Christmas Confessions

There was a time I thought Christmas Eve services were only a creation of Hollywood. I did not know people actually went to church to sing the songs I heard on the radio. As a college student I attended my first Christmas Eve service with the guy I was dating because his dad was a pastor. I thought it the oddest thing in the world, but I wanted to impress him so I went along. The only memory I have of that evening is of standing in the sanctuary, with the whole congregation circled around the room, holding candles singing Silent Night.

I grew up in a working poor family that chose to work as many holidays as they could. The ability to get holiday pay outweighed the need to get together on a specific date, and if they were able to work it out to get overtime pay and holiday pay, so much the better. As a child I accepted this as our normal, as an adult I recognize the financial wisdom my adults demonstrated. Since this was our normal, celebrating a holiday on a specific day was not something that was vital to me, not so much for my spouse, the son of a pastor. Sure, his dad works each Christmas, but that work involved observing the sacredness of the holiday, a completely unusual concept for me.

Fast forward twenty-some years and I am now the pastor responsible for organizing and leading the annual Christmas Eve service. I work on the holiday, but not for overtime or holiday pay. I work to help others encounter the sacredness of this holiday. I spend weeks (sometimes months) creating the services to help others find a space of welcome and to be reassured of God’s love.

I confess this has not always been easy. Yes, I have grown more tenderhearted and gentle surrounding this holiday as I have gotten older. However, my original mindset was it made no sense to have a service on this holiday if people were not going to come because it was a waste of money. This is clearly a product of my childhood thinking. My thinking changed from that to a frustration as I realized the cliché that some people only attend services on their faith traditions high holy days was not hyperbole. As I grew older, my thinking evolved to resignation that I would always be exhausted by Christmas Day, and that no matter what I did someone was going to be unhappy with my energy level, and I would have to endure hearing about how I had ruined yet another Christmas. Add in to those experiences the number of times I have officiated a funeral service, or attended one for a family member during the month of December, and it is no wonder Christmas is a season of mixed feelings.

I confess, it would have been really easy to stay in my discontent and disillusionment of this holiday. But I did not want to do that, I wanted more than anything to experience this holiday as one of hope, joy, peace, and love. I wanted to be able to recognize everybody approaches the holiday season differently and my responsibility is to observe it as I am able, without judging others and without allowing the judgment of others to cloud my view. I wanted to capture the magic of Christmas so many people talk about, but that usually escapes me no matter how hard I try to create meaningful services or loving family traditions.

To confess as a Christian pastor that Christmas is not your favorite time of year is not easy to do. Usually this results in some pushback about my level of faithfulness or succumbing to the pressure of secular society. I am not sure what an equivalent might be, but maybe it would be similar to a professional athlete sharing that they really do not enjoy the sport they play. Even though it is difficult to confess this apathy, reluctance, or even dislike of Christmas, I found healing in finally claiming those very feelings. In all my years of trying to find the magic of Christmas, it was only when I was honest about my negative feelings around the holiday that I began to find that magic.

First, it came from a more experienced pastor who assured me I could struggle with Christmas all I needed, because that was the point of the story. God brought all these people into the Nativity story (Luke 1-2, Matthew 1-2) to remind us that not everyone was an eager or willing participant, but they were invited all the same. Second, it came when the COVID19 pandemic forced our congregation to worship differently. There I was Christmas Eve 2020, standing in my dining room in front of a Zoom screen, while people I loved lit candles and held them up, while singing Silent Night. There was the reminder of the power of community, there was the Christmas magic. Third, it came this Christmas Eve. I stood in the sanctuary on a night of subzero temperatures, ferocious wind, and messy roads, and saw the faces of people I have been given to care for and love, and I knew of all the places I was going to find Christmas magic, this was the place.

I confess, I did find that magic. At the end of the service I stood in front of the gathered community as we lifted our lit candles and sang Silent Night and my heart cracked wide open. In that moment, it made sense why we gather for this service, why for some people all they need is that night to renew their faith so they can do the work God gave them the rest of the year, why we pastors pour so much energy into creating special services, and why even when we feel disillusioned we are still invited into the Christmas Story.

I confess, even though my heart is becoming more tender and I am becoming more gentle, I still did not think I would experience the magic of Christmas. I had in mind that I had missed my chance to find that magic. But God never ceases to amaze me, because just when I thought I had wandered too far from the magic, God dropped it right down on me. And in case I missed all the evidence of that gift, God tried one more time, and with the voice of one of the youngest members of our community said to me, “This is the best Christmas ever.”

Wherever you find yourself in the pursuit of holiday magic, I hope you will know what it has taken me so long to comprehend, that no matter who you are or where you are in life, you are not alone, you are welcomed and loved just as you are, by the One who created all the cosmos. Come reluctantly or eagerly, it does not matter, because there is always room and magic for you.

The First Week of Advent 2022

Last night I had dinner with a friend who has known me since my last year of seminary. We had no idea when we met this friendship would grow or that our professional lives would weave together. As I drove home from dinner, along city streets I rarely drive, surrounded by more vehicles than I see in a normal week in my own town, I was thinking about how valuable these friendships we are given prove to be over time.

The reason this came to mind was the question my friend asked and then her response. She asked me, “How are you doing with your grief?” I replied, “I am sad.” She replied, “Yes.”

For those of you readers not aware we are in a season of funerals. A season of funerals is the name I have given to those times when we have a number of funerals in a shortened time frame. Sometimes we reach double digits in the course of a few months, sometimes we have a handful in the course of a month or two. Always, these seasons seem to catch us by surprise.

My friend’s question and response acknowledge three things: one, that I am grieving the death of people I love; two, that it is okay I am sad; and three, I am known and loved. Often I hear from others that pastors do not really love the people they serve, and that a good pastor will be able to move quickly through the emotions surrounding a death in the community. I have always disagreed with this idea. I think this is a misunderstanding of the reality of sharing life and ministry with others.

The reality is pastors are people who come to love the community God has called them to serve. Pastors grieve along with the community when someone dies, but they also grieve themselves. The longer you live in a community, the more life you share with the community, the more friendships you grow, the more your lives are woven together. The death of someone in that community pulls on a thread, changes the way the tapestry looks, and makes it more noticeable someone else is missing.

My faith assures me I will see those people again, and one day when I can look back on the tapestry of my life I will be able to see how all the people I have encountered, all those threads, have been woven together to create something beautiful and unique. I hold on to that hopeful promise and look forward to that day.

It is that promise that allows me to acknowledge I am sad. To be honest that my tears are on the surface during this season. It seems to me being able to name my sadness and cry my tears allows me to honor the love I have been given by those no longer here with us, while also honoring the love I have with all the other people who have been woven into my life.

Last night my friend stood beside me, literally and figuratively, in my grief. She did not push me to share or even ask me to explain, she let me name my sadness and she held that space for me. That moment walking down a city street, surrounded by buildings, people, vehicles, and noise, felt holy.

This morning reflecting back on that moment I am struck by how the theme of the first week of Advent met me on a city street. The theme from our liturgy last Sunday was hope, and we were encouraged to recognize the moments of hope we encounter in our days. In all the good moments of this first week, it was that holy moment last night that broke open my heart. There was much around us on that sidewalk to fill me with hopelessness, yet on an unfamiliar street the Holy Spirit moved in my heart and filled me with hope.

As this first week of Advent draws to a close, I am mindful of all the threads of friendship woven into my life. I am astonished I have known so many people who continue to demonstrate to me what it means to love, to be a friend, to be human, and to share this life with others. I am thankful for the lessons I continue to learn and a faith that continues to deepen. I am eager for the coming holy moments in which my hope will be renewed and grow. I live in anticipation of the day when all our sadness will be no more, and in its place will be a knowledge of how deeply we are loved and connected.

Onward I go stumbling toward that promised day. May your journey this Advent season break open your heart to an eternal love that is beyond measure, and fill you with hope, even in your sadness. Remember you are a valuable thread in many tapestries.

Sharing Space

I attend worship services alone every week, sometimes more than once a week.  My family attends our Sunday service and most of our special services, and yet I still feel alone each Sunday because they do not sit with me.  Most Sundays I do not talk to my family members until we are walking home after all the Sunday tasks are finished.  I am no different than clergy all over the world.  In fact, a whole lot of people who are single, widowed, or are the lone person in their family who attends religious services attend services alone.  It is because I attend services alone that the act of sitting next to someone during a worship service is such a profound experience.

Rarely do I get to enjoy the restlessness of a child in a pew, or feel another person lean into me to reach a hymnal.  Almost never do I have someone reach for my hand when a prayer, hymn, reading, or sermon moves them.  I do not share whispered words, elbows in the side, or pieces of hard candy with my spouse or children.  I do not know what my children’s singing voices sound like when blended with the voices in front or behind me, and I have no idea when my oldest child stopped singing in worship.

I am a leader of worship which means I sit alone, sing alone, and never feel the comfort of an arm around me on the back of a pew.  I get to watch the people in worship to make sure the details are happening as they need to, but I do not have the privilege of holding the hand of someone as they sit beside me.

Worship is a communal experience, which means we gather together, we sit together, and we learn together.  Worship as a communal experience means you know what the sigh from the person behind you means, or when the person in front of you is praying or nodding off.  Worship as a communal experience means there is joy in sharing space with others as you build memories and habits.

I rarely get to share space with my family in worship.  I have only a few memories of sitting with my children as they have grown up in the church.  I do not know which hymns make them tremble with emotion.  I do not know what their hands feel like clasped in mine.  I do not know what it feels like to have them squashed between my husband and I in a pew where people know to look for us.

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Sitting with my oldest child.

But today was one of those rare occasions when I did not sit alone.  Though we were not all together in the pew, three of us were, much like a typical Sunday.  On my left was my oldest, on my right my husband.  At one point he sighed, leaned into me, shifted and put his arm around me on the back of the pew and my tears were instantly at the surface.

I was not alone in worship.  I was between my child who no longer sings and my husband who sings with a confidence grown over years of communal worship.  For me today, this was an illustration of joy and goodness, the themes for this third week of Advent.  I hope as you share space in this world, whether it is in worship spaces or other places, you take a moment to appreciate the people surrounding you.  Pay attention to their sighs, their voices, their whispered words, and how it feels to have them lean into you.

Pay attention and give thanks.

 

A Radical Community

20181204_082455[1]I know when people describe our congregation, radical is not the first adjective that comes to mind.  We pride ourselves on being simple people who strive to live showing kindness and respect.  However, the first stories I heard about our congregation when I was making reference calls all those years ago was that the congregation in question was a radical one.

This congregation was radical from its beginning.  Two congregations, one Presbyterian Church U.S.A. and the other United Methodist, had leaders in their thirties who saw a bigger vision for the future of the congregations.  They were not the only leaders, leaders with more age and wisdom also saw this vision, but the younger leaders were the ones who filled in the story when I accepted the call to serve.  The radical decision was made to unite the congregations as one and become a brand new congregation.  The leaders made decisions about property, pastoral leadership, and denominational status and the congregations followed those leaders.  I have been told there was much to be afraid of and some struggles in the beginning, but the radical vision of a vibrant congregation kept them going.

The second radical story I was told in the beginning that has been re-told many times, is the decision the congregation made to spend their money to hire a full-time pastor instead of yoking with another congregation or hiring a part-time pastor.  This might not seem radical to you but for a rural congregation living in an area with a diminishing population, the decision to spend money that has been saved for decades is a huge leap of faith.  I was told that the congregation decided the only way to continue to grow into their vibrant vision was to use the resources they had been given.  It was some of those original leaders, now forty years older, who filled in the details of that story for me.

A third, and by no means final, characteristic of their radical nature is that I am the sixth female pastor to serve with them.  This is radical because there are still congregations in our denomination (PCUSA) who have not had a female pastor.

I share this radical nature of our congregation because today they made a new radical decision, they agreed to enter into a sabbatical in 2019.  Sabbaticals, spending money, uniting small congregations (or consolidating businesses), and hiring women may not seem radical to some of you, as in many fields these are normal practices.  But for a rural congregation a sabbatical is typically a brand new experience.

Today we had an honest and heartfelt discussion as a congregation about our concerns and dreams for taking a new radical step into the future.  We decided we would use this tool we have been offered to nurture our pastor-congregation partnership and dream of that vibrant future we have been living and want to continue to live.

Tonight one of our oldest members said to me that a sabbatical is such a good idea and is exciting not only for the pastor but also the congregation.  I heard in their words that same radical nature that has kept this congregation serving God and the community all these forty-nine years.

I am inspired by their faith and thankful I get to learn how to live simply and radically with them.

Sitting in the Bleachers

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During my high school years I remember only attending sporting events when I was required for Marching and Pep Band, or when my cousin dragged me to a game on a Friday night. I was not a big fan of sitting in the bleachers. In college until my work schedule prohibited my attendance I spent many hours sitting in the bleachers cheering on my friends. As a pastor in our rural community where having a school building in town is a privilege, I have spent many hours sitting in the bleachers cheering on students I know, and checking in with the adults in my care. As a parent and spouse of a coach, I have spent more hours than I ever dreamed as a high school student sitting in the bleachers.

Sitting in the bleachers is different than sitting in the sanctuary, even though many of the same people are present. In the bleachers insults are in abundance, while in the sanctuary words of forgiveness are in abundance. In the bleachers anticipation is in abundance, while in the sanctuary expectation is in abundance.

Sitting in the bleachers is also similar to sitting in the sanctuary, even though many of the people do not sit in the same sanctuary on a Sunday morning. In the sanctuary the monetary offerings are shared for the purpose of caring for others; and in the bleachers folded dollar bills are quietly handed over to hungry children. In the sanctuary conversations about life are shared before and after the service, sometimes even in whispers and notes passed during the service; and in the bleachers conversations about life are continued from event to event, like an ongoing dialogue, picking up where they ended when the buzzer sounded.

It seems we try to separate the bleachers and the sanctuary; compartmentalizing who we are in the bleachers so we are not the same in the sanctuary.  Yet, for some of us the community does not allow that compartmentalization so we see the impossible beauty of what our community would be if the anticipation of the bleachers, forgiveness of the sanctuary, and generosity found in both was shared with abundance in both places.

Imagine the joy if those holy moments of the sanctuary were also looked for in the bleachers.  Imagine the joy if those moments of camaraderie in the bleachers were shared in the sanctuary.  Imagine who we would be and how the world would change. . .

The impossible beauty of that image is what keeps me sitting in the bleachers and standing in the pulpit.

A Newsletter Article

20170228_123249One of my tasks as pastor is to write an article for the monthly newsletter.  The following is the newsletter article published in our March 2018 newsletter.  It is the third installment in a series reflecting on our eleven years together as pastor and congregation.  Each month this year I am sharing a memory and connecting it to what we are learning today.  This article is longer and a whole lot more personal than usual.  I share it with the wider internet world to add depth to the conversation about caring for the members of our society.  This is a glimpse for you, the reader, into conversations around my dinner table.  I welcome you to come visit, share your story with us, and help us find a way to care for each other.  Thank you for reading.

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In March of 2008 we were in the middle of a long season of saying goodbye-for-now to loved ones.  In a year there were sixteen Witness to the Life and Resurrection Services, two of them were my family members.  In March I did not know the season would continue for months, I was simply a person grieving the death of two family members, who seemed to be spending my time leading others through the first days after death.  I would sit with families, hear stories, pick Scripture and hymns, and then stand before the community and remind everyone of the promises of our faith.

Each Lent I am reminded of that first season of funerals, and the ones that followed.  I sit with the stories of those who have died.  I remember the conversations with families.  I remember the ways our community came together to take care of all of those who were mourning.  I remember the fatigue that I felt deep in my bones and spirit as I tried to be compassionate when yet another family needed me to help them proclaim the promises of our faith.

This month when we are reeling from yet another act of gun violence against our children I find myself thinking back to the fatigue I felt in 2008.  I remember in 2008 some hurtful comments directed my way by people who thought I was not being the pastor they thought I should be.  I remember rumors reaching my ears of the supposed atrocious things I was to have said.  I remember my tears that were always close to the surface that year.  I remember questioning deeply my call to pastoral ministry.  That season was a difficult season for me, and yet there were moments of grace that still shine brightly in my memory as others reminded me of the promises of our faith.

As I write this article my heart is broken with the pain of yet round of senseless deaths, and the truth of the number of gun violence episodes of this year.  I am afraid of the funerals I will have to do if ever there is a tragic act of violence in our community.  I am trying to work for change, to help others see the truth we learn in the Gospel: that there are times when we set aside our own freedoms for the sake of the safety of another.  I am trying to comfort my own children as they talk through their anxiety at the possibility of an active shooter coming into their school, and their firm belief if that happened they would be the ones standing at the graveside crying as their dad’s casket was lowered into the ground.  Because for my children, there is no doubt their dad would die for them, or for his students, or for his colleagues.  My children remind me of the promises their dad has made them, which I know come from his understanding of the promises of our faith.

As adults we know what we would do in a stressful situation cannot be determined until that time.  We know enough to think about it, to talk about it, to prepare with training, and to leave behind the words we want said in the event the worst happens.  But we also know we are responsible for the safety of our children, even at the setting aside of our own freedom.  Because isn’t that what we do when we hold that baby (our own child or a child of our family) in our arms?  Do we not look at that baby and promise we will do everything in our power to keep that baby safe and protected?  Do we not look at our own choices and begin to change them so that that baby would be safe, from even us?  Do we not stand before God and the community and baptize that baby in the promises of our faith?

I know the intersection of gun violence and the freedom to own guns is not an easy conversation.  I grew up with guns, my step-father was a gun dealer, and I know people who hunt and those who enjoy shooting a rifle just for fun.   I can recall conversations about gun safety, and times when there was legitimate fear someone would use a gun in a fit of drunken rage.  The end result of all of those conversations was the belief that the safety of the children and the community were more important than the right to own a gun.  Unknown to my agnostic and atheist family members they were living the Gospel in a way that would make it easier for me to one day recognize the promises of our faith.

I do not have all the answers for how our society needs to change so our children do not fear going to school, our teachers and school staff do not wrestle with what they would do when faced with their life or the life of another, our medical and emergency personnel do not have to be prepared for mass shootings, and our clergy of all faiths wonder about funeral sermons that would have to be preached.  I do know one of the best ways to make change happen is to actually listen to each other, to share our experiences and our fears.  I know it is not to spread atrocious rumors about others, or to call each other names, or to make demands that our freedoms are more important than the freedom of others.  I know we can be the kind of community that has these kind of conversations because we have already had hard conversations.  We have walked through the valley of the shadow of death with each other before and we have been changed.  We have lived the promises of our faith.

Our faith is one that requires action, it is one that is all about setting aside ourselves for the sake of God.  Our faith is about setting aside our own freedom so that we can be of service to another, just as Jesus was when he walked this earth.  The Holy Spirit makes it possible for us to give up our freedom for the sake of others.  Our faith requires that we love mercy, act justly, and walk humbly with our Lord.  Our faith is one full of promises of forgiveness, grace, love, joy, and peace.  Our faith is one full of promises of a community that recognizes they are only as strong as the weakest member and therefore works together to strengthen that weak one.  I remain confident we can become the kind of community eager to learn from each other, eager to protect others, and eager to demonstrate the promises of our faith.

May we be bold enough to work together to insure that never again will we have to hear the cries of our children because they had to watch their classmates and teachers die.  Let our efforts be pleasing to God until the time Christ comes again and fulfills the promises of our faith.

 

Speaking Grace

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My record book of funerals, weddings, baptisms, and ordinations.

A few weeks ago I was at a concert for our family’s favorite artist and writer, Andrew Peterson.  His shows are my favorite kind of concert because he talks to the audience about the creation of his songs, which come from his life and the many people he has encountered.  At this show he was talking about his dad who retired after fifty years of parish ministry.  Andrew shared a conversation in which he had asked his dad about the number of weddings and funerals he had officiated.  The number of weddings seemed reasonable for the fifty years, so reasonable I did not even remember it.  But it was his dad’s response to the number of funerals that caught my attention.  His dad’s response was that he ceased counting at 300.  The crowd murmured lovingly in response.  I nodded and let the tears fall freely down my cheeks.

Death has been a regular part of my time as pastor in this community.  In my first years there were so many people I did not know who I stood next to their casket and proclaimed words of God’s grace and eternal life.  Now however, there are so few people I do not know.  Even when I do not know the person directly, I know their family a circle or two out.  I know their friends.  I know how they fit in the community and I know the hole they leave behind.  Now when the funeral home announcements come, even if it is not a funeral I am officiating, I know the hole left behind with that person’s death.

I still stand and say words of God’s grace.  I talk about the next life.  I talk about the healing to come, of pain that will change, and of the ways we come together as a community to remember and continue that person’s legacy.  I talk and I sit, I remember and I mourn.

I have not yet reached 300 funerals, but I am well on my way.  I still recall each person’s name, the faces of their loved ones as we sat and planned the service together.  I recall the families who have sat with me more than once, a little less confused, a little less overwhelmed each successive time.  I want to believe it is because the first time I faithfully spoke of God’s grace in a way that was instrumental in their healing.  I want to believe in this time of pain I did my job in a way that glorified the God I believe in by bringing comfort to those in need.  But I always feel as if I am bumbling through a minefield one mistake away from making their pain worse.

It keeps me sane to know there are others who are bumbling through these times the same as I am, trying their best to speak words of grace when heartache is so visceral.  I wonder if I ever make it to fifty years of parish ministry if the stories I will leave behind will be stories of grace.

I sure hope so.

 

 

Perspective

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Our fence with trumpet vine and tiger lilies not yet in bloom. 

Next to our manse (PCUSA term for pastor’s house provided by the congregation) is a large empty lot.  This lot was the location of the old Presbyterian church building before the building was torn down.  Now it serves as a beautiful green space for children and animals alike.  On the back of the lot is a fence that still has portions of the hitching post from a century ago.

The hitching post is not easy to see because the trumpet vine our neighbor planted decades ago and the lilies we planted nine years ago have grown beautifully to create a privacy hedge.  Though it is hard to see the hitching post unless you are right upon it, I look for the post each time I walk the fence.  This practice fills me with a sense of deep connection to the people who walked that route in years past, the ones who lived all the parts of life, the ones who gathered together to create a life together even when it was hard.  I feel connected to the pastors who have served in this community (not just in our congregation) who must have stood before that post themselves wondering all the things I wonder.

I love this messy fence-line because it is a bit of history about the community I serve.  I also love it because of a bit of my history.  My maternal grandma had a flowerbed of tiger lilies (the name she told me) that she worked hard to grow in the sandy soil of her home.  Her lilies were pale imitations to the ones I see each year, but they were her labor of love and no matter where I have roamed the sight of a tiger lily reminds me of her and my grandpa.  My grandma also loves trumpet vine and tried for years to get one to grow with little success.  She even buried my childhood cat under her vine when Princess died while I was away at college.  The fact that I live in a place were we mow down the trumpet vine each week to keep it contained does not cease to delight me.

I have learned in my time here that the beautiful tiger lilies I adore are often referred to with some disdain as “ditch lilies” because they tend to be a bit invasive in the rich soil of our area.  Trumpet vine is also considered invasive and my devotion to ours has caused more than a few heads to shake in disbelief.

But then I share my stories and perspectives change and no longer is our messy fence-line considered a nuisance; instead my stories become the stories others share.  Stories of the hitching post, of baseballs lost (much like the ivy at Wrigley Field), of hummingbirds spotted, and of how far out a sprout of trumpet vine erupted in the yard become our stories, no longer my stories, but our stories.

When our perspective changes and our individual stories become shared stories the world becomes a little bit more peaceful, a little bit better.  This is not easy work, it is messy and sometimes looks as bad as a dormant trumpet vine and wilted, winter tiger lilies.  But when we pause to wonder, to look, to listen, and to share, something beautiful grows.

Rural Church Pastor

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The sun shining through the windows in the sanctuary.

In March I had the privilege of attending CREDO, which is a week-long event for pastors to reflect on their call to ministry in community with other pastors.  There are a number of areas we are guided to reflect on over the week, one of which is identity.  Over the course of CREDO I found myself using the phrase “rural church pastor” often.  I used it to explain my own identity and to answer questions about why or how life and ministry intersected for me.  My colleagues understood this answer either from firsthand experience as a rural church pastor, or because they have partnered with rural church pastors and heard their stories.

Being a rural church pastor is an all-encompassing life experience (though my experience is solely as a Christian pastor I suspect this is true of clergy from all faith traditions).  There have been many fiction and non-fiction books written about this truth which help to explain the details and share the funny stories.  Though as a rural church pastor I have found the people who usually read those books are rural church pastors so there can be a lack of understanding about this lifestyle in wider clergy circles.  This leads me to share a lot of stories about life as a rural church pastor in group settings with my colleagues who have not been called to this type of setting.  Thankfully my colleagues speak my language and recognize when it is time to laugh even if they have to ask some clarifying questions because they are not entirely sure why that story was funny.

It is easy to share stories of how as a rural church pastor I have helped in all areas of congregational life; it is not easy to explain how congregational life is more than what happens in the building or on Sunday morning.  Congregational life for a rural church pastor is daily life lived in a community that knows you are one of the town’s pastors.  Just as a teacher is always a teacher regardless of the time of year or their retirement status, a pastor is always a pastor.  In a rural setting each person’s life’s work is their identity regardless of the type of work we undertake.

This was an understanding I had to come to as a rural church pastor because I kept thinking there would be an easy division between when I was serving as a pastor and when I was just me, hanging out, doing regular people things.  Thankfully I am surrounded by a community of people who have modeled what it means to be employed doing your life’s work.  Thankfully these people have taught me it is acceptable to answer a question with the statement, “I am a rural church pastor,” because those who know rural life will recognize how encompassing and vital the role of clergy is in the life of a community.

I am a rural church pastor which means some of my stories are about how spectacularly I have failed at adapting to this lifestyle, and some of them are heartwarming stories of being present at holy moments that would have been missed in a more populated environment.  But most days my stories are about living in a community full of unique people who are doing their best to live fully, while remembering what they do uptown will likely be recounted to their grandmother, father, or pastor.

This all-encompassing life has a way of making a person more compassionate and humble and I am thankful that my answer has for so long been, “because I am a rural church pastor.”  I remain hopeful all of the rural clergy of all faith traditions will know their life’s work is changing the world for the better one day, one story, one failure, and one walk uptown at a time.  I am better for my time surrounded by people who have found a way to meld their life’s work, their passion, their faith, and their everyday life together.

Graduation Season

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A scene from the high school graduation. 

In our rural community graduation season often means for the month of May each weekend will involve at least one open house on Saturday and Sunday.  There are some Saturdays when the afternoon and evening are spent traveling from one location to the next, reminiscent of a traveling dinner as many of the same people are following the list you have in your hand.

These open houses are joyful events, made even more so because the people in attendance have known the graduate most, if not all, of their life.  As a transplant to this community these parties are an excellent opportunity to determine family lines and lifelong friendships.  They also provide an opportunity to eat someone’s famous recipe, that you had no idea they made or was famous, but everyone else seemed to know.

This year while sitting at a particular graduation party I looked around the tables and realized I knew most of the people.  My eyes rested on each of them as I thought about the particular struggle they are facing.  There were strained family relationships between siblings, exhausted parents wondering if their child will even make it to their high school graduation, couples filing for divorce, couples enduring life-altering medical conditions, individuals waiting to hear from the doctor about a test, and mourners who saw a tent with a glaring empty spot where last graduation season there was a person.  I listened to the conversations around me, shared in the stomach-aching laughter, received joyful smiles from faces recently drawn tight in grief, and felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

This peace came from the understanding that life is being lived with joy and purpose.  Amid all the pain of each of those individuals under the tent, they still came out to celebrate the joy of one child, a child they had prayed for before they were born, helped raise, and are getting ready to send out into the wider world.  As a transplant who did not have the experience of a community such as this, I am amazed once again at the deep connections of this community full of people who throw a party because there is joy, even when they know most of the guests are enduring some trial.  I am amazed at the people who come to the party to celebrate with joy, even as their heart is breaking.

This vulnerability and acceptance is what makes life in our community, not just our congregation, beautiful.  It is not the kind of life that can be bottled or written up as a curriculum, it is the kind of life found through generations of shared sorrows and joys.