Mudbucket

It's a lovely day here in central New York, a day I might almost call spring-like, a day on which a long run through the fields with the dog seemed like a splendid idea. But there's something about spring that I tend to forget when the blue skies tempt me to let Laila off the leash to run freely. Spring means warmth. Warmth means melting snow. Melting snow means mud puddles. Lots of mud puddles. Entire fields of mucky, slimy mud puddles.

Laila likes mud puddles. One of her many nicknames is Mudbucket. (Warning: I am now about to morph into one of those crazy people who pretends that her dog has taken over her blog.)

Mud puddles are fun. You can run through them at top speed and make muddy water spray out behind you. You can leap around in them and make big splashes. Most fun of all, you can roll in them. Mud is nice and cool on your furry back. Nearly as fun as rolling is shaking off the mud, preferably as close to your human as possible. Watch the human jump with glee! See how happy mud makes your human! Unfortunately, mud play often results in the indignity of being hosed down in the back yard. But you can make even this very entertaining, by alternately trying to run away and then jumping on your human and making big, wet, dirty paw prints on her silly clothes. Hey, if she had fur like a normal creature this wouldn't be an issue. When you finally get to come back into the house, the fun continues with a good toweling down. If you can manage it, steal the towel and make the human chase you around the house while you leave muddy tracks and shake off the water all over the newly-cleaned floor. Pure joy!

Gifts

Before I came here, I spent a year as a college chaplain. I loved it. Loved the students, loved teaching, loved the academic atmosphere, loved leading worship in that setting...just loved the whole thing. I thought that was what I would do for my whole life. God had other plans.

From time to time over the last year, usually on those really bad, totally-out-of-my-element days, I've looked back at that job with great nostalgia. On THOSE days, I really miss having a job that just feels like it fits perfectly, and wonder why I am now here, where, well...sometimes it just doesn't.

But lately something has occured to me. Yes, I loved being a chaplain. Of course I loved it: it was EASY. I had colleagues who thought it was perfectly normal if I disappeared into some obscure theology book for a week. I dealt most of the time with people who were very open to change, because their whole lives were constantly changing. Transience was the norm. Learning was paramount. Of course I loved it. That wasn't work. That was just being me, and getting paid for it. I guess it's only natural that I would look back at that time and idealize it, and even wish I could just go back - to think of it as the goal rather than a segment of the journey.

However, I've started to come to a new kind of appreciation of that time, as a gift. God gave me this tremendous gift of a year in which I could be a minister just as I am - when I could just be. And I grew into myself and my ordination and my calling during that year. Shockingly, I learned the exact opposite of what I expected to learn. I thought I would learn that I was a scholar (which I thought I already knew). Instead, I learned that I was a pastor. I found the minister God was shaping within me.

So, I'm not sure why it surprised me so much to end up here, as a pastor. And I'm also not sure why I've kept looking back as if the gift of that year was supposed to be an end in itself.

The truth is that, even on the hard days, I actually love being a pastor. I just love it in a more difficult way. It's not always easy for me. Sometimes I have to stretch to fit into this vocation; sometimes it pulls a little tight at the neck. But I guess what I'm realizing is that this is a gift too. Growth is a gift. The need to stretch is a gift. Love is a gift. It's a gift when it's easy, but even more so when it's difficult: when you have to choose every day to give and receive grace, and when you have to grow together. And as much as I gripe sometimes, this vocation, this being a pastor...that's a gift too.

Planet Stacey (RevGals Friday Five)

This week Songbird challenged us to "Name five things that would be on the shelves of Planet (Your Name)." Not all of these things can be shelved. Some of them should be refrigerated. All food and beverage has been categorized together, which means there are more than five things, technically. But at Planet Stacey, we ignore technicalities unless they are related to Hebrew, John Calvin, or my dog, Laila, the true reigning queen of the Planet.

1. Books. Not all belonging to me, necessarily, but sort of like an instant inter-library loan sort of set-up. Oh, okay. Since we're really dreaming here, I'd also like the option of the books belonging to me - even without a pastoral expense account - if I should feel the need to write in them and keep them for future reference.

2. An endless supply of French Roast - like that from Caribou, but of the fair trade variety - coffee, good red wine, dark chocolate, Newcastle Brown Ale, and sushi. Queen Laila demands meat, yogurt, and fresh (not dried and crusty) beef bones with a lot of marrow.

3. Live music. GOOD live music, with a rotation of old favorites to which I know all the words and new stuff that makes me sit up and take note. None of the wacko lizard-like creeps who have been found lately in the places where I've heard live music.

4. An on-call massage therapist.

5. Constant company, willing and able to shift conversation at a moment's notice between theology, music, church life, movies, food, spoons, politics, and general insanity.

It's My Blog, and I'll Be Random if I Want To

Who are you people who read this blog? Some of you I know, in real life or from your comments. But as I look at my sitemeter, I wonder, who are those people sitting in Dedham, Iowa and Hamilton, New Zealand and Duluth, Minnesota (a city that I LOVE, btw) and so on? Not to mention King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. I can't believe I didn't even know that a place with a name like that existed. And Mayfield, New York - do I know you? That's just far enough away that you probably don't attend my church, but near enough to wonder who you are. Anyway. The internet is a weird and cool place. I sometimes just wish I knew who was reading this thing.

Did you know...that the word "blog" is not in the spell-checker for this blog?

Also, did you know that this is my 201st blog post? I missed the 200th, but just wanted to mention...

The book fairy paid me a visit some time ago, and I finally realized it was for real and ordered some books about a week ago - and they're here! So, I'm reading N.T. Wright's The Last Word: Beyond the Bible Wars to a New Understanding of the Authority of Scripture. I have no attention span, and I'm leaping back and forth from reading to blogging to sermon-writing, but so far it's great. I forsee myself foisting it upon unsuspecting congregants in the very near future.

Thank you for dropping in for this break from sermon-writing. Now, back to work.

Why Is This Even an Issue?

If I walked into a men's room, I would be giggled at and guided out to the proper restroom. I doubt I would be welcome to play in a Father/Son baseball game. If I referred to myself as a "man," "son," or "brother" in normal conversation, I daresay people would look askance at me, or even correct me. If I decided to attend the Men's Bible Study, it's likely that I would be tolerated, but then sent on my way with the clear message that this was not the appropriate place for me. It would, I think, be almost universally agreed that I am not a man.

So why do a stream of letters to the denominational magazine continue to insist that if I don't hear man, men, him, his, brothers, or sons and think "Oh, that means me!" it means that I am "watering down and changing Scripture to make people feel good?"

Seriously. The particular letter I'm quoting also said, "I understand the obvious, that 'man' is the race of humans. I'll bet (name removed) doesn't like when Jesus compared the man and his bride to himself and the church." PLEASE. Do you not see that you just proved your own point, fine folks? I doubt you'd be pleased if I just read myself into that "man and his bride" statement.

On second thought, maybe I like this male-universal language stuff. The same people who insist on its correctness shall no longer hold verses like "I permit no woman to teach or have authority over a man" over my head - after all, they just said I'm a man! Man and wife? Hoorah, anyone can have a wife! This could solve a whole lot of problems...Thank you for defending the truth of Scripture!

Listening

I've been having a little problem lately with feeling like no one is listening to me. Of course, this is far from the actual truth. I spend a minimum of fifteen minutes in a pulpit every week, during which several people presumably listen to me. I keep writing in this blog, and my sitemeter and comments assure me that some people read it. And I have a couple of friends who already know about this listening paranoia, because - you guessed it - they've been listening to me.

So, we've established that these feelings are somewhat silly, but they're still there. They're accompanied by irritating wonderings like, have I just dumped so much crap on people in the past that they're sick of listening to me? Or have I developed patterns of listening to others but not opening up to them? Anyway, on some level I trust that this is just a minor emotional phase fueled by isolation and weariness, and that it will pass.

This morning I went to the dentist. The hygienist chattered non-stop through the whole process, and I now know entirely too much about her life and problems. Of course, my mouth was pried open and she was jabbing me with hygienist tools, so I had no choice but to recline there and listen to her. I hate, I despise chattering health professionals.

Closet Cleaning

A healthy and balanced life is a series of small victories (in my case usually interrupted by miserable failures, but that's another, more depressing post). Wiser people than I advise one small change at a time. Heck, I advise one small change at a time. But that's not really what I do. I tend to try on a bunch of changes at once, like a new outfit, and see which ones fit.

Okay, I admit that some of these changes are more like the clothes that seemed great at one time but then got stuffed into the back of the closet and forgotten. Like regular house-cleaning ("I'm too busy to vacuum...here, go in this drawer for a while") and long walks with the dog ("The weather is awful...*stuff, stuff, stuff* a short trot around the yard will have to do today"). It's the cleaning of my closet that wrapped me into this metaphor, by the way. Along with neglected garments and lost jewelry, I've pulled out of that closet a sudden desire to eat breakfasts rich in protein and whole grains, to cut down my consumption of diet mountain dew and fast food, to do yoga more than once a week, and to sleep on a semi-regular schedule.

In actual new habits, I've started combining the Scripture memorization I mentioned before with a lectio divina type of meditation at the beginning and end of the day. So far, it's helpful. It keeps me more centered throughout the day to have Scripture bookending and weaving throughout it.

Now, speaking of balance and health, I'm off to the dentist. Regularly cleanings are definitely a recent change, as I was without insurance for four years. And clean teeth are nearly as satisfying as clean closets.

The Confessional

One comment on the previous post asked if blogging might be a sort of confessional opportunity. Indeed, it is for me, sometimes (as is probably somewhat obvious). The problem with blog confessing is that my various sins often involve other people - some of whom read this blog, and some who don't - who may not want segments of their lives broadcast on the internet. So, I try to be honest but somewhat vague when it comes to these events.

But in this recent spirit of confession, I must say: sometimes, I am terribly self-centered (as may also be rather obvious). I've spent the last two days dwelling on my general crappiness: how much I resent it when people interrupt MY time, how irritated I get when I find out that other nearby clergy salaries are significantly higher than mine, how impatient and distracted and arrogant I get when people don't act as I wish they would, how desperately I long for someone to really listen to me.

I tell myself that all of this is completely stupid and ridiculous. That my resentment is caused by the very fact that I see it as MY time. That I certainly didn't get into ministry for the money, and I'm far from destitute, and worrying about how much I make is pretty much the polar opposite of Jesus' call. That of course people don't act the way I want; I don't act they way they want either. That being listened to isn't as important as listening. And then I argue with myself that it's not unreasonable to expect that people will respect my need for self-time and decent pay and fulfillment of their commitments and someone to listen to me once in a while. But then that nagging feeling that it's not my right to expect anything from others - that I'm supposed to be dealing with how my own life increasingly imitates Christ, not monitoring whether other people meet my needs - comes back...rinse, repeat.

And then it strikes me how often I say "I, me, my, mine." Especially in blogging, which has become an exercise in public navel-gazing, particularly since I figured out that I shouldn't blog specifics about other people, and got tired of ranting about my denomination. Ugh. Frustration.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Some changes must be made in me, for I have been a rather poor pastor lately. I've been overwhelmed and tired and sick, and I guess these are pretty good excuses for not being entirely with it. But really, there's no excuse for pulling inside of myself and not really listening to people, especially to the congregation who has been entrusted to me.

The truth is, I've been a poor listener to my friends for the last year or so. I've used my church stuff as an excuse for that, and sometimes it's valid. But there's a problem when I'm ALWAYS too tired or too busy to have a real conversation. And there's an even bigger problem when I use the church stuff to justify not being fully present to actually minister. That is not the person or the pastor I want to be.

I'm the kind of person who needs a plan for change. Growth usually doesn't just happen; it takes these moments of recognition of the problem, followed by some responsive action. In this case, it's a plan for repentance.

Step 1) Rest. Tiredness is fueling the crabbiness that greatly exacerbates the non-listening.

Step 2) Find a "confessor" of sorts - someone who will just listen while I speak aloud all the ways I've screwed up, and won't tell me I'm being too hard on myself or that I need more self-care or...anything, really. Just someone who will listen to the crud of my soul and then ask, "What can you do to get that cleaned out and start moving forward?" (Any volunteers?)

Step 3) Start changing the poor listening habits I've developed. Repeat mantra: "Be here, be here." Stop trying to do multiple other things while talking to people. Try to stop thinking about the next thing I have to do.

Step 4) Find people who will hold me accountable to step 3.

Step 5) Repeat step 3 continuously.

Dare to Dream

I almost never remember my dreams, but this week, man and woman alive, I had a doozie.

I was preaching. Everything was going just fine.

Then the pulpit started growing. It got taller and taller until, even standing on tip-toe, I couldn't see over it. I was just shouting over the top and trying to peer around the sides of this massive pulpit.

And then...it collapsed. The whole pulpit shattered and crashed to the floor around me.

I just looked down at the wreckage, stepped around it, and kept preaching.

Now, if only I could remember the sermon that kept me that focused...

Observations on, but mostly unrelated to, St. Patrick's Day

- Massage is one of God's great gifts, even though I still have knots (there was no way one massage was going to completely eliminate those babies), and even though it turned out that the massage therapist knew me (she had attended the funeral the day before). Next time I shall pass on the facial massage, however. My skin puts out enough oil on its own.

- Illness makes my sleep rhythms closely resemble those of a normal person. Since when do I go to sleep at 11pm and wake up at 7am? On a positive note, being awake this morning meant that I got to join half of the town for coffee at the general store. Which leads me to my next observation for the day...

- I grew up in a mostly Scandinavian and Lutheran area. St. Patrick's Day meant that you wore green or risked being pinched, but no one really seemed to know what it was about. It was just an opportunity to wear delightfully tacky clothing and mercilessly pinch the forgetful people. Here, people actually seem to have strong feelings about St. Patrick's Day. It's only 10:30am and I've been asked about twelve times what percentage Irish I am, for I am wearing a green shirt and carrying a green purse. They assume that if you're wearing green, you're Irish. Some people wear orange as a sort of protest of the holiday. Corned beef and cabbage is being served in multiple locations, but the orange-clad people refuse to attend such festivities. No one pinches anyone, but I hear that wearing orange to an Irish pub today is bound to get you a rousing brawl.

- I am in no mood to do any work at all. In a way, this is understandable and even good, as it had been three or four weeks since I'd had a day off. However, I did not work at all yesterday either, and some stuff needs to be done. This is a dilemma. Shall I attempt to work today, or get some relaxation time and pack everything into tomorrow?

Grief and Grace

Thanks be to God for antibiotics. The white spots are gradually disappearing, and my throat was not swollen this morning, so I was able to preach the funeral sermon that took many hours and much stress to prepare.

Funerals are always difficult, I'm finding. Not that I expected them to be easy, but being so involved in the Managing my own grief and speaking through it is difficult if I know the deceased. Allowing enough of others' grief to permeate me so that the funeral service and sermon is personal and meaningful to the bereaved is difficult when I don't know the deceased. Speaking about the people involved is difficult regardless; "the deceased" and "the bereaved" are such odd, cold terms. Speaking to the people involved is even harder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, blah blah blah." Nothing is adequate. I fall into the arms of Scripture and liturgy.

But funerals, in all their awkwardness and sadness, also hold the potential for tremendous grace. Facing mortality is one of the few truly communal occasions we have left. Grief makes it acceptable to lean on one another, to hold each other, to rely on the words of resurrection and God's comfort we hear together even when some of those present rarely if ever enter a church or read the Bible.

Earlier this week, I described this part of my vocation, this close association with death, as "odd." And it is odd. But today, as I held hands, prayed, leaned on the words of faith to guide a family toward their ongoing life, and later ate and laughed with them, I also realized - again - what a remarkable honor it is to be allowed to participate in their lives in this way.

Now, on to round two - preaching at an ecumenical Lenten service. I am SO glad I scheduled that massage for tomorrow.

The Snowball

I woke up this morning with a mild panic about all that had to be done, and a scratchy, tight throat. A flashlight revealed lovely little white spots at the back of my mouth. So, some of the tasks of the day were delayed by a trip to urgent care to find out what I already knew - I have strep. What joy is mine. Cancel dentist; don't breathe on the bereaved. Antibiotics, ahoy! The doctor assures me that I will cease to be contagious twenty-four hours after starting the drugs; let's pray that's true.

Much to do this week, sick or no. It just keeps building. So, I'm going to bed now, in hopes that I'll be able to get through tomorrow well. The ability to swallow would be nice, too.

Something really strange happened today....

Everything got done.

By "everything," I mean two sermons, an agenda and annual pastor's report for the congregational meeting, a trip to the hospital to visit the bereaved, the early service order, a pre-marital counseling session, a prayer chain list, a committee list, a colored liturgical year chart, a delivery of seeds to the church for Sunday School, and a series of phone calls.

To all of the crossed-out items on the to-do list, I say w00t! and thank you, thank you, thank you God.

It's 6:30pm on a Saturday night, and everything is done. I have no idea what to do with myself.

The Gap and a Grip

Today I sat in a room full of people who have a shared perspective on what the church could/should be. We shared dreams of churches who cooperate with one another, who open their arms to their communities, who go out and speak and live the Gospel with those around them in their everyday lives. It was wonderful, hearing the hopes and stories of others who are growing into a vision of how Christ might pervade our lives as Christian communities.

We also shared common frustrations. People who think that church is merely the place where you spend an hour on Sunday, who seem to care only about how much they are getting from the services. People who want new members, but only if they a)simply appear with no work required from the current members, and b) are just like the current members. People who think all the work in the church should be done by the pastor. People whose biggest concern is money, and who consider fundraising dinners to be outreach. People who see mission only as giving money to support overseas missionaries.

It comes back to me again and again, this gap in understandings of who the Church is. It reappears nearly every time I talk to other ministers. It comes up with most of the people I consider friends. We're all frustrated, and sometimes it just seems futile. It's hard to keep shouting across the chasm. It's even harder to build a bridge and try to lead people to the other side. I wonder if there's any possibility that I will be able to facilitate growth here. Sometimes I can blame it on prior ministers here...but one of my predecessors sat across the table from me at this meeting, and I suspect he was saying and doing many of the same things I'm saying and doing, twenty-some years ago. If he didn't get anywhere with it, what makes me think that I will? Sometimes it just feels like a lost cause, and makes me wish I could just take all these like-minded people and run away and start our own church.

But, you know, that's not really the church either. That would be the easy route, but not the good route. And when I let honesty overtake cynicism, there's more good than bad going on in my church. Sure, we've got our problems, and we have our "gap." But it's not like I'm standing over here alone. We have a lot of good people, people who want to follow Jesus and are willing to do the work of doing that.

I guess this is a blog entry without a good conclusion. It all comes down to this: sometimes I get irritated...and then, sometimes, I get a grip.

The Fruits of My Labors

I confess, this feels a little cheery for Ash Wednesday, but I feel the need to share pictures of the revamping of my house. Today I am reveling in my new bathroom, which is WAY too bright for Lent...but then, all this cleaning and reordering of my home continues to be reflective of the work going on within my soul. I'm "cleaning house" in more ways than one. With every sweep of the vacuum cleaner I can feel the internal dust and grime abate (and by the way, how does one short-haired dog produce enough hair to make a whole second dog???) As shoes are shifted from their customary pile in front of the door to an organizer and towels are stacked on shelves, the internal clutter also gets sorted and prioritized. And that is a very Lenten sort of thing.

So, this is the new wallpaper border thingy. Does it count as Lenten simplicity if it was on clearance?

These are my newly organized shelves. The plethora of lotions and other assorted toiletries received as gifts and partially used are cleverly hidden in "sea grass" baskets, which goes nicely with the aquarium theme.

This would be the matching shower curtain. Something fishy seems to be going on here. Friends keep telling me that I'm "nesting." Frankly, that expression holds too much odd partner-up-and-reproduce baggage for me, so instead I'll just say I'm cleaning. And getting ready in case anyone wants to come and visit me.