The Dangers of Doing It All: The Collateral Damage of Pastoral Perfectionism

“Some aspire to indispensability;

others have indispensability thrust upon them.”

Let me start by clarifying. I do not do it all. But it would serve me right if I had to.

Dozens to keep track of - not a big deal.

I have only recently become successful at delegation. (Okay, that’s an overstatement. I delegate, sort of. Then I intrude, kibitz, look over shoulders, send email reminders, etc. But I am trying.) Delegation is still causing me great stress, but only because I still want to micromanage every detail so that I have every answer for every question that every parishioner might ever ask.

I am under no illusions about my way being the best way, or being the only one skilled and caring enough for certain responsibilities. My problem with delegation in the past was simply a matter of my schedule regularly overwhelming any potential for advance planning. Delegation does free some of the schedule…eventually. Initially, though, it adds to the workload as those offering to take on a task need to be clear on what the task entails.

This is not a symptom of the “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself” syndrome. Really. Not. At all. It’s just a matter of not having enough time to not do any of the tasks myself, because it’s faster that way.

But that has changed now. I have ministry coordinators in charge of the three major areas of our congregation’s ministries. This has freed a portion of my schedule to focus more directly on other essential responsibilities.

Yes, the counseling load is at a peak, but that’s not as essential to the operation of the congregational infrastructure as other jobs are. Yes, I’ve been glad for the opportunities to intervene more directly in a number of serious crises, and make the trips to Redding for court dates and hospital visitation without leaving other tasks undone (even though I missed one!). Yes, there are enhancements to the sound system on which my attention can now be focused, but there is little hope of actually increasing the volume sufficiently when shouting from three feet away doesn’t get the job done. And yes, the additional time has benefitted the congregation with sermons that are (marginally) more concise and, more importantly, shorter. But it’s hard to measure improvements when the evaluation scale usually ranges only from “That was interesting” to “Nice sermon.”

No, there is one most important task to which my additional attention has been drawn, with expressions of both relief and gratitude from those most concerned. As with many rural, solo-staff pastors, even with ministry coordinators on hand for significant responsibilities, the greatest consternation I face, and conquer, centers on inventory.

Thousands...and I manage just fine with these.

Specifically, there are particular stockpiles that are especially concerning, and for which I alone wield the power. Literally—power. The 9-volts go in the cordless microphone and each of the smoke detectors. AA’s for the PowerPoint remotes and all clocks in each of the buildings on campus. AAA’s are for the digital recorder on the pulpit. The need for these powerful supplies, of course, pales in comparison to the frantic search for communion cups every four or five months.

But the greatest collateral damage in my inventory-control failures came from none of these. The pain was not caused by a lack of copier paper and toner, extra-long staples for bylaws and church directories, nor custom thank-you cards for memorial gifts following funerals and memorial services.

I hurt a child.

How? I failed to appropriately monitor the length of the wicks in the candlelighters we use each Sunday morning. One had been drawn back into the lighter’s ferule, and left there. This allows the wax to bond to the interior of the tube, binding the wick so that when it is next to be extended…the slide crushes the paraffin within, rather than extending the wick outward. So, I repaired it, and replaced the old, bent, frayed, and utterly unusable wick with a brand new one.

Unfortunately, I failed to replace the other wick at the same time. They were no longer synchronized in their usable life and replacement schedule. Some weeks later, the neglected candlelighter ran out of wick, leaving only one to be used that Sunday morning.

I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in cause-and-effect. You do, too. And so, you’ll understand why I take full responsibility for having hurt a child. In fact, I hurt a nine year-old whose friendship I value, but who I have also, sadly, given reason to wonder about my value as her friend. There are lots of complicating factors, but suffice to say, she is not my favorite child in the blended, extended, fractured, and mended family that currently spans three different households. In my defense, my favorite is the one I’ve known longest, having become acquainted years ago through my wife’s teaching career and my own counseling and kibitzing among the families she helps. I try not to insincerely fawn over any or all of the other five children. But this one…well, I do like her. And she got hurt. And it was my fault.

Literally tens of thousands...and we don't run out.

On “The Sunday of Just One Candlelighter” (as historical infamy will ever name it), my favorite was asked by our ushers (“foyer assistants,” actually, but in most other churches they’d be called greeters or ushers) to use the one working lighter to ignite the candles at the altar. She did so, gladly. If anyone noticed that her sister had been left out, they didn’t mention it to me at the time. Perhaps we could have had her snuff the candles at the end of the service. Perhaps we could have ensured that she got a turn, solo, the next time, even if I were maintaining better control over the wick situation. But we didn’t.

Thankfully, she is a very forgiving child. She accepted my apology with maturity and graciousness. I think she might even attend church with that portion of her family again someday. But I still worry.

I worry, primarily, that I have not so fully learned my lesson as I ought to have. You see, my failure at properly maintaining the wicks in the candlelighters, just like my occasional failures at inventory control for several other items (though we have never run out of communion cups!), is just the tip of the iceberg. My primary failure is two-fold. First, my personality, my attitude, my over-scheduling, and several other factors limit my attention to being where I am. My body was in the sanctuary that morning. My mind was there, too, but also in at least a half-dozen other places, thinking about any number of other factors. (Who’s scheduled for what responsibilities this morning? Have I seen all of them yet? Am I prepared to step in to each of those areas should they fail to appear? Can I afford the time to do the two hour lunch following services? What will people think if I don’t, again, ever?) If I had been fully there, would I have seen the disappointment on my friend’s face? Maybe not. But if I were to set a better example of being where I am, might that have increased the odds that someone would have noticed? That someone would have looked open enough to the possibility of her father mentioning her disappointment? Maybe not.

Maybe the only reason this happened has nothing to do with turning back the clock to fix what happened on “The Sunday of Just One Candlelighter.” Maybe there’s no way to overcome our tendency to overlook willing servants who are excited about the possibility of contributing to the worship service, even if they are “only” nine years-old. Maybe one of the things I’m supposed to learn is how dependent I am on grace and mercy, and the forgiveness of a friend who was hurt because of my inattention to details. Maybe.

But I have to admit that one of the distracting factors behind my anxieties and overwrought concerns for every element of every ministry in every life of my entire congregation (and community, truth be told), is my bitterness and resentment. I don’t like being in charge of the batteries, or the communion cups, or the cassette tapes, or the copier paper, etc. I distinctly dislike the frantic requests for any item in the inventory that cannot be immediately found. (My mother used to scold, “Look with your eyes, not with your mouth.”) I really get bent when those frantic requests come after the two-minute warning, just before the start of a worship service. And it compounds my frustrations at my incessant self-scolding for constantly preparing to fill-in for other servants who, most of the time, actually do show up for their responsibilities. (A couple of them even notify me most of the time when they cannot be there to fulfill their scheduled role!)

Two. Just TWO to keep track of - and I messed up.

As you can imagine, my bitterness and resentment has little or nothing to do with the expectations others have for my perfection at inventory control, etc. My breathless anxieties are not caused by the inconsistencies of others on the wonderful crew with which I am blessed and, frankly, proud to serve. So, then, what’s my problem?

It is this: despite sound theology to the contrary, my behavior is governed less by faith than by fear. I can’t imagine being fired for failing to maintain a sufficient supply of copier toner. It’s a pricey item to stockpile, and when the digital printer needs replaced, there you are with extra toner you can’t use in the replacement, wasting the Lord’s precious and scarce financial…and there I am, doing it again.

I really do think that if I could focus, as I admonish others to do, on being who I am called to be, and doing whatever that prompts me to do…in the moment…at the place…as the person God created, then I might notice what I missed that morning: that the opportunity to serve Christ, to participate in blessing a congregation, to simply light candles, or to smile forgivingly at a pastor…these are special moments to be cherished, and I have wasted too many of them worrying about what comes next, or what didn’t get done, or what I’m supposed to do at any given moment when I’m focused on pleasing just about anyone else but God.

I’ve already apologized. But if you’re reading this, my only-slightly-less-than-favorite-friend-in-your-family, I also want to say, “Thank you.” You came to church and let God use you to help me learn some things, and when you got hurt in the process, you were gracious and forgiving.

Pray for me that I can keep learning to be the same way.

“Space to Be Heard” – Part One (in which I whine quite a lot about my busy weekend)

The question was asked as part of the online discussion forum in my doctoral program:“How do we create ‘space to be heard?’” But I’m not sure I understand the question. Of course, that doesn’t prevent me from trying to answer it, even as a self-therapeutic exercise. If this actually gets posted, though, you can assume I thought it might be helpful to share it with you.

The question comes to me in the busiest weekend of the year: “How do we create ‘space to be heard?’” The context given was that “contemporary culture is hard of hearing,” and so those of us who are Conservative Evangelical Christians (I’m one, but the label doesn’t fit everyone I serve with, even at The Glenburn Community Church, just so you know.) retreat to where we “find echo chambers of agreement.” (Anyone who has been to one of our Adult Bible Studies knows how hilariously ironic that phrase is to Glenburn. Blessedly, “Theology-in-community gets loud sometimes!”)

Perhaps the question strikes me so strangely because of when it was asked. I need some space. But I’m not having trouble being heard.

Here’s what my schedule looks like at the moment. (Feel free to skip to the end of the schedule at whatever point you feel exhausted.)

Friday, 9:00-10:30a – correspondence, preparation for a course I’m teaching, and fine-tuning of Friday night’s homily; 

10:45a-1:30p – visit with staff, students, faculty, and parents before and after responsibilities as shot-clock operator for two games at our High School’s basketball tournament; 

1:30-2:05 – retrieve voice-mail, panic, and then track-down our maintenance chairperson to ensure that someone is repairing the non-functional sanctuary furnace prior to the 6:00 p.m. community event (see below) our church (i.e., our currently-solo pastor—me) is hosting; 

2:10-3:30 – help to lead singing, place ornaments, and watch refreshments being served to residents of our skilled nursing facility at the annual Christmas Tree Lighting; 4:00-5:00 – review notes for 6p event; 5:15-7:45 – turn up heat, turn on lights and sound, unlock buildings, check bathrooms, rearrange furniture, direct traffic, greet guests, play piano, open and close in prayer, present nine-minute homily as featured speaker, and provide after-service counseling at the Community Candlelight Remembrance Service sponsored by Mayers Memorial Hospital District/Intermountain Hospice and hosted by The Glenburn Community Church; 8:00 – get home and eat dinner and at some point fall into bed.

Saturday, 8:00-10:00a – change batteries, test equipment, unwrap candy-canes & fill Santa’s sack, greet Santa and Mrs. Claus, go over final instructions in preparation for “Laptop Photography” at Santa’s Workshop; 10:55-6:15 – Transport and set-up equipment, briefly train new assistant, photograph children and others on Santa’s lap as well as other portions of the Santa’s Workshop craft and art show, tear-down and transport equipment, thank and pay new assistant, have lunch with Santa and Mrs. Claus (thank and pay them, too), crop and adjust photos for packages bought as well as thank you gifts to others—all while receiving reports on the progress of the furnace issues, the reopening of a local restaurant, potential mandarin orange sales at the church, and a variety of physical-mental-emotional-spiritual health needs of friends, congregants, community members, and total strangers—then, uploading and ordering prints of the above; 6:15-9:15 – watch Ohio State lose to Michigan State in the Big Ten Championship Game while returning phone calls regarding family crises (one personal, one congregational); 9:15-10:30 – review sermon and service notes for Sunday worship at Glenburn.

Sunday, 5:00-7:00a give up on sleeping until 6:00 and writing this blog post instead; 7:00-8:00 – review sermon and service notes; 9:00a-1:00p – Sunday services, etc.; 1:30-early evening – Ornament-making in Johnson Park. (Johnson Park is a town, not an outdoor gathering place—the current “real feel temperature” is seventeen-below, but the high today should reach 29…which will feel like 32, they promise!)

Monday, 9:00a-3:00p – office hours, counseling, and whatever else is waiting for me on voice-mail and on the loveseats in my office; 5:00-9:00 or so – open and close in prayer, play piano, present nine-minute homily as featured speaker, and provide after-service counseling at the Community Candlelight Remembrance Service sponsored by Mayers Memorial Hospital District/Intermountain Hospice and hosted by Burney Presbyterian Community Church; have dinner with Hospice staff and volunteers; come home and fall into bed.

I have warned my congregation that if they call me on Tuesday morning, they deserve to hear “raw emotion expressed with brutal honesty.” (That perspective on some of David’s psalms is actually the theme of my homily from the Community Candlelight Remembrance Services. But I’m sure it will apply to those phone calls, as it may soon apply as well to some of the ongoing bumps, detours, and construction delays in my doctoral program. But I’ll keep the language clean. I promise.)

(here endeth the litany for today – more to follow)

The Misery of Company Promised and Withheld

Let me apologize to the entire Greater Portland Metropolitan Area’s inhabitants up front: I’m an outsider. An envious outsider at that. There are aspects of Portland, Oregon that remind me of the fondest of my memories of being an adolescent (with no apologies to Mark Driscoll for using that term—maybe we could talk sometime?) in San Francisco during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Yet there has been a significant passage of time since I last dwelt in an urban area, or even a moderate-density population area (i.e., suburb). Truth be told: the other day I was thrilled with myself that I still remembered how to successfully parallel park.

With that said, I think I may have advantages in anthropological and sociological distance, but severe liabilities when it comes to my few samples of “Life in Portland” over the past few years. Still, I believe my observations have some value, if not actual merit, and they have proven instructive to me for a specific purpose in my life and ministry. Perhaps you’ll be able to plow through the potentially offensive mistaken impressions I’ve gleaned, and recognize that there is some validity to the conclusion I’ve drawn, despite the faulty lenses through which my limited data is viewed. If you find the length too daunting, though, you can skip down to the paragraph that begins: “So, in short….”

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 It shows up in a variety of places here: “Keep Portland Weird.” I’m in town studying issues related to diversity, and it’s a perfect place to do so. There appears to be little to which the adjectives common, normal, average, or (especially) ordinary would apply. There’s even concern expressed over another concept, “Portland Cool,” as though that would become a standardizing commodification (branding, packaging, and promoting a static paradigm) of some aspects of Portland Weird. In fact, even if all aspects of Portland Weird as it exists today were included in Portland Cool, it would fail to account for new and stranger developments yet to come, perhaps as early as tomorrow, or even later tonight.

Here’s how I came to be at the intersection of Portland Weird and Portland Cool today.

First, as I drove to the church in which I chose to worship today, I determined not to arrive in the full array of clergy vestments current to my tradition. And so, my shirt had long sleeves, and it was tucked into my pants. I even wore a tie, as I do every Sunday. While this successfully differentiated me from all participants on the worship team, it was also unique among the several hundred who attended that worship hour. This, coupled with my age (I’m significantly outside the 18-34 year old demographic.), may have created a kind of anthropological distance in others, turning them toward either observation or avoidance mode. (Xenophobia is discussed in a previous post.)

Second, however mistaken my perception may be (that I managed to dress outside the range of what is acceptable under “Portland Weird”), I did experience “Portland Cool.” Thankfully, there was ample room within this church’s meeting place. I admit to taking up all of the one seat in which I sit (though the weight loss continues to go well). But the buffer zone of several seats in either direction, extending as it did into the rows before and behind me, might also play a part in seeking to ensure that similar visitors never return. There simply wouldn’t be room to allow the same size boundaries to be drawn around more than a handful of visitors in any given service.

As you read this, I would agree with your reasonable conclusion that I am a nitpicking whiner. My inadequate justification (that, on those very few Sundays when I have respite from my responsibilities, I want the excellent experience offered on the websites of the churches I carefully research) is exactly that: inadequate. The grace I hope God extends me through visitors to the congregation I serve is sometimes in short supply through me when I am the visitor. When my needs to simply participate among a congregation in which I hold no leadership responsibilities—when these are condensed into only three or four Sundays a year, I can tend to expect a great deal more than is possible in any one service. And this service held a great deal of blessing, and some truly extraordinary elements of great importance to me. It should have been a simple matter to overlook the perceptible distancing and the sideways glances. And I believe it would have been, if only…

If only the first words spoken directly to me by another human being were not, “Excuse me,” as they moved past during the communion service. And if only the last words, “Good morning” as I was leaving, hadn’t been followed by an immediate turn to say the same to another. And if only there had been any other words spoken to me at all by anyone, except those spoken to the congregation of which I was, most definitely, not a part. (And, frankly, my perceptions would have been kinder if only I hadn’t been left to research and mapquest a congregation for myself. If only there had been any invitation to any church by any one of the dozens of Christians with whom I had interacted during the prior week…I might have been feeling more gracious.)

So, in short, there appears to be a limit to the range available in Portland Weird, at least within one congregation that is seeking to identify with a more indigenous (and/or younger, and/or untucked) population. And yet there seemed to be a perfectly fulfilled breadth to Portland Cool, at least where it applies to the attitudes of Christians toward…well, not the weird, of course. Maybe just toward me.

And it’s that conclusion that I believe is absolutely untenable.

I was greatly blessed by my experience at this church, despite the issues I raise above. But I say all this as a reminder to myself, for repentance beginning next Sunday, when I return to where it is that I am, still—after ten years—in many ways, weird. (We mostly tuck our shirts in. But there are only two of us who regularly wear ties.) In the other blessings of this morning’s worship service, for the tangible presence of Christ in that body, for the demonstration during the announcements of what some consider the third ordinance (church planting) in addition to the celebration of the Lord’s table, and numerous baptisms…I came away feeling like I had been touched by the very grace of Christ, spoken to by His Spirit, and reminded, and even deepened, in my experience of the Father’s love. But I also came away feeling like my brothers and sisters in Christ were at least indifferent to me, and perhaps even averse to whatever my age and attire represented to them.

But here’s what bothers me most: I know that there are those who have left services in which they have worshiped with the congregation I love like life itself…facing similar experiences, and carrying the same concerns about us.

May God help me, it won’t happen again.