to see me go (some note must be taken of the general tendency toward drama in this group), but let me tell you this: there is nothing worse than knowing you have made children cry. You feel like the devil. Hands down, that was the hardest moment of the day. Because I remember when our youth pastor left, when I was in high school, and I remember how much it hurt and how I wondered why he would want to leave us and knew that I would never, ever, ever like a pastor the way I liked him.

This turned out not to be true, of course, but it hurt like hell at the time. And all the stuff I can tell myself now about how these kids will be just fine, and how they will remember this years from now and smile a little at their dramatic overtures - none of it matters when you know that you have hurt the kids you love. There are some things about leaving a congregation that, to be perfectly frank, are just fucking hard. There is nothing you can do about the fact that you are going to hurt people. They will get past it. But in the moment, that cliche doesn't help much.

So, the rest of the day went up from there. Surprisingly (to me) I didn't cry at the second service at all, until communion. We have a round altar, and as I came around for one of the last times to serve communion, I met the eyes of the woman who was congregational president when I came to the church. Next to her was an elderly woman who is, on the surface, the most unemotional person you have ever met - but who has survived, during my time there, the lingering illness and death of her husband and the completely sudden death of her only daughter, killed in a plane crash. Both women were crying. There is nothing harder than the tears of someone you have only seen cry once before, at the death of her daughter.

And, at least for me, there is something so intensely personal about serving communion. I managed to convince the congregation after a few years that we should be celebrating communion every Sunday. I gave them all the standard reasons, about the fact that worship is really meant to include this meal, that the ancient church did this all the time, that the piety of "less often makes it more special" was really invented by Scandinavians who lived so far north that the pastor could only make it there once a year so they had to give themselves some kind of meaning behind the infrequency of the sacraments. But what I didn't tell them was this: I also wanted them to have communion every Sunday because it means that they are guaranteed to get something meaningful every week. Even if the sermon sucks, they will have the body and blood of Christ. This takes the pressure off a bit. On the Sundays when I feel less-than-great about the sermon, I serve communion with extra fervor, taking refuge in the reminder that nothing I do up here changes the essential grace we receive in that meal. I cannot screw it up. (I have, in various ways, done very human things up there, like cough or forget the words of institution or spill wine or run out of wafers, but these things don't matter in the long run).

And honestly, I didn't feel all that great about my last sermon. It's too much damn pressure, you know? It's too much to expect of yourself that it be the BEST SERMON EVER, because that's not realistic. It was okay. I felt alright about it, but not great. So I was especially grateful for communion that day. And when I saw those two women and the tears in their eyes, I began to cry. Not horrible sobbing, but also not just misty eyes. I stopped for moment, and then kept going, and then I cried through the rest of the service. Especially during the closing hymn, my very favorite: Lift High the Cross.

After the service, we had a potluck. It was more fun than I had thought: I was worried about being emotionally exhausted, but that turned out not to be true. I was also worried about the "open mike!" invitation, but that turned out much better than I had anticipated (apart from the guy who talked about my initial interview there and mentioned that I was wearing "white silk stockings." What the hell? I bet no one says that kind of stuff at Rowan Williams' farewell potluck).

And then we left. I had packed up my office the day before, so we put a few last things in the car. I took the church's keys off my keyring and left them on the desk (that was a weird moment). I worried about what I had forgotten, which turned out to be a few minor things I came back to pick up later that week.

There is never such a thing as tying up all the loose ends. Not everyone I had hoped to see was there on my last day, though there were few significant absences. Thankfully, the weather cooperated for the first Sunday in a month and we had very little snow so those in outlying areas were able to come.

If this were a novel, there would be some great story that summed everything up. But there wasn't. It was just a good day, and a hard day, and a treasured day. I'm grateful to have had these two weeks off between calls, and it's still a bit unreal to me that there is another congregation waiting for me to begin.

Saying goodbye is hard. This is a good thing, of course, because it means you have formed real attachments, that you have really loved and been loved. There is nothing better than that when you are there, but there is a price to be paid when you go. I wish there was something more profound to be said, but I can't seem to find it. All I find is this: that even the best of farewells will break your heart a little bit, and the best hope is that it breaks it open for a richer life to come.

Well, it is LENTEN soup...

So one of the things I have enjoyed doing on my two-week break inbetween congregations is showing up at church (a neutral site church, neither old nor new) and not having to do anything. As in, I was the happiest person at Ash Wednesday services, perhaps the happiest person ever considering the assignment of the evening is to seriously consider one's sin and mortality. Why was I happy? Because I just sat there. I didn't have to run around remembering where I had put the ashes from last year's service, or collapse during the recitation of Psalm 51 in a coughing fit (actually happened last year, after which kind congregation members handed me a pocket full of various and sundry cough drops during the imposition of ashes) or any other random pastoral duties.

So tonight I am making soup for Lenten supper, which I never do. And going to church across the street, where Beloved has been a member for many years and where we were married. Neutral Site Church is one of my favorite places in the world.

I am making Minnesota Wild Rice soup. I love this stuff (if you are a midwesterner and know of Byerly's Wild Rice Soup, this is the recipe I'm using). Unfortunately, there has apparently been a run on wild rice in our town and there was none left anyplace I went today, so I had to settle for a similar-looking brand of wild rice from China. I did notice that "beautiful purple color" was on the package as one of its fine attributes, but I didn't think much of it. Plus I didn't have any choice.

You know where this is going. I am leaving in five minutes for Neutral Site Church with my pot of PURPLE wild rice soup. I don't mean lavendar, or mauve, or anything in the pastel family. I mean full-on, royal, PURPLE. I'm the Bridget Jones of Lent.*

I have, however, just remembered that purple is, after all, the color of Lent. So this is not just purple soup, people. Oh no. This is LITURGICALLY CORRECT Lenten soup. Ha. Take that, bizarre Chinese rice.

*If the Bridget Jones reference doesn't make sense to you, check out the scene where she makes the soup and it turns blue from the string used to tie up the leeks. At least my soup is colored by an actual ingredient. That's better, right?

Working On It

For the hordes of readers out there, let me reassure you that I am not dead. Nor is my internet service. I'm still thinking through the leaving-congregation experience and deciding how to blog about it. Hopefully tomorrow.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled life.

Stuck

Yes. Writing this Sunday's sermon - the last one I will give in this congregation - is every bit as hard as I thought it would be. And then some.