So let me tell you about my Lent.

After going on and in my last post about how we might use the Lenten season to enrich our faith and our lives, I am embarrassed to say, I haven't.  

As I write this, I am huddled on love seat facing the wood stove. I feel lousy. Periodically, I get up and try and get the fire to perk up enough to take the chill off the air. I cough, which makes me feel worse. The weather has turned cold again - it snowed yesterday, for like the four thousandth time this season.  Except that it's next season - Spring has already happened! It's almost April, so what the heck?

From Rabbit Fire (Warner Brothers, 1951),

Chuck Jones, director

Friends, this how I get when I'm sick. I like to think of it as unvarnished honesty, but those closest to me just call me a whiny baby. The fact is, I have pneumonia. According to those who know such things, pneumonia is serious; it's something one can actually die from. I've had it before. 

How did I get pneumonia, you might ask, and I would probably shrug my shoulders and mumble something inarticulate, or perhaps blame all those people with whom I have contact at the church, or at the hospital. But deep down, I know how this happened - how this always happens; it happens because I don't care.

An interesting phrase, I don't care; it conjures up images of selfish brats, thoughtless narcissists, sociopaths. And yet, on some level, it describes all of us: there are certain things that interest us not in the least - the results of the ICC Under 19 Cricket World Final, perhaps (South Africa beat Pakistan), or how to prepare Egg in Aspic (what is aspic, anyway?) And that's OK.

Who thought this was a good idea?

photo by Michael Newman

        

There are many times, though, when I don't care really means I don't care...enough. Often, the word should creeps into the conversation: I should be more interested in what's happening in my community; I should be better informed about world events; I should be more proactive when it comes to my health. It's not that we don't care about these things; we just care more about something else, and that makes us uncomfortable. Take my health.

Handsome devil, eh?

Once upon a time, I was a reasonably healthy young collegiate. I walked up hill and down, went to class, mostly, played basketball a lot; I had hair. Of course, I ate and drank like a college student; that is, whatever I wanted and could afford. I slept like a college student; that is, not enough and at odd hours. And I lived on the college student's calendar: burn the candle at both ends AND in the middle, then recover over break.  It's not as if I didn't care; this way of life seemed to serve me well, allowing me to follow my bliss, while still managing to squeak through with a B.A. 

But then, I looked up and just like that! college was over. I found myself in the real world, with an adult's metabolism and a teenager's sense of responsibility. Working, attending Seminary, starting a family; for almost thirty years, it seems I have been playing catch up: picking up habits more easily learned in one's youth; travelling time after time down the same unproductive paths; learning from experiences that have too often been painful, expensive and embarrassing. My weight has been up and down, and up again; my physical condition has gone from adequate, to pretty good, to wretched. I find myself arising earlier as I age, but no happier to see the morning; I pray more, but find my prayers more distracted than ever.

The fact is, I have just entered my fifty first year, and I am in deplorable condition. Even before the whole pneumonia thing, I felt lousy; overweight and out of shape. It's not as if I don't care whether I live or die; I do. But there always seems to be something else to take care of first, something to distract me from what I know is important, some exception that needs to be made. I'm too busy to eat right; too tired to exercise; too distracted to just be still and pray. After a lifetime of caring for others, I have come to realize I don't really care about myself. And that is wrong.

Sitting here on this loveseat, coughing, I am ashamed - not because I have ill treated this temple of God that is by body (although I have), but because in caring so little about my own health, I have put at risk all the things I though I cared about more: my family, my ministry, my relationship with God. This is sin, and it is here, fat and coughing and overburdened, that I think I have finally begun my observance of Lent.

Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God. Or do you suppose that it is for nothing that the scripture says, “God yearns jealously for the spirit that he has made to dwell in us”? But he gives all the more grace; therefore it says, “God opposes the proud,
but gives grace to the humble.”

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded. Lament and mourn and weep. Let your laughter be turned into mourning and your joy into dejection. Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you.     James 4: 4-10

On Fish, Chocolate and Swearing: coming to grips with Lent.

I grew up eating fish on Fridays in Lent. As a Presbyterian in Pittsburgh, this was less a demonstration of piety and penitence, and more a reflection on the fact that all my friends were Catholic; I also had ashes on my forehead long before it was fashionable in Presbyterian circles, and endured the painful up and down of the Stations of the Cross service each Holy Week.

Peer pressure is a powerful thing.

In those days, Lent was a bad time to be a cod in the Steel City. Friday lunch in Market Square meant lines out the door of the Original Oyster House, while out in the South Hills, places like Doridos and Lackeys Inn served fried fish sandwiches as big as your head. These gigantic sandwiches were so delicious it was hard to imagine you were giving up anything. Which was odd, because giving up seemed to be what Lent was all about.

Young and old, Protestant and Catholic, family and friends would make a solemn vow on that fateful Wednesday, to give up something for Lent. The list rarely changed; almost invariably, women swore off chocolate, or candy in general, or perhaps the liquid equivalent - pop; while the men would swear off, well,  swearing  - or at least one particularly offensive swear word that starts with ‘F’ and rhymes with your mother will beat you with a slotted spoon if she hears you say it.

Occasionally, guys would swear off alcohol, especially if the Mardi Gras celebration had been particularly rough.

This meant for forty days, as winter gave way to spring, we endured meatless Fridays, cranky girls dealing with sugar/cocoa withdrawal, and frustrated guys trying to express themselves with colorless substitutes for George Carlin’s seven words, or counting down the days till their next beer.

[Actually, now that I think about it, caffeine would occasionally make the list as well, which added jittery people with massive headaches to the mix.]

The phrase, I gave it up for Lent seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Sometimes, it was in response to an offer:

Bonbon? Ho, ho, ho, no – I gave up candy for Lent!

Bucket of tequila? Wish I could, but I can’t: gave it up for Lent.

Often though, it would be in the form of a question:

I gave up saying F@*%!  - what did YOU give up for Lent?

I have to tell you, all this giving up bothered me – and not because I had little willpower or discipline in those days. Although I didn’t.

What was the point? I would ask myself. What did God care whether I ate Mars Bars or Haddock this month? What value would God find in forty days of a socially accepted vocabulary, especially since I viewed it as a sort of punishment I was bound to accept in order to somehow earn the chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and ham slices of Easter?

I had a rich and contentious interior life.

Over time, I went off to seminary, where I came to learn about Lent, and I discovered it is more than a season of giving up – much more.

It turns out, the forty days before Easter have long been a special time in the church. Forty is the traditional number for discipline, and preparation, harkening back to the Flood. It was the length of the sojourn of Moses on the mountain (Exodus 24); the length of the spies' mission in the Promised Land (Numbers 13:25); it was how long it took Elijah to reach the cave where he received God’s vision (1 Kings 19); the time allotted for Ninevah’s repentance (Jonah 3); and most significantly, the number of days Jesus prayed and fasted in the wilderness before beginning his earthly ministry.

In the early church, these forty days were used to instruct those who wished to be baptized and join the church. Over time, it evolved into a season when all Christians are called to use the spiritual disciplines of the faith to remind ourselves of the terrible cost of our redemption. During Lent, we focus on the nature of sin and salvation, as we prepare to celebrate the resurrection. 

Take the most common discipline associated with Lent:  fasting. Contrary to our common assumptions, fasting is more than not eating something, or not doing something; it is a conscious decision to use the time and resources usually reserved for one thing for another, higher purpose – a holy use.

We may choose to fast by giving our lunch money to the food pantry and spending our lunch hour in prayer.  Instead of throwing away our chocolate for Lent, or staring at it with frustrated longing throughout the season, we might box it up with a card and share it to with a lonely nursing home resident.  We might choose to turn off the television or computer, and instead dedicate our evenings to learning more about how we might be the family of God.

Far from giving up, Lent is a time for us to enrich our lives by considering the question, what does it mean to have a savior who would willingly die for us? Lent can be a time of enrichment and renewal – if we take advantage of the season.

Have a Holy Lent  - try the fish.

Why are we here?

 Believe it or not, all the work of the Mission Study Team can be boiled down to this one question: Why are we here?

You might say, That’s easy! It’s right there in the Larger Catechism: We’re here to glorify God, and fully to enjoy him forever. And you would be right.

You might say, We’re here because God has called us out of the world to be his children, the body of Christ in the world. And you would be right.

You might say, My family has been here since the beginning, or We love the people. And you would be right.

You might say, We’re here to serve and make disciples of the community around us. And you would be right.

The fact is, each of these answers reveals a slightly different emphasis, a slightly different assumption – a different facet of that one deceptively simple question. It is the task the Mission Study Team to delve into each of these facets, by asking you to help them ask, and answer this question.

Why are we here?

How does one measure success?

Sometimes, it’s easy – High score wins! Low score wins! First to cross the line wins! Last one standing wins! Tab A into slot B = success! No parts left over = success! Starts up after overhaul= success! But there are many more experiences in life for which the assessment is much less clear than win/lose or success/fail.

Of course, the culture in which we live seems to provide some universal guidelines for measuring success, benchmarks we can use to assess our life’s achievements. In one’s career, salary and perks are easy measures, while authority (how many people report to us) and indispensability (how little can be done without our input) are also crucial to assessing one’s level of success. In relationship, the measurement run the gamut from who loves us, who is our friend, and how desirable are they? to are one’s children reflecting well on their parents?

In Spiritual matters, the culture seems ask but two questions: Are we happy, and if not, are we doing something about it?

In the film The Green Mile, there is an scene depicting an improperly prepared electrocution which is both arresting and gruesome. When asked by the warden what happened, Corrections Officer Paul Edgecomb, (played by Tom Hanks) responds, “An execution – a successful one.” The warden, incredulous, wonders how he could call the prolonged, graphic, painful episode a success. The answer is simple: “Edward Delacroix is dead.”

Success here is measured in its definition; what we’re after determines how we gauge whether or not we have achieved it. In the case of Edward Delacroix’s execution, success was defined, simply, as achieving the stated goal – the death of a condemned inmate. Of course, the warden’s questions demonstrate the truth, that there was much more at stake than the execution of a lawful sentence on a prisoner. We all know success is more than simply doing what one sets out to do – there is always another agenda, a fundamental truth by which we measure every thought, every action. The truth is, when it comes to defining that kind of success, the culture does a pretty poor job; objectives are set unattainably high, or using the wrong benchmarks; stated goals often have very little to do with truth, or real success.

Here in the church, success is measured by a very different standard. One way to describe it is to use one of those trusty visual aids from elementary set theory, the Venn diagram:

It all boils down to this: if we can figure out A.) our gifts and talents, and 2.) what God wants for the world, then we can measure how well we’re using our gifts to do God’s will. That is the fundamental truth, the basic agenda from which we operate – as individuals and as the church.

That is also the essence of what we Presbyterians call The Mission Study Process.  Because they begin with this fundamental premise, Mission studies can be crucial for figuring out what lies ahead for a particular congregation; not just who the next pastor will be, but also questions of property use and improvement, ministry opportunities and initiatives, and community cooperation – all with an unwavering focus on what God is calling us to do with what we have been given.

In the Mission Study process, we will be gathering data in a variety of ways to answer these basic questions:

Who are we as a congregation?

What gifts and talents do we have? What resources?

What is our community like? What opportunities for ministry can we identify?

What is God Calling us to do in this time and place?

How can a pastor help us use our gifts, talents and resources to fulfill that Call?

While the Session is entrusted with leadership of the congregation, and will appoint a Task Force to oversee this process, the fact is, each member of the congregation is essential for this mission study to be a success.

Look for more information about the Mission Study and how you can be a part of this important process here at Smyrna Church.

I’ve been thinking a lot about transition lately; moving will do that to you.

Of course, I am not only in the midst of what one might call domestic transition - I am also transitioning professionally, moving from the position of installed pastor to what we cutting-edge types in the church are now calling Transitional Ministry; after eleven years in one place, I am now an Interim Pastor, serving the Smyrna church for, as I told one young friend, more than a month, but less than forever.

It seems like transition is all over the place these days. The Committee on Ministry looks after churches in transition; indeed, the presbytery itself is searching for a Transitional Presbyter; and the PC(USA) continues to transition from what it was into, quite literally, Lord knows what.

Of course, I wouldn’t be The Preacher® if I didn’t use this as an excuse to do some etymological work. So, what is transition, anyway?

Merriam-Webster defines transition (noun) as the process or  period of changing from one state or condition to another.

In its plural form, Transitions™ is a brand of photo-chromic eyeglass lens – the kind that  go from clear inside to sunglassy outside.

In genetics, Transition is a point mutation that changes a purine nucleotide to another purine (A ↔ G) or a pyrimidine nucleotide to another pyrimidine (C ↔ T). Don’t ask me – I was an English Major.

In wrestling, Transition is the movement from one grappling hold or position to another, while in basketball, Transition is what one calls the change from defense to offense, or vice-versa.

Of all these, I particularly like the last two definitions, for a couple of reasons.

I can imagine the struggle of Jacob with God that dark night by the Jabbok river; the grunting, sweating, grabbing and twisting, each transition symbolic of Jacob’s experience: each clench, each escape and subsequent hold evoking his hard headed, hard fought approach to life, and the constant, unceasing change in store for his progeny.

Then again, I think about the importance of transition to winning basketball games. Each basket or possession change is like a little ending, as offense changes to defense; but it is also a new beginning, as defense now goes on the offensive. In those moments of transition, much can happen – baskets made, opponents worn down, momentum changed -  if a team recognizes the value of that transitional moment, and approaches it with specific goals in mind, and the plans to achieve them. Red Aurebach, legendary coach of the Boston Celtics, was perhaps the first to exploit this in-between time, advocating the fast break, in which the offense exploits that time of change to push the ball down the court and score.

As Interim Pastor for the Smyrna Presbyterian Church, it is my task to help the Session and congregation make the most of this ‘in between time,’ helping to identify, in the midst of change, the goals to which God is calling us,  the tools and resources he has provided, and the best way for us to use those resources in this time and place. May God bless us in this time of transition.

As I have considered the pastor’s annual report for 2012, I have been thinking not just about the past year, but the past eleven. A lot has happened since 2001, when I accepted God’s Call and came to Mossy Creek. The church has dealt with opportunities and obstacles; many old friends have joined the church triumphant; new friends have joined in our mission and ministry; and some have moved on, to other congregations or to a fallow time in their faith. We have dealt with a variety of significant issues – questions about the church property,  its preservation and expansion; issues surrounding worship; uncomfortable truths about financial oversight;  a rethinking of the meaning of witness and outreach. We continue to wrestle with concerns about theology, polity, and the future of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A).

At the manse, our children have grown, with ups and downs we could hardly have imagined; Ann has furthered her education, shepherded several congregations through the interim process, and found a position at Massanutten where her gifts and talents are truly valued. I am older now, and perhaps a bit wiser; I have gone through desert times, and times of refreshment; I have learned, and taught, and learned even more.

Over the years, many of you have dealt with both the best and worst of life; birth and death, marriage and divorce, illness and healing;  exciting new opportunities and difficult, painful transitions. You have celebrated; you have mourned; you have questioned; you have laughed and cried; and I have been your pastor.

Together, we have built relationships with our community. We have shouldered the responsibility of a good neighbor, organizing concrete ministries of concern for many who had fallen through the cracks of society; we have built, and repaired; we have chauffeured, and provided company; we have fed and clothed; provided warmth and understanding; we have mourned with the grieving, comforted the suffering and brought love into the lives of the lonely; and I have been your pastor.

In small but significant ways, we have begun to rebuild relationships with the Presbytery. We have reached out in service to the Central Valley Mission Community; we have welcomed Presbytery representatives, and utilized presbytery resources for education. We have opened lines of communication about financial and theological issues and sought engagement on difficult issues; and I have been your pastor.

I have been your pastor. I have preached the Gospel with integrity and organized worship in a thoughtful, theologically sound manner. I have taught every age group in the church, preparing and sharing thoughtful, accessible programs about biblical topics, church history, the essential tenets of our faith, books of interest to the thoughtful Christian, as well as numerous topics related to our faith journey and life experience. I have stood with the grieving and uncertain, reached out to the hurting, and celebrated with the joyful. I have served as a resource for both knowledge and wisdom, and have been available to all who have expressed a need. I have been accountable to the Session, for the work I have done; to the Presbytery, and to God. That is my Call, and I have sought to honor God as I live it out.

Of course, it is not just my Call; a pastoral Call is a relationship ordained by God between pastor and congregation, in which both parties have responsibilities and expectations. It is not just the pastor’s performance that is evaluated; it is not just the pastor who must meet expectations.

In thinking back over the last eleven years, I realize I have sometimes spoken thoughtlessly, or without considering the effect my words might have on those hearing. I have missed opportunities to reach out, to build relationships, to anticipate the needs of others. There have been times when personal issues and family problems have overshadowed my work.

Likewise, there have been times when conversations among yourselves have come back to hurt me; when complaints about incidental things have been given the same weight as the good work being done in our midst; when casual thoughtlessness has led me to question the importance of our relationship, and my value to the congregation; when confidentiality has been breached, affecting both Ann and me in our work with colleagues.

It is crucial for the Session and congregation to examine their own responsibilities in the pastoral relationship – responsibilities that go far beyond financial compensation. Such reflection should be an integral part of the annual review process; but beyond that, it should be an integral part of the relationship we build day by day, week by week, year by year.

As we look forward to 2013, I can say without hesitation that God has not yet called me away from Mossy Creek - although I am open to the possibility. Of course, such discernment is not for me alone; you, the congregation, must concur, along with the Presbytery, which stands ready to help us address concerns and discern where God is leading us.  In the end, we are like every church in every time and place: ministering in an imperfect world, with an imperfect pastor and imperfect members; and yet, God has brought us together for His purpose, and gifted us with Grace sufficient to our Call. It is my prayer that God would continue to guide and bless us, as we seek to do His will.