Perfectionism

I am sitting with my computer in my lap, three Word documents open in front of me, waiting for inspiration to flow out in 12-point, 1.5 spaced, Arial font. Sadly, the perfect words are not coming to me as quickly as I would like. The knot is growing; I can feel it taking over, spreading from my stomach outward until I am one big clenched muscle. I have a small problem.

Specifically, I have a small perfectionism problem. I want everything to go off without a hitch every single time. This constant desire for the perfect is never worse than when I am planning worship services.

I justify this perfectionism by saying that I want to give my best to God. Of course, we want our offerings to God to be more than mediocre; this desire is good and right. But I want excellence, every time, in everything. I want the readings to be appropriately moving, the music to be sublime, the theology expressed to be flawless, and I want everything to flow with a coherence that wraps it all up in a neat package.

I say I want this perfection because that is what God deserves, and part of me means that...but mostly it's really about me, about how wonderful and capable and creative I am (or at least how wonderful and capable and creative I want people to think I am).

It's crippling, paralyzing, this expectation I place on myself. It causes me to sit for hours in front of a computer screen searching for - not just words that will communicate - the perfect words. It makes me unable to hand off responsibility to someone else, because they may not do it "right," and that might reflect badly on me. This inability to allow others to shoulder part of my burden, by the way, also comes with a strong sense of obligation; it's my job, so I should just be able to do it, to do it all.

The problem with all of this is, of course, that I am not perfect. What I give to God should be my best, but it's never going to be that neat little package that inspires oohs and aahs from all who behold it. Human life is not flawless, it's messy. It has loose strings and unexplained bulges and sometimes it doesn't come even close to fitting in the package at all. And the related "problem" is that what God is doing in me and in the world doesn't fit into a neat little box either. It's a little wild and beyond control, and always unexpected.

So I sit, with my computer on my lap, staring at layers of empty Word documents, waiting for inspiration to flow. One more time, since I cannot seem to be perfect, I will do my best. On Sunday, I will give up and hand over my hopelessly lumpy package to God, and at least a small part of me will know that God is pleased, as much with the giving it up and handing it over as with the package itself.

The Parts We Leave Behind

My entire body has just expelled a sigh of sadness and longing. The annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature begins today in Philadelphia, and I am not there. A series of thoughts is on auto-repeat in my mind: "If I get in the car right now, I can be there by 7pm...I could squeeze in both of the sections on the Hebrew prophets tomorrow before heading back...of course, church has to get in the way of the section on 'bilioblogging,' but I can make it back in time for the sessions on midrash, wisdom literature, and semeiotics and exegesis..."

I realize this probably seems to many of you like the ultimate Geeks-R-Us moment. What kind of person thrills at the idea of dashing off to a convention of biblical scholars? Well, I do. You see, this was once my life, my passion, my picture of the future.

I haven't looked at the SBL website in a year and a half, quite intentionally. I couldn't go last year; a year ago I was working four jobs just to cover my basic living expenses (none of which had remotely to do with biblical scholarship), and still recovering from a nasty case of the flu. I didn't even look, partially because I didn't want one more reminder that my dreams had been smashed to bits and I was completely lost in life, and partially because I knew that, even if I had the means to go, it would be an exercise in shame and misfitness. When this year's program was released, I decided again not to look. I'm a pastor, without any definite plans to pursue further education. I'm in my first year, and taking a week (over a Sunday, of course) to hang out with academics didn't seem like a plausible option. I didn't look, because I knew I couldn't go.

I only looked today because I thought that surely this year's meeting was already over, and that maybe I could just do a little dreaming about possibilities for next year. No such luck. The annual meeting starts today, a mere 5 hour drive away.

I wonder how many of my friends and former professors are arriving this afternoon, and if tonight the grad students I used to hang out with will gather in a nearby bar for drinks and conversation that last so late they will question whether to get up for the morning's first sessions. I picture the salespeople I know setting up their book tables, and wonder if they are wondering if I will be there this year. I miss these things. I miss seeing the nametags of people whose work I admire and realizing with a start that they really are standing right in front of me. I miss sitting in on the Midrash section, listening to the rabbis argue in seamless transitions between English, Hebrew, and Yiddish, and the challenge of figuring out what they're saying. I miss the ivory tower haughtiness of it all, almost as much as I miss making fun of that very quality of the meetings. I miss the receptions, the learning, the constant biblical and academic references, and even the competetive disdain. Even as a lowly seminarian, I was at home there.

For a wide variety of reasons, I cannot run off to Philadelphia. And the truth is, my dreams are not the same as they were when I attended my first SBL meeting. Much to my surprise, I love ministry, and I can't see myself ever giving that up to go into full-fledged academia. But if my focus and purpose has changed, my hope for that Ph.D. has not. The goal still hangs there, a little blurry, but in sight. I don't know what that means, or when it might happen, but it's still there. Painful as it may be, looking at things like that SBL website are a good reminder for me that this is still a part of me, one I've pushed aside for a while, but that I don't want to leave behind.

Stacey is in need

It's Monday morning, and I'm still in my post-Sunday slump, so I've decided to ease my way into the new week with a meme I found at Kathryn's Blog. The general idea is that you plug "My name needs" into Google and blog the first 10 results (or in my case, the first ten that didn't come from another person doing the same meme). So what is it that I need? Judge for yourself how much Google knows about what I need...

1. Stacey needs more signs. (Yes, that would be helpful - even if they're just road signs to keep me from getting lost.)
2. Stacey needs our prayers. (Indeed.)
3. Stacey needs help getting her name out there. (Debatable...sometimes it seems my name is "out there" quite enough, thank you.)
4. Stacey needs to visit the real world and then rethink this. (No doubt!)
5. Stacey needs to be amongst people of her own age, and to be stimulated. (Now if this doesn't fit my current situation, I don't know what would.)
6. Stacey needs to be able to set up a massage table. (with a massage therapist to go along with it.)
7. Stacey needs understanding, not rejection. (Well, don't we all?)
8. Stacey needs new advocacy committee members to assist her with these efforts. (Ah, yes, volunteers for committee assignments are ALWAYS welcome.)
9. Stacey needs help fast. (No kidding!)
10. Stacey needs an eyebrow hoop. In her left eyebrow. (I do believe some of my congregants might disagree with this one.)

Oh, How I Hate Saturdays

This afternoon I returned from a consistory retreat, at the tail end of which I was having a panic attack. The internal dialogue went something like this:

CRAZY PANICKED STACEY: "Oh my God, I won't be home until almost 3pm and I have two sermons to write and an order of worship to plan and I haven't even started and I have no idea what I'm going to say or what songs we should sing and I have NOTHING to say about the parable of the talents and how am I going to write two sermons about a passage when I don't have any thoughts about it at all? Why didn't I start writing sooner? Why don't I ever start writing sooner? I am an idiot and I'm going to look like a complete fool up there tomorrow and these people are going to wish they had never called me to be their pastor and oh, good grief, I'm about to cry, and I can't cry with all of these people here, but what am I going to do?!?!?!"

CENTERED DIGNIFIED STACEY: "I wrote the bulk of these sermons on Wednesday night. This will be fine. Sermons have been written in less time than this. I have written sermons in less time than this. I spent the last day talking about using our gifts wisely, so I have plenty to say about the parable of the talents. I am not an idiot, this will be fine, and I am not going to cry, because nothing is wrong. Nor am I going to panic...Hey! Stop panicking! I'm serious, knock it off. They're waiting for you to take the group picture."

CRAZY PANICKED STACEY: "I don't CARE if I wrote on Wednesday night; this is Saturday and everything I wrote is CRAP and I don't CARE if I've written sermons in less time than this, because maybe tonight will be the night I get terrible writer's block and can't write a single word and THEN where will I be??? And I don't WANT to be in a stupid group picture because I didn't sleep well and I didn't shower and my hair is greasy and my face is broken out like a 15-year-old's because I'm under SO MUCH FREAKING STRESS!!!!!! I NEED A DAY OFF AND I NEED IT NOW!!!!!!!!"

CENTERED DIGNIFIED STACEY: "Um, I am being completely irrational. I know the sermons will be fine. Worst case scenario, they won't be great. Oh well. And yes, my face is broken out like a 15-year-old's, and yes, I am under a bit of stress, and yes, I need a day off. But that day is not today, and that is okay."

CRAZY PANICKED STACEY: "But I'm TIRED and I want to go HOME!!!!!!"

CENTERED DIGNIFIED STACEY: "I AM going home. Now shut up and offer to take the picture so I don't have to be in it with my greasy hair and broken-out face."

So, I managed not to cry, although quelling the panic was a bit tricky, and I was extremely snarky about having my picture taken. Then I arrived at home, still hovering on the verge of the panic abyss. Took the wonderdog for a run, came back, and started to write at about 3:30pm, the massive knot of anxiety growing larger by the second.

At 8:30pm, both sermons and the order of worship were finished. Note that on Saturdays with no other obligations, I'm usually wrapping up these things around midnight - on a good day.

Sometimes I get the strong sense that God is bouncing me around on a string like one of those paddle ball things, just trying to see how far I'll stretch...

Repent: Tough on Sin

So, I've been thinking a lot about sin lately. Cheerful topic, I know.

Much of this contemplation stems from the homosexuality discussions that seem to be running amok lately. One of the assertions of those who do not agree with me about THE ISSUE is that we who advocate for the full participation of GLBT people in the church do not take sin seriously enough. My first inclination, of course, is to retort that the fact that I don't think homosexuality or same-sex relationships are sinful does not mean that I don't take sin as a whole seriously. But in the spirit of continual Christian formation, I've been considering this critique. What does it mean to take sin seriously? Do I hate sin and struggle against it in my own life and in the lives of those under my spiritual care?

When I first came to faith in Christ, I was part of a Christian fellowship that talked a lot about sin. Discerning and rooting out sin was a big part of my faith at that time. I was constantly conscious of the areas in which I had particular struggles and temptations, and I really worked at submitting those areas to Christ and getting them out of my life. The title of this post, by the way, came from a t-shirt I owned during this period of my life. It bore a laundry detergent-like logo that screamed in huge letters: "REPENT!" Underneath was the slogan, "Tough on Sin." Appropos, I think.

At some point, God started showing me through Scripture and prayer that some of the things I was trying to root out were not actually sin at all. For example, this fellowship placed a high emphasis on the submission of women. I strove to be their paradigm of the "godly woman," who stayed silent in church and did not teach or have authority over men. Quite frankly, this made me a miserable and useless person, and I had a constant sense that I was not using the gifts God had given me for teaching, preaching, and leadership. I simply did not have the gifts these people told were acceptable gifts for women: service, hospitality, intercession, etc.

God and I came to an impasse. God essentially said, "Look, these gifts I've given you are not an accident; I have something in mind for you. Here are some biblical examples of women having and using these gifts. Now you have to make a choice: you can listen to these people, or you can listen to me."

Well, God won. I separated myself from this group, and began a new part of my faith journey, in which God allowed me to experience freedom and grace. After the legalism and repression, this was a great blessing, and I began to experience the fullness of God's forgiveness. Accordingly, this is the message I have carried to others ever since - and it's a good message, the true good news of the Gospel.

But...somewhere along the line, I think I've lost proper perspective on the seriousness of sin, and of the hard work of repentance. I've begun to offer comfort instead of a call to new life. I've begun to focus on structural sin rather than confronting the personal sin patterns that lie within each of us. This is a problem. Without recognizing our sin and hating it as God hates it, we cannot turn away from sin. Forgiveness becomes empty; grace turns into a wishy-washy warm fuzzy feeling rather than God's true freedom.

I have no desire to return to the judgmental view of sin I had early in my Christian life. Given the choice, I hope I will always err on the side of grace. But I also need to be able to say to myself and others, "Hey, this is sin. God offers you forgiveness and new life, but you're not really going to receive those things until you acknowledge that this really is sin and start the process of turning away from it." If I can't do this, the grace I preach is what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace;" that is, not grace at all.

The Twelve Days After Christmas

By request, and significantly earlier than necessary, I post this song, which I performed in a madrigal ensemble in high school. Multiple choruses of "My true love, my true love, my true love gave to me" have been omitted. I had to return the sheet music to my choral director, and cannot find the proper credits. For shame, for shame, but I can't resist posting it just the same.

The Twelve Days After Christmas

The first day after Christmas, my true love and I had a fight,
and so I chopped the pear tree down, and burned it just for spite.

The second day after Christmas, I pulled on the old rubber gloves,
and very gently wrung the necks of both the turtle doves.

The third day after Christmas, my mother caught the croup.
I had to use the three French hens to make some chicken soup.

The four calling birds were a big mistake, for their language was obscene;
the five golden rings were completely fake and they turned my fingers green.

The sixth day after Christmas, the six laying geese wouldn't lay;
I shipped the whole darned gaggle to the ASPCA.

On the seventh day, what a mess I found:
all seven of the swimming swans had drowned!

The eighth day after Christmas, before they could suspect,
I bundled up the eight maids a milking, nine pipers piping,
ten ladies dancing, eleven lords a-leaping, twelve drummers drumming
(well, actually I kept one of the drummers...),
and sent them back collect.

I wrote my true love, we are through, love,
and I said in so many words,
"Furthermore, your Christmas gifts are for the
four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves,
and a partridge in a pear tree."

The Land of the Lack of Discipline

I have a lot to do this week. New members' class starts in an hour. Tomorrow is Bible study, a couple of visits, and our annual Election Day Pancake Supper. Choir rehearsals, a meeting of area clergy to plan our ecumenical Thanksgiving service, and an overnight consistory retreat follow in the days after that. Somewhere in the middle, I need to cram in the writing of two sermons, the planning of two worship services, the finalization of Advent stuff, preparation for confirmation and the new youth group and a memorial service, making sure an errant pile of cornstalks is removed from the church lawn, and, oh, phone calls to 47 (or is it 53?) church members, most of whose phone numbers I just realized that I don't have.

So what am I doing? Blogging, of course. In my defense, not all 47/53 of those phone calls need to be made this week.

I also chose this week to attempt a recovery from my addiction to Diet Mountain Dew. Aspartame is bad for you, they say, and between that and my even stronger coffee addiction, I'm starting to worry that caffeine will soon completely replace my blood cells.

Alright, you got me, I confess, I am drinking a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew even as I type. But I'm drinking it slowly, and it's my first one today.

I now suspect that I am actually not terribly disciplined.

A brief list of other things I seem to be unable to stop myself from doing: making snarky comments, opening my big mouth in general, consuming large quantities of chocolate, leaving empty containers of various sorts lying around my house, losing my log book, keys, membership list, bills, and savings account number, buying books and shoes, procrastinating, and letting my houseplants die of neglect. Fortunately, my dog is large, loud, and lacking all sense of subtlety, or she would be in big trouble.

I could make a sizable list of things I seem to be unable to do as well, but that might be overkill, and would surely make me late for the new members' class.

I do what I do not want to do, and what I want to do, I do not do...or something.

On the brighter side, on the television show I am watching, someone just set her apartment on fire. Having done that myself once, I can say with certainty that there are far worse things than a little procrastination - like watching your bathrobe go up in flames.

Compassion and Contemplation

In the film version of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park, (I have read the book, but am not familiar enough with it to remember whether this quote is the same), Edward informs the woman who has planned to marry him that he is going to enter the clergy. The woman, who has hoped for a life of wealth and privilege, is appalled.

"There are worse things than a life of compassion and contemplation," he tells her.

A life of compassion and contemplation. Indeed, there are far worse things. I wonder sometimes if those words really described ministerial life at that time. It certainly does not seem to accurately characterize the lives of the ministers I know now.

It's possible that the authors I've read underestimated the responsibilities of clergy (I know that if many of my congregants wrote me as a character in a book, I would only show up for an hour or two on Sundays), but it seems to me that ministers were expected primarily to preach, lead worship, and visit the sick. Of course, we're still supposed to do those things.

We're also often expected to develop and implement a "vision," manage the administrative aspects of the church, teach classes, organize programs, do outreach and evangelism, and be counselors, coaches, custodians, and appointed pray-ers at all church and public functions.

Not much time is left in there for contemplation. Compassion gets packed in around the edges, if we have time to think about it.

I'm tired, and nearly every minister I know is tired. I'm feeling especially empty lately, and in need of some contemplative time. So, when I remember that line from Mansfield Park, I find myself longing for a simpler kind of ministry, a life of compassion and contemplation, rather than the rush, rush, rush to get everything done. I long to be able to study, think, and write, rather than hurriedly scanning other people's sermons for ideas. I long to spend time with people who are suffering, rather than popping by and then checking them off of my list. I love to teach, and I wish I could put aside some of the administrative tasks and instead spend more time teaching people about the Bible and theology.

But somehow it doesn't seem that this is enough. Ugh. Is it any wonder we are all so weary?