“The Snit Hitting My Plans” – The Joys of Communication, and the Lack Thereof

The face has been changed to protect the...whomever.

I’ve been yelled at before. But it was the first time I’d been spit on—at least while seated at my desk in the church office; I’d actually been spit on before, but that’s another story for another time. This time was inadvertent, an unintended side-effect. She was simply frothing in fury and, as she spat out her words, a bit of sputum was inadvertently expectorated upon me as she stood and shouted across my desk.

Her charges against me centered on my willful disregard of a parishioner’s needs. The member had been ill, hospitalized, and recovering over the past several weeks, and I had not made so much as a single appearance at her bedside. That was all true, of course. In fact, my last visit with that elderly woman had been at her going-away party, after helping her to pack to move closer to her children (as I recall the reason) roughly six hours away on the coast of Northern California. She had not, in fact, moved, though. Except to a room in our local hospital a day or so after her party. Not that anyone thought I needed to be told that, of course.

This is not what Proverbs 25:11ff means.

Fair enough that the woman verbally excoriating me couldn’t know that I didn’t know. That’s what Pastor-Parish Relations Committees are for, you know.

Here’s one of the faulty assumptions I’ve seen people make during the thirty-plus years I’ve served in the church: Pastors know everything. We have a prayer-life unlike that of mere mortals, in which the Holy Spirit guides and informs us on the conditions and circumstances of those for whom we have ministerial responsibility. There is no need to inform the pastor through natural means (telephone, e-mail, post-it notes), since they are supernaturally attuned to God’s agenda, which clearly includes every member in every need receiving an immediate call from the senior or solo pastor.

Fair enough that everyone imagines someone else will tell me everything. That’s simply motivation to increase the frequency of my random pastoral visitation.

Among things I was apparently supposed to know this week: Our congregation’s deacons’ fund (labeled “benevolent fund” in some churches) has been sitting at $40 for some months now (not nearly enough to assist with a family’s funeral expenses—their dad and mom died within fifteen minutes of each other, and the family doesn’t have enough cash-on-hand to cover either, much less both). I found this out when I called to leave voice-mail for our deacons (in our small congregation, just one board-appointed couple), in hopes that they might check messages while apparently gone on one of the multi-week trips some of our retirees often take. Only when his wife answered the phone did I get the news that they weren’t leaving until the following day, and that the reason I hadn’t seen them in church the past few weeks was that they had decided to attend elsewhere.

...or that area, or any area, preferably.

Fair enough that they assumed I would eventually figure this out on my own. That’s why I should delegate more things more often to the deacons (once we have some again).

Of course, it may be that this information was going to be shared with me at our monthly board meeting this past Monday night. But without an agenda, or any other participants besides our treasurer, the two of us in attendance reviewed the budget for next year, especially the missions-giving proposals, and the need to approve advertising our Christmas Eve service in the local papers. When speaking to our board secretary two days later, I referred to the minimal attendance and the “unofficial” nature of any decisions due to a lack of quorum. She seemed surprised that neither the treasurer nor I had been told that the chairman canceled the meeting.

"Don't pick your nose in the library."

Fair enough that we would realize that when no one else showed up. That’s when I could have rejoiced in the “found time” in my schedule, except that I’d used it up by calling the chairman and other board members, listening to each of their cheery voice-mail greetings. (I must note, though, the one pleasant exception being the Elder I called to get additional phone numbers.)

At least for the past several weeks I’ve had a little respite from some of the responsibilities in my doctoral program. Around Thanksgiving my research and writing for the two major papers this year were put on hold pending clarifications and further instructions from the professor leading our track. This “found time” has really helped me finish up the last of the online postings for the course I’m teaching this Spring. Today’s goal: getting the last of the written materials polished and uploaded onto “Moodle,” our online course platform for Tozer. Tomorrow: recording the first of the lectures that will be included in the course.

So…what am I doing procrastinating with a blog-post?

"The Sympathy Symphony"

Well, I’m not so much procrastinating as I am processing. It seems other students in my doctoral program were informed of the changes, clarifications, and additional requirements back on the eighth of December. I’ve re-checked the online discussion form, the news forum, and my e-mails on the hard-drive, and both universities’ servers. Nothing there. In fact, I only knew to ask what others were talking about because they had posted their observations on some of the new details that had been shared with them.

Fair enough that word would eventually trickle-down to me before I leave for the end-of-year grand-children tour. That’s how “theology-in-community” works. Checking-in on the discussions, noticing the allusions to the changes, and now incorporating them into something other than the paper I thought I was going to write. I just need to pack along the laptop. (My grandchildren are young; they nap.) And I should be glad to have found out in time to do the additional research. And…

Don't you wish you'd chosen to? You could turn back.

Well, that’s more rant than you want to read. Whatever vestiges of my sense of humor may have led you this far have been exhausted. So…

Is there a point to any of this? Yes, I believe there is.

You see, on the eve of the auction dismantling what remains of my aunt and uncle’s estate, there are other reasons for the snit I’m in. All of this week’s events followed the revelation late last week that efforts toward dismissing me from one of my teaching positions (Adjunct Professor with A.W. Tozer Theological Seminary, overseen by Simpson University) not only flowed from the university’s Interim President through the Provost, only stopping at the desk of the new dean of the Seminary because he dared to ask, “On what grounds am I supposed to dismiss him?” Among the first questions posed by the university’s chairperson of the board upon meeting the new dean was, “What are you going to do about Bill Myers?” 

Yes, really.

...and also when they won't.

Fair enough that six-figure-salaried administrators need to focus on whether an Adjunct Professor is worthy of his $1845.00 (that’s the total stipend for teaching Old Testament: Kings & Prophets this Spring). That’s why I insist that “speaking the truth in love” has to begin with “speaking the truth.”

But that’s also why, maybe, considering the source(s), I should actually wish for a little less communication. At least until we’re ready to speak the truth.

If you’re done with me being your pastor, your professor, your co-instructor, guest-lecturer, chaplain, protégé, student, friend, or whatever else I may be or have been…well, let’s pretend just a little longer, shall we? At least until after the holidays. But then, whether loving or not, say it, would you? 

Proverbs 27:5-6a: “Better is open rebuke than love that is concealed. Faithful are the wounds of a friend.” And refreshing would be the candor of any of the above.

“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)

How a duck helped me be happier with who I am.

As seen from Sky City, the Space Needle restaurant.

My ambitions border on arrogance. And my passport is stamped with too many crossings between the two.

When I read theology, I long to have the hours to pursue, prepare, and present my own perspectives. When I see Christians in conflict I want to step in to resolve the core issues and reconcile their relationships. When I sit with the dying, I wish that more families would accept the spiritual care facilitation and counseling that our Hospice offers. When I preach, teach, visit, and counsel at The Glenburn Community Church, I simply want to be the best pastor ever. When I interact with those who are employed full-time in death education, bereavement intervention, and grief counseling (part of my work in Thanatology—the study of death, dying, bereavement, grief, and mourning), I strongly desire to keep current on the research and its implications for my doctoral program. (Which reminds me: I also want to be the most scholarly, pastoral, culturally-engaged, relevant and deeply spiritual Christ-follower Multnomah Biblical Seminary has ever seen.) And when I spend Thanksgiving surrounded by the ten people I love most in this world, I want to be attentive, loving, patient, generous, kind, and especially not distracted by whether I remembered to print out the bulletin inserts for Sunday, or whether I can sanction my guests for putting powdered caramel-vanilla creamer in 100% Kona coffee. (So, let’s not ask how that worked out for me, okay? I really am sorry I said anything.)

This was our duck for the day.

Here’s what brought these competing, overlapping, and exhausting pursuits to a head recently.

In the course of two master’s degrees, I actually had to take the same course twice. I was blessed by two vastly different sets of content (Major Prophets in one, post-exilic Minor Prophets in the other), taught by two eminently qualified Old Testament scholars (Dr. Mark Boda and Dr. Bruce Baloian—real experts: as in, these guys write commentaries, etc.). Now, in my first assignment as a “real” seminary professor (I’ve been guest-lecturer and co-instructor at Multnomah, but now I’m “the professor of record” for my alma mater, A.W. Tozer Theological Seminary.), I am teaching a similar class. “Old Testament: Kings and Prophets” (OTK&P) is a course I am uniquely suited to teach, but having studied under Boda and Baloian, I wish I had another master’s, or even just an article or two published in JSOT (The Journal for the Study of the Old Testament). I don’t. Nor will I. My Hebrew skills are not the reason I’m teaching OTK&P, and I think it will be a better experience for my students as a result. But I still wish there was time to jot a few notes for JSOT, just the same.

Offering easy single-file loading.

In the midst of all this, here’s how a duck helps me keep my sanity, despite my arrogant ambitions.

In 2009, as part of our twenty-fifth anniversary vacation (finally taking us where our honeymoon trip was supposed to have, instead of the Kaiser Hospital in San Diego—another story for another time), my wife and I spent a couple of days in Seattle before embarking on an Alaskan cruise. There in Seattle, to get the quickest tourist-oriented overview (and in honor of my wife’s long-held attraction to all things “rubber-duck”), we “rode the ducks” at a business unsurprisingly named “Ride the Ducks.” Piloted by Captain Credible (“Please, use my full name: Justin Credible.”) We toured Seattle in an amphibious World War II landing craft, including a plunge into and cruise past the sights of Lake Union. The major difference between the equally fascinating land and sea portions of the voyage? On Lake Union, we weren’t holding up traffic.

You see, Sparkman & Stephens are competent marine architects. They make good boats. GMC makes reasonably useful trucks, and did so especially during WWII. The result of their collaboration, the DUKW six-wheel-drive amphibious truck (more information here: http://www.ridetheducksofseattle.com/history.htm), was described by Roderic Stephens, Jr. (Yes, one of those Stephenses.) this way: “She’s not very fast, but she’s better in water than any truck, and she’ll beat any boat on a highway.”

Captain Credible drives (not too) deep into Lake Union.

During our tour through Seattle, we saw no other trucks on Lake Union. There were no other boats cruising along the streets and highways. But I can imagine that Mr. Stephens’ assessment is accurate.

Is it possible to be the best Conservative Evangelical pastor among the Thanatology and Hospice communities? The fact is, there’s not a lot of competition there. Is it possible to be the best Thanatologist among Conservative Evangelical pastors? If my experience is any indicator, then I’m alone in that endeavor. So, instead of trying to out-scholar McGrath, Carson, Erickson, Witherington, Wright, and others, or out-thanatologize Doka, Worden, Rando, Klass, Neimeyer, the Corrs, or anyone else—can I simply accept who I’ve been made to be, and do what I can uniquely provide to each group I’m called to serve? Yes, probably. But only to the extent that I accept the expertise and experience of others, and the privilege of communicating their excellent work between those two communities.

“Missional” and its “Trial-Sized Free Sample” form

Mosaix 2013

Note: The following is a bit academic, and somewhat narrowly focused on the concerns of Christian leadership for the congregations and communities we are called to serve. There are, however, some parts of the post below that I think almost anyone might find interesting, provocative, or even entertaining. Where you find the need to question or comment, please do, and I’ll respond as soon as possible.

Recently, in the online forum component of my doctoral program, my friend Mark Nicklas posted notes from one of the plenary speakers at the Mosaix Multicultural Church Conference. Efrem Smith also led a workshop entitled The Post-Black, Post-White Church, in which he compared The White Church, The Black Church, The First Century Church, and our need of a church that is Biblical (reflecting the mosaic of God’s design), Missional (in that we are called to serve the least of the least—Mathew 25:31-40), Multicultural (reflecting the demographics of our communities), Connectional (“all of us eating at the same table”), and Devotional (“where we get closer and closer to Jesus”).

Efrem Smith

This raised the question for me, “Which is the cart and which is the horse?” That is, given the reality of holding only one task at a time in clear focus, is there one of these definitions that encompasses the rest? If you’ve read much of this blog, or listened to even a few of my sermons (available here: http://www.glenburnchurch.com/sermon_.html), then you know my preference “to serve the least of the least.” I’ll try to focus on that in a post before too long. But for now, here’s my contemplation of that “Missional” focus.

Referencing Mark’s notes from Smith’s lecture, “We need a church that is…”

I would choose “Missional,” except that my seemingly allergic reaction to the term probably signifies toxic overexposure to its usual additives and impurities. Calling it “cruciform, sacrificial servanthood” requires just as much explanation, but I think that’s a more precise label, even if equally prone to misuse.

If, however, the cruciform, sacrificial servanthood on which the Apostle Paul expands in II Corinthians 4 is correlated to the Matthew 25 sheep under the “Missional” banner, then the following seems to follow logically.

"Try Our Bite-Sized Sampler Plate"

The “Missional” approach and its resulting congregational demographic is Biblical. Where it builds relationships with individuals, families, organizations, and structures within the community we are called to serve, it is integrally Missional and authentically Connectional. And where it engages the needs of that community, overwhelming as they are, it is Devotional: we realize quickly that we cannot continue even marginally in this kind of ministry without getting “closer and closer to Jesus.”

Is that what we mean by Missional? Or do we buy into “Missional-Lite?” I find that I react strongly to the clichéd, seminar-driven, “take this home and try it” version of “Missional.” It seems designed as a “trial-sized free sample” to be topically applied to the façade of a church wanting nothing more than fresher marketing materials.

But I also don’t hold real hope for most churches’ efforts to “absorb these concepts into their DNA.” The congregational heart transplant necessary can only be prescribed once diagnosed, and only diagnosed when the symptoms are exacerbated by exertion. Bed-ridden, atrophying bodies of Christ only abound because we withdraw from our communities, pretending that authentic life in Christ can happen even when constrained within the four walls of the church (or in reclusive mono-cultural Christian networks).

"Come here when you're hurting."

"You're hurting? We're on our way!"

Imagining the local church as a hospital or, worse, a self-help social club, is far too prevalent. We frequently presume, often correctly, that those in the communities we are called to serve recognize their own damaged, diseased, and dysfunctional condition. But we also presume, tragically, that they are somehow attracted to a gospel of help and hope…available only by congregating among Christians who recoil from them, rejecting their neighborhoods, and who “rescue” their own children from the community’s schools.

Adopting a few slogans, teaching some lessons, and preaching a six-week sermon series on “the mission-field on our doorstep” is a topical analgesic, numbing us to the realities around us while we congratulate ourselves on being “Missional.” But where there is even one who begins to serve the needs of their neighbors, who might then be joined by others who see the interrelationships of other needs and others in need, and then, whether “congregationally-approved, sanctioned, and/or budgeted” or not, engages in ministry as a member of both the community and congregation—even these first steps will strain the weak heart of most churches.

But as anyone who’s undergone competent cardiac rehab knows: that’s a good thing.

 

Resentment’s Resilience, even in the face of Verified Validation

The Glenburn Community Church

I resented having to be in church yesterday. And yes, I mean the beloved congregation that I consider myself extraordinarily blessed to serve as pastor. I didn’t want to be there.

Yesterday, in West Union, Ohio at 1:00 p.m. EST (roughly fifteen minutes after our Sunday morning Bible study convened out here in Glenburn, California), my Uncle Harmon Dryden officiated the funeral of my Uncle Bruce (Wm. Bruce Gulley, about whom I’ve recently written: http://deathpastor.blogspot.com/2013/11/wm-bruce-gulley-1921-2013.html). I wasn’t there. I was at The Glenburn Community Church.

The obstacles preventing me from receiving permission to fly to Ohio for my uncle’s funeral are several and varied, and mostly stupid and galling. The obstacle preventing me from going AWOL (Absent With-Out Leave) is simpler. Early in my ministry I came to understand the importance of constituted authority, and I believe it applies in even a one-congregation denomination (as the State of California defines GCC). As much as I may joke that “it’s always easier to get forgiveness than permission,” simply absenting myself from my duties as the solo pastor was not an option I allowed myself.

Who would deny their pastor permission to attend the funeral of one of their closest relatives, even if it meant missing a Sunday, without time to arrange pulpit supply, or a pianist, or…well, any of the other things I do on Sundays? No one would deny that permission, so far as I can guess. Likewise, though, there is currently no one to give permission. Like all congregations and their leaders, ours is made up of always flawed and occasionally inattentive human beings. (As one of those responsible for the current level of dysfunction in our decision-making/permission-granting/policy-applying vacuum, I include myself, of course, in that description).

A great place on Sunday mornings (except one, for me).

So while neither of the individuals who may or may not currently be the chairperson of our board of trustees were available (we are apparently amidst a three-month leadership hiatus while the adjustment of our fiscal year—formerly ending September 30—aligns to the calendar year after December 31), and while the currently non-existent Pastor-Parish Relations Committee was equally non-available for comment (no one has been appointed to serve in that capacity for at least the past four years), and while the Elders are still in the developmental stage of this new phase of leadership structure, I prepared to steel myself in the midst of my own bereavement so that I could preach the sermon I had prepared long before my uncle’s illness became critical. It was the first sermon in our next expository series in Samuel and Kings, and it addressed "The Mis-Treatment of the Bereaved.” (I was specifically looking at Hannah’s encounters in I Samuel 1:1-8. I’ll send you the audio-file if you’d like.)

Several from our own congregation are in the midst of the early phases of their grief and mourning, having been bereaved through death and other significant losses. Present in our congregation yesterday, though, were also two sets of first-time visitors. Both had experienced the untimely loss of loved ones under uniquely difficult circumstances in the recent past. I had known of each situation, and prayed for them as their local family members provided updates. But it was my first time meeting all but one of them and, I believe, the first time any of them had attended church at Glenburn. They were in the right place at the right time for the right sermon for all the right reasons.

You'd think he could be in two places at once.

I was in the right place at the right time for the right sermon, too. And despite the fact that I was there for, in my humble estimation, all the wrong reasons, I took their presence, the presence of others in need among our regular attendees, and the response from each of them, and from even those I had no idea were in the midst of significant losses…well, I believe God verifiably validated my presence there, then, for them…and probably for me, too. But make no mistake about it: I didn’t want to be there.

I’m absolutely certain that God wanted me to be there. I see why. It was awesome to see the Holy Spirit touch people’s lives through a sermon I didn’t want to be there to preach. God used it, and people were blessed. But I’m still mad about it. Of course, this isn’t the first time God chose not to take my advice about how best to run my life (or who I should minister to and where). And even when I haven’t had such clear evidence that He knows best, I’ve gotten over it in the past. I’ll get over this, too.

So, I’m sorry I missed your funeral, Uncle Bruce. But unless I am entirely mistaken about your testimony of faith, I know you can feel free to take it up face-to-face with the One I blame for it. Or maybe you’ll just chalk it up to one more thing you got to teach your nephew, even when I thought the opportunity to learn from you had passed. Either way, thanks again.

Wm. Bruce Gulley (1921-2013)

Wm. Bruce Gulley (1921-2013)

The Greatest Generation is down a man, as of five o'clock Eastern Standard Time this morning.

When he drove an LST in the Southeast Asian theater, he followed up the beach, rifle in hand, with the last of the troops to be delivered. When I turned thirteen, and my friends and I were playing "war," we had a talk that forever changed my attitudes toward it. Since then, it has always seemed that the only ones who think war is a good idea are those who’ve never fought one.

Later, during a Veteran's Day phone call, he was in a mood to talk about the differences his generation and ours faced in returning home. He expressed great sympathy for young men and women who were in a firefight one day, and the next were sitting at their family's dining table. His long journey home involved weeks of time with others who had seen what he had seen, talking through what that meant to them, and what it could never possibly mean to those awaiting them at home. As much as I try, I know how inadequate my counsel is to my friends who have dealt with PTSD, and that I occasionally forget to say Thank You clearly enough to those who have served. But I also know my uncle was glad to know I tried.

Other than one long talk, and several brief mentions, I have no idea of so much that he experienced. But the long-term effects included loyalty, self-sacrifice, and a willingness to accommodate behaviors that many would find entirely unacceptable (though not entirely without comment or even complaint at times).

For all that I remember that he taught me, I’m sure there are many more I still know, but simply never noticed that he was teaching me at the time. I can whittle a top, or a birch-whistle. I remember the multi-part lesson working in a muddy foundation on Peterson Place. (Until the third part of the lesson, each step in the process was preceded by either my butt or my stocking-encased foot becoming submerged in the mire. For your edification: twist your foot inside the boot as you lift your foot slowly, bringing the boot and the foot together out of the mud, while keeping your knees bent for balance. But don’t tell the kid all that at once; it would spoil the fun of watching him sit or step bootless into the mud.) Oh yeah, I also know not to use a keyhole saw to put windows into the house we made out of a refrigerator’s shipping box (at least not while my sister was inside).

I also know that when someone asks me to believe their words, and their actions don’t match—to believe what they do, not what they say. If I were to tell someone I’ll be there tomorrow, and I’m not—I know that it’s just as much a lie as if I’d told them I was there yesterday and wasn’t. And when you’re feeding even an early-adolescent tagging along from the job-site (that would be me), a smorgasbord is a safer place to take them than anywhere you’d have to pay for all that food they eat.

There’s probably much more I never noticed I was learning. And in ways simple and complex, I can only hope I communicated clearly in words and actions alike: I love you, Uncle Bruce. Thanks for everything.

Those of us who share in the heritage he leaves bear an unmistakable obligation to pass the legacy on to those who follow. Those who never had the privilege of knowing him...well, I pray that you see just some glimmer of him in those of us who did. It would be a blessing to you to see it; it would be a blessing to him to know it was seen.

Where We Disagree: How Christian-Muslim Dialogue Might Teach Us To Pursue Christian Unity

Dr. Paul Louis Metzger wrote on Monday regarding the issues central to the mutual exclusivity of Islam and Christianity (i.e., You can be one or the other, but despite a Muslim leader’s claim that one who converts from Christianity to Islam “does not lose Jesus, but gains Muhammad,” you cannot do both. The “Jesus” that could be accommodated in Islam is something other than the historical/Biblical Jesus). My thoughts below were prompted by his post found here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/uncommongodcommongood/2013/11/is-the-cross-the-crux-of-the-divide-between-christianity-and-islam/

I have recently been blessed by a couple of conversations with a Buddhist acquaintance in which we were able to clearly identify the crucial (pun intended) point of departure in our spiritual lives as being the nature of God and specifically the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. So, it resonated strongly with me when Dr. Paul Louis Metzger wrote regarding the primary point of departure between Muslims and Christians, “We need to be clear on what we mean by Jesus, Christian, and Muslim.”

But sadly, what also resonated is Dr. Metzger’s quote of the excellently clear and concise statement by Daniel W. Brown regarding this primary point of departure between Islam and Christianity: “whether the character of God is most clearly revealed in a perfect life culminating in redemptive death or in a perfect book giving rise to a perfect life.” What saddens me about such inspiring clarity? It is that this also describes the point of departure in the murky dissection of Christ’s body as cessationism is currently being championed so divisively. (“Cessationism” is the theological stance behind Dr. John McArthur’s recent attacks on fellow-Christians of the Charismatic persuasion)

 

As we engage those of other religions and cultures, perhaps we might learn better how to seek dialogue with the divisive in our own camps. To borrow from Dr. Metzger’s phrasing: “We need to be clear on what we mean by Jesus Christ, our Heavenly Father, and the Holy Spirit, as well as our own perfect book as His means of guiding us into becoming and being Christian.”

Could it be that patterns developed in multi-cultural engagement may best inform our engagement with one another as we seek to bring into clearer resolution our conflicts, and reconcile our relationships within the Church? Again, taking some liberties to quote Dr. Metzger again, this effort to discern the core issues of our disagreement is certainly “Easier said than done.” But it might be a worthy enterprise.

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part Two

Note the difference in the final photo.

“A watched pot never boils,” but sometimes they do. “And patients never die while someone sits vigil.” Well, that’s most often the case. But sometimes they do.

This morning, I found myself watching a pot come to a boil, then reflected on a patient who died during a very brief time alone (that’s Part One, which you’ll find below). But that was only after finding myself again in the midst of mourning the loss of a friend who most certainly did not die alone.

It has now been twenty-eight years since I was called to serve The Fort Jones Community Church. There’s a lot to say about my tenure there, but on my mind this morning, watching the pot slowly build up steam, was the Elder who wasn’t an Elder, yet. He served as an Elder would in every way but one. He just wasn’t “official,” initially. He was not allowed to attend Elders’ meetings, nor was he allowed to be called an Elder through the official channels of recognition in that congregation of that denomination at that particular time.

He’d been a one-man woman for as long as anyone knew. But there had been an earlier marriage during the earliest part of his military service. The combined damage of that relationship, later experiences in Vietnam, and especially the inexorable deterioration and multiple diseases that accompany severe radiation exposure (he served on spotter planes above detonations on Enewetak Atoll), left him very mindful of his limitations, and the wisdom of simply serving wherever Christ called you, no matter what others may call you.

His advice, counsel, questions, and reproof of a then-twenty-four year old pastor in a redevelopment church was perhaps the single largest factor to my continuing in ministry there. His continued input and reminders over the subsequent years contributed significantly to my continuing in ministry…at all. For more than half my life, he called me his pastor, and he was my Elder and, I claim proudly, my friend.

The above barely does justice to him, but in this limited space, perhaps it offers some explanation for my reaction when I received a call from his wife some time ago.

After lengthy battles with the variety of damages his early experiences had imposed upon him, “He’s taken a turn for the worse,” she said. She wanted to know what my schedule looked like over the next week or so. She wanted to know where to find me when it was time for “his pastor” to help arrange the funeral for my Elder, my friend. That warning call came on a Saturday. Of course, I had duties the following morning. So, despite her concern that I might end up making two trips in the same week (and that in the time it took to drive there, he could be gone), I agreed that we would make the five-hour trip only after calling to confirm that he was still there to be visited.

We arrived that Sunday evening. He was still there. Using talents I’d developed in working with ALS, Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy, and brain injury patients, I was able to enjoy a lengthy conversation with my Elder, my friend. He was weak, bed-ridden, but still able to reprove his pastor with good humor, even when I had to ask him to repeat with greater enunciation a particular gibe in my direction.

The next morning, we stopped by their home to visit briefly before heading back for the week’s responsibilities, knowing that my agenda and schedule were likely to be interrupted by news of his death. As we stood around his bed, though, his hand in my left, his wife’s in my right, and my wife completing the chain between husband and wife by grasping his big toe through the bed sheet, I prayed for my Elder, my friend—and I felt the unmistakable slackening in his grip, followed by the sigh I had heard from others many times before.

It momentarily threw me. I had never had someone die in the midst of prayer before. But knowing that he desired no “heroic measures,” I simply concluded my prayer (though probably more abruptly than I would have otherwise). At that point, his wife, retired from her nursing career, and I, an experienced Hospice chaplain, went into technician mode: things to check, calls to make, a pathway to clear. And then the long wait for contact from law enforcement (in some counties even a death on Hospice care requires the same attention as any other “unattended” death), their arrival, the arrival of the mortuary service and their departure with the body of my Elder, my friend. And then, the long drive home, trying to regain my bearings.

Not a watched pot. Just potted watches.

Somewhere along the twisting roads of the Northern California mountains, heading inland from my friends’ seaside home, I came to a realization. Nobody ever really dies alone. Granted, not all die surrounded by friends and family in the midst of a time of prayer. I trust that it was a blessing to my Elder, my friend, as the last words he heard on this earth were the prayers of his pastor. But as much as Jesus was with us in that moment, Christ is here, today, with every one of us.

Why, then, does it seem like so many choose to let go of the last threads of this life when all their fellow-humans have left the room? Maybe a lot of us just wait…until there aren’t so many interruptions to our conversation with Him.

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part One

“A watched pot never boils…and patients never die while someone sits vigil.” There are exceptions, though. This morning, just to prove to myself what I’d seen, I watched a pot come to a boil. But still, the adage is well-founded. It’s not something I would do very often.

The fact is, patients do most frequently die when alone. Some will hold on for that one last special visit. Some seem to remain long enough to hear the conclusion of a particularly interesting conversation. But it is in the little breaks in a vigil, when everyone leaves the bedside to see the new grandbaby, or the primary caregiver needs just one quick cigarette, or when a loved one comes away to the desk to escort the next shift’s visitor to the room…

Saturday, 2:00 p.m. – I was the one to find that he’d gone. The long-term care facility’s nurse had directed me to the room and said she’d be along in just a moment. She’d been sitting, reading to him, watching his breathing grow slower over the past half hour.Saturday, 9:00 a.m. – Some of the family had gathered at our favorite breakfast place. On our way out – “Would you mind stopping by to check on Dad? He’s not doing too well, and I know he’d love to see you.” I promised I would go after the funeral. After all, the request was made by a son just hours before his mother’s funeral. His mother and father had long-since divorced and remarried others. I’d buried the step-father some months earlier. So, that afternoon, I left the widow’s funeral for the local long-term care facility where I entered her ex-husband’s room to find that he’d died.

Saturday, 3:00 p.m. – Because I’ve trained for, served extensively at, and taught others in making an appropriate death notification, I was asked (and it seemed only right for me) to handle this one. I made a couple of phone calls to determine where the family had gathered before dispersing to their distant homes. As I drove to the hotel restaurant at which they’d gathered, I prayed that I would be able to gather the four men in order to break the news all at once. But the potential of one being in his hotel room, another in the bar, one at a table in the restaurant, and perhaps the fourth standing outside saying goodbye to friends or relatives…I imagined they might make assumptions about the purpose for my visit. I was prepared for a less-than-optimal situation.

But when I walked in, the four brothers were standing together, engaged in conversation with one another, with everyone else in rapt discussions around various tables, seemingly oblivious to my presence. The second youngest saw me, welcomed me, and asked if I had stopped off to see his dad. With just the four brothers, I was able to explain that I’d stopped by, that the nurse directed me to his current room, but when I spoke to him he was unresponsive and, in fact, I had called the nurse into the room to confirm my suspicions. “She did, and apparently in the couple of minutes he was alone, he had died.” (I try to, and train others to break the process down into seven gradually leading elements. Given the circumstances, I was very glad to come up with even six steps.)

Shortly thereafter I found myself in the center of the hotel bar, joined hand-in-hand with a circle of thirty-some family and friends, praying with them. Having gathered to mourn and reminisce together, a new grief, anticipated but still shocking in its timing, was introduced. One of the daughters-in-law asked afterward, “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” We were in good humor at that point, so I responded, “You mean, have I ever done a mother’s funeral, then left to visit the father, her ex-husband, been the one to find the body, come to the post-funeral family dinner and break the news of the second death to the family? No, I’m not sure that’s ever happened to anyone before.”

But this morning, I stood in my kitchen and watched a pot come to a boil. It’s not something I would do very often. But I’ll tell you why in part two.