Green Lights Aplenty, Yet I Still Only Hope for Hope

 This morning a friend, who has played basketball at levels higher than I ever dreamed, likened my recent increase in ministry and employment opportunities to the momentum a team experiences when there has been even a brief series of successes on defense and/or offense. A few three-pointers, or a couple of steals in a row, or any number of other combinations can propel one side forward. What had been a close contest moves toward a seemingly inevitable victory. When one player is finding a great deal of that success, it has been said that they have a “green light” to take whatever shot they choose.

Eavesdropping on conversations in the publishing and motion picture production industries, I have also learned what it means to “green light” a project. Here are some of the green lights that have recently begun falling into place for me.

One of those green lights this week was the scheduling of my dissertation defense (also referred to by some as the presentation of my ministry project paper) for April 4. Because this really is a presentation, and not the kind of defense you can “lose,” I now know that I will, in fact, graduate from Multnomah Biblical Seminary in Portland, Oregon on Friday, May 12. Four years of work will have culminated in being a Doctor of Ministry. (I’d use the abbreviation, but some enjoy pronouncing it “demon.” So, well…no.)

Any discussion of green lights has to
eventually get to F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Right?

Another green light, in the sense of getting the go-ahead with other aspects of my ministry, is the invitation I have accepted to serve Multnomah Biblical Seminary as an adjunct professor this fall. I will be teaching one course, being on campus in Reno for just two Friday-Saturday face-to-face sessions with students, and covering the rest of those responsibilities from the internet-connection (which interestingly has failed yet again while I type this) here in my office at the house in Fall River Mills. That means I get to continue being pastor of The Glenburn Community Church, and be a seminary professor as well. Gravy!

Still another green light comes from being part of the faculty for Right On Mission Vocational Seminary. I accepted an invitation this week along with others from the faculty being funded (as in “all-expense-paid”) by Church United. We will be participating in a conference in Washington D.C. entitled “Watchmen on the Wall” late this May. This is a great opportunity to better understand some of the priorities and perspectives of those within our government and from within the Evangelical tradition’s church leadership.

The view from Jay's dock?

Finally, this last “green light” borders on irony, if not the sublimely ridiculous. As some of you may remember, there had been a number of hateful misrepresentations made about me to the faculty and staff of my three-time alma mater,[1] Simpson University, where I was serving at the time as an adjunct professor, preparing to teach “Old Testament: Kings and Prophets.” In short, the President, Provost, and Board Chairman had all suggested, recommended, and requested (though not respectively in that order) to the new dean of the seminary that I be relieved of my responsibilities. To shorten a long story, I did teach my class that following Spring. But I have not had a similar opportunity since. And yet, this past Thursday, I was blessed to guest-lecture in that dean’s Pastoral Care course on what I refer to as “pastoral thanatology”—encouraging and equipping our students to serve our dying and bereaved neighbor. Following that morning’s session, we discussed how we might go about getting similar training into the hands, hearts, and minds of others throughout the Central Pacific District of the Christian and Missionary Alliance (my ordaining denomination).

Neil Hilborn - conveniently attired.

So, I am seeing a lot of green lights.

And that brings two others into view. Some of us who paid more attention in high school’s American Literature class may only need to Google the second reference. Others who are more attuned to social media may only need to Google the first reference. Those of you who immediately recognize both—well, you are doubly blessed, indeed! I do hope, though, that all of you take the time to fully understand what these last two green lights mean to me.

It has been nearly forty years since I first read about Jay Gatsby’s green light, and all the hopes for future success and satisfaction that distant glimmer represented. Gatsby’s green light, of course, never fell fully within his grasp. I have fears about that green light, and the attractive illusion that somehow there is a point of arrival, after which I can say, “I am done.”

Don't blame the fixture.
It's just letting you know it's there.

It has been a much shorter time since I became acquainted with the work of Neil Hilborn. Because the signs at each door of my office’s building glow green, I think of his “exit sign” as another kind of green light. I have fears about that green light as well. It is, for me, no illusion at all that there could be a point of arrival, after which I could say, “I am done,” even though, lately, in the words of Mr. Hilborn, the show has “never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave.”

So, for all those who imagine that all we need is for a few things to go well, to go right, or to go not-quite-so-badly, and we’ll be feeling much better shortly, I’ll tell you this. For all the other green lights I have seen so recently, it is my fear of these two others, Gatsby’s and Hilborn’s, that dominates my thoughts, even now.

---

[1] To refresh your memory: I hold a bachelor’s from Simpson College, a master’s of ministry in pastoral counseling from The Simpson Graduate School of Ministry, and a master’s of divinity from A.W. Tozer Theological Seminary. In total, the four members of my immediate family have earned four bachelor’s, three master’s, and two teaching credentials, and all four of us have been employees of the college/university/seminary, some among us on multiple occasions. 

Prayer – A Remedy to My Perceptions of (and Frustrations over) Futility

In the series of four posts that follow this one, I explore three stages of ministry development that I have seen. Affecting both new pastors in an established congregation, and newly-planted congregations within a community, these stages are first “Putting Out Fires,” then “Spinning the Plates,” and finally “Finding Your Traction.” There may be stages beyond these, but having served over three decades in ministry, with my longest tenure being my current position at The Glenburn Community Church, I have still engaged in finding my traction.

There is always the option of
choosing not to play the game.

But each of these three stages carries particular threats to ministry’s longevity—again, whether the ministry of a particular pastor, or the ministry of a recently-planted congregation. In this post, I want to examine how the potential for being consumed by the fires one would put out, or how allowing the spinning plates to wobble and fall could result in being dismissed, or how a failure to find your traction would result in perceiving only the futility of the alternative: spinning your wheels.

I would note that a perception of futility, and the frustrations that follow, is more often only a perception. At the risk of excessively repeating myself, it is essential to remember that in our service to Christ and others, we are responsible only for obedience in answer to “What would Jesus have me do?” God is the One who is on the hook for the results and consequences. Therefore, whether we recognize what results from our faithful service should be irrelevant.

Perception is reality? Not often.

But it is also possible to assume that we are being faithful, to ignore the evident lack of results to our ministry, and to presume that God is using the resources of faithfulness that we, in fact, are failing to supply. How can that be? E.M. Bounds would answer that such is the case when we gravitate toward either of “two extreme tendencies in the ministry.” (“Tendencies to Be Avoided,” The Complete Works of E.M. Bounds, 14) Some would shut themselves away from humanity in order to focus on becoming closer to God. Others, in their focus on becoming closer to humanity, popularizing their ministry, drift far from their devotions to God.

Whether in examining the personal ministry in which any of engages as individuals, or in considering the newly-planted congregations where some of us have served, our evaluation can never be reliable, or even stable, if based on our perception of whether this or that activity brought about its intended result. Instead, Bounds would recommend, our evaluation must be grounded in the simple (though not terribly easy) question of whether our words and deeds answer the question, “What would Jesus have me do?”

There's always a bright side on which to look!

How do we find the answer to that question? Only through prayer. How do we find the time and energy for praying through at such a level? Again, here is bounds on our motivation: “Talking to men for God is a great thing, but talking to God for men is greater still.” There is a lot I could say about Bounds’ warnings to those of us whose education, intellect, talents, and other “ministry skills” allow us to celebrate our own efforts and their results.

Which is the point of living by faith, right?

Suffice to say, I recognize that my abilities more often accomplish two detrimental effects in the body of Christ. First, the perception that others in a congregation do not “measure up” in musical talents, public speaking eloquence, or any other standard causes many to withhold their own gifts and abilities from serving Christ and others. Second, and more egregious, I confidently rely on my ability to express myself eloquently (sometimes musically, but more often in the spoken word, especially in perceptions of my professional praying) to compensate for my tendency to spend far more time in preparing my words than in praying to receive God’s words through God’s Word.

So, the alternative question I am contemplating today is this: “What if the only thing that resulted from my life and ministry was that which God accomplished in answer to my praying?” I don’t dare hazard an answer without implementing its implications.

The Imposter Syndrome and Other Untreatable Conditions

Passed along by my friend, Emily Hendrix,
this illustrates, for me, the struggle many of us face.

Does it help to know there is a name for your condition? Sometimes.

The Frustration of Undiagnosed Symptoms

Over the past few years, I have experienced a particular set of symptoms that strikes, inconveniently, for only between twenty-four and forty-eight hours in duration. Thankfully, I am debilitated by it for only about twelve of those hours. And whereas it had been happening more frequently, the increased severity of each attack has accompanied an increased interval between episodes. Still, there is a growing frustration since the average time between requesting and receiving an appointment with anyone in the medical community here in the remote mountains of northern California is between two and three weeks. So, attempting to diagnose what might have been happening a fortnight ago has proved to be an elusive objective.

Am I worried about what it might be? To some extent, yes. Certainly, of the seventeen or so potential diseases suggested by our friends at WebMD, MedLine, and the Symptom Checker on the Mayo Clinic’s site, none would be particularly welcome diagnoses. But when compared with the utter lack of diagnosis, at least there would be some comfort in knowing what treatment to pursue, or even that treatment were impossible. In fact, among my many conversations with the sick and dying, I have found ample testimony to this reality: it can be greatly liberating to know that there is nothing you are supposed to be doing about your disease, other than functioning the best you can, while you can, whenever you can.

Sometimes we feel like an imposter,
just because we don't quite measure up
to our perceptions of others.

The Freedom in Naming the Illness

Whatever frustrations I am experiencing regarding my physical health, they have until recently paled in comparison with certain aspects of my mental health. But there has been recent improvement on that front. Of course, we do face the same kinds of frustrations in seeking psychological diagnosis and treatment as we face in trying to see a physician around here. And actually the biggest element in the improvement has been the ability, finally, to name the greatest part of my struggle. In fact, I have found that many write on the subject, especially in regard to those of us pursuing advanced academic degrees. It apparently afflicts doctoral students the worst, not least because we are pursuing what many would call a “terminal” degree. (Though in my case, with a second doctorate still on the horizon…maybe I should call mine merely a “hospice-consult” degree.)

In any case, I strongly identify with what has been labeled “The Imposter Syndrome.” In short, I have allowed myself to vacillate between two aspects of pride. At times, I do overestimate the value of some of my abilities. That mode is actually helpful when called to intervene in crisis and trauma—an intercessor’s confidence is indispensible to those in need. More often, though, I underestimate my value as a person while simultaneously overestimating the eventual reaction people will have “once they realize who I really am.” The nightmare of being “discovered” persists despite the fact that I practice authenticity, transparency, and vulnerability almost constantly, and frequently annoyingly. Not only do I strongly recommend this to others, I sometimes enjoy the shock others experience when I pursue “playing with all the cards face-up on the table.” Not everyone wants to know every thought, every struggle, nor even every victory I experience. But if, in their discomfort with what I choose to share, they are encouraged to live their lives more openly, “being who they are,” then I still feel that even the worst of my “over-sharing” is a benefit to them (fulfilling the spirit and letter of Ephesians 4:29, which has long been a goal of mine).

To sum up, knowing that there is a name for this neurosis means that others experience it, too. It also helps to read the reflections of others so afflicted. The best treatment I have found is to allow myself to say aloud, “This is who I am.” Not to indulge my pride and hold myself in higher esteem than is appropriate, but neither to indulge my pride—just the same—and hold myself in lower esteem than is appropriate. Pride involves too much self-esteem just as much as too little. O, to be Goldilocks! and know what qualifies as being “just right.” But I feel I am getting there.

Even Greater Freedom in Naming My Faith

Now, about the physical disease, whatever it ends up being, about which I would ask you to pray.

You may have noticed that I did not name the symptoms I am experiencing. That is a result of the Pavlovian behavior reinforcement that causes me to wince at even the thought of asking fellow Christians to pray specifically and intelligently for any particular need. If you have never asked for prayer in a public worship service, or even a small study group, then you might be unfamiliar with the pattern. In short, any reassuring follow-up (that would later suggest that people actually had been praying for you) is extremely rare in comparison with experiencing the line that may form or even encircle you after the meeting in which you shared. These are not, generally, formed by people seeking to pray with you in that moment. No, these primarily include the amateur diagnosticians who recognize one or some of your symptoms as having some resemblance to those experienced by their friend or family member. What most often follows is a prescription to engage in and/or avoid whatever treatments or therapies did or did not restore their acquaintance to health. Still, this is far preferable to the gloomy prognosticians who recognize in your symptoms the path to dire consequences that befell their friend or family member. They seem unable to restrain themselves from describing in detail these consequences, whether they involve catastrophic dysfunction, cruel disfigurement, or culmination in death.

What does that have to do with the imposter syndrome? Plenty. Because the identity crisis within Christendom centers on this very issue. Many nominal Christians (i.e., those who claim the title of being “a Christian”) worry, and rightly so, about whether they really are a Christian—especially since there are so many competing definitions of what qualifies one to make such a claim. Usually, the solution to these existential doubts is offered by some well-meaning (or rabidly proselytizing) Christian or other—“If you were attending ‘The (Right) Church,’ then you would not be worried about being ‘A (Right) Christian.’” The correctness of any particular branch of Christianity’s vine, though, is variably defined, depending upon the venue. For some, the right church is a self-help society. Others see their purpose in being a political-action committee, or a moral-crusading cultural influence. I gravitate toward fellowshipping where there is a categorically-oriented doctrinal examination being pursued by a cadre of religious philosophers. But none of this means “we are the right church for you,” much less that you will be “A Right Christian” by attending with us.

So, what does make a church a church, and a Christian a Christian? At the risk of oversimplifying, let me suggest that at its core, no matter what accessorizing any Christian or church may choose as their particular style of “dressing-up” the gospel, we are called to be in a relationship with God through Christ. And if we claim to have a relationship, then we should be most clearly notable in our communication—our constant conversation within the most important relationship we will ever have. Whatever other “imposter” issues I may have, I have no problem, nor lack of confidence in saying, “I am a Christian.” How do I know? I converse with God. I do not merely talk about, nor only to God. But I engage in a dialogue that is enhanced by careful study of God’s word, illuminated as He has promised by His Holy Spirit, and made possible because of the atonement provided through the life, death, resurrection, and intercession of Jesus Christ.

So, if you struggle with the imposter syndrome with regard to your identification as a Christian, simply ask yourself, “How is the conversation going?” (And…when someone asks you to pray for them, remember that they usually mean for you to take up the matter in conversation with God.)

“Who Is Qualified to Advocate for Me?” – On (Some of) the Frustrations of Mental Illness

(When you get tired of the whining, just jump to the paragraph after where it’s marked, “Here’s the important point.”)

I am tempted to joke, again, about the Ann Hedonia film festival. I could give you an imaginary roster of “famous film noir classics” in which the protagonist manages to maintain a dour demeanor of depressed indifference, even as tragically heroic actions preserve and protect others, without emotionally, mentally, socially, physically, or spiritually benefitting the movie’s central character.

Still, Ann Hedonia keeps making personal appearances, bringing her black dog along with her. And even though her roots are starting to show, that doesn’t stop her from bringing the twins out to offer their equally sour succulents, spines and all. She fulfills her usual typecasting, diminishing any desire to pursue otherwise enjoyable activities. But she’s expanded her repertoire to include a diminished enjoyment of even those activities I manage to pursue. In short, I don’t do fun stuff. And on those occasions when I do what used to be fun stuff, I don’t find it fun. And that’s before the black dog finds a quiet corner in which to do his business.

You won’t find her at IMDB (Internet Movie Data Base), and searching for her elsewhere may lead you to some very different conclusions than her personification of anhedonia, the inability to derive pleasure from otherwise pleasurable activities. As you can imagine, there is no fan club. (I think Sylvia Plath talked about maybe trying to organize something, but she doesn’t return my calls.)

If it seems that I am stalling, then you’re being perceptive. If you know me well, then you probably know that there have been good reasons to be, temporarily, sad. True, the San Francisco Giants are not in the playoffs, but it’s an odd-numbered year. And whatever business the Forty-Niners are pursuing is likely to self-correct, eventually. But some of you know about the long string of close personal deaths. Others are aware of the disappointing return on several deeply personal investments (involving the return of the abused to their abuser, the addict to their addiction, and the repeated disappearances of the purportedly devoted). There are other struggles that I pretend are invisible even to those closest to me. But the lie is wearing thin.

Yet all of you, I imagine—and, frankly, I myself—remain acutely aware of the many resources, benefits, and blessings not only available, but stocked deep in my personal inventory. And that’s where the key problem lies for many of us.

I perceive myself as having no standing from which to advocate for those experiencing mental illness. I am functioning, even as I find it difficult to have fun. (And I really do believe that fun is overrated as an evaluative category of life anyway.) Many others are struggling far more with far less ability to do anything about it. I can afford the counselor that I, until recently, avoided. I can adjust my diet and exercise in an attempt to foster endorphin production. (And I have, but it didn’t. Hence the counselor appointment.) There is no legitimate reason for me to be depressed—which further depresses me while simultaneously shaming me. No wonder I don’t get invited to many parties any more.

And yet, if I cannot speak about depression because I am not depressed enough, am I asking those who are more depressed than I am to bear the greater burden for communicating their needs? It would seem so.

But I was recently told that I could not advocate on behalf of a population whose status I do not share. The message was clear: those in need are the only ones with the right to speak of their need. But they don’t, any more than I willingly speak of my own minor difficulties. And yet, as those difficulties have worsened, I find that I wish someone else would advocate on behalf of this population in which I am numbered. Because I have been less and less willing to speak. In some ways, I feel like this post is something like a shout back toward town from edge of the growing chasm that threatens to swallow everything I know and love. I may not choose to say more.

Granted, the breaks between segments of the football game invite me to celebrate with them. McDonald’s now serves breakfast all day long (and the Twitter-pated are ecstatically emoji-ing over the news). Kia is finally building a vehicle for football families. The average military family can save over three hundred and forty-five million dollars by selecting USAA as their financial institution. And there are even more reasons coming at the next commercial break for celebrating life in these United States. But even in the face of these amazing developments, and “the power of Kaepernick” (in the words of the commentator enjoying the Niners’ quarterback as he leads the first sustained drive of the game), I find that my hopes, minimal as they are, rest…well, where? Not with me. Not with my self-help attempts. And not really with the counselor who comes so highly recommended.

But I am going. And I am hoping. Before it gets any worse. I think you should know why.

(Here’s the important point.)

This is why I am admitting my malaise, and moving toward the care I believe I need:

I recently heard a caregiver explain how strong they were, how much they were enduring, and how they would know when it was time for them to abdicate their role, turning the care of a loved one over to others. They expressed that they would not wait too long. When they were “ninety-nine percent done,” they promised, they would let others know to take up the slack of their absence.

My objection to their plan, as gently put as I knew how, was that when others have to respond, it would be good for there to be a little more than one percent of the caregiver’s attentions available, if for no other reason than to share with their replacement(s) what needed to be done in their stead. We agreed on eighty-five percent of their capacity as allowing enough time to make such a transition. But even at eighty percent, there is the possibility of crisis, of personal illness, or of any other unforeseen circumstances that might suddenly push them past their capacity. Engaging in some self-care in order to prolong their availability, and even to alleviate some of the pressure that has pushed them toward the end of their abilities, they may find themselves not only able to provide the care they want to give, but to be healthier in doing so as well.

If I, then, having advised others, choose to run my life too deeply into the high ninety percent range, then I am pretending that there will not be another string of close personal deaths, or other disappointments, or discord, dysfunction, or further debility among those I love. The reality is that I should expect more of the same. I serve a congregation where the average age is significantly higher than my own. The health of my immediate and extended family is unlikely to improve radically any time soon. Oh, and I continue to form close personal friendships with Hospice patients who are, by policy, supposed to be dying relatively soon.

So, before I use up too much more of whatever margin actually remains, I will be talking it over with a competent mental health professional. And if anything I have described in any of the above resonates with you, I pray that you do the same. But if you’re waiting for someone to advocate for you…I find that I can only advocate to you that you avail yourself of whatever resources you can.