Pastors and Their Congregations: What to Do, As Well as What to Say

As I noted earlier, thank you all for the extensive and affirming feedback for my "10 Things Pastors Need to Hear from Their Congregations" post of last week.  As I noted then, the response indicated that this is a conversation we definitely need to have, and so this post represents my attempt at continuing that conversation with all of you.

I hinted at it in how I wrapped up last Sunday's sermon, but I firmly believe that the Judeo-Christian Scriptures were written on a timeline of liberation: God liberates Joseph from slavery in Egypt in Genesis as a precursor to liberating His entire people from slavery in Egypt in Exodus, God inspires the judges and David to keep Israel free from foreign overlords, God speaks through His prophets to demand liberation for the people under greedy, corrupt kings in thrall to the Ba'als, and finally, God sends His Son to liberate us from sin itself.

And in light of that reality of Scripture, I find it both fascinating and worrisome that in church, we are apt to feel as chained down as ever by the customs and ways of the institution.  People may not feel comfortable bringing constructive criticism of the pastor to his/her face, so they repeat it behind his/her back.  Or, folks do not wish to rock the boat with a powerful lay leader or church matriarch/patriarch, and so they triangulate the pastor into this dispute.

Pastors, for their part (and I say this not just for myself, but also on the basis of many, many long and meaningful conversations with colleagues) feel chained down by the perception that while they are called to speak truth in love to their congregants, far more often than not, hard truths get placed on the back burner because like you, we pastors are not always interested in operating in authentic freedom.

And so while we have covered 10 things churches should say to their pastors, here, in the same spirit, are 10 things I wish more churches would DO for their pastors, in the spirit of creating a freer atmosphere in which the Holy Spirit can move and work:

1. Encourage Innovation

This is the big one.  If church gets a rap these days for being stodgy and outdated (and in my experience, it does suffer from that rap among non-churchgoers), it is largely because we have stifled newness for the sake of repetition.  But this can be a both-and, not an either-or: there is no reason to cast aside tradition, just as there is no reason to ignore novelty.  But what does encouraging innovation look like?  Well...

2. Honor the Job Description

If your pastor (or you yourself, if you are a pastor) do not have a job description, get your church crack-a-lacking on one ASAP.  Now, does the job description receive regular updates from your church's board or personnel team?  Does the church get to offer feedback on what goes into (or gets removed) from the job description?  Perhaps most importantly, how accessible is the pastor's job description?  Is it made widely available, or is it tucked away and people have forgotten what it really says?

3. Explicitly Value Renewal

Write into the job description--or personnel handbook, or church charter, etc.--evidence of your church's value of renewal for congregation and clergy alike.  It is not wrong to expect your pastor to lead your church in ministries of renewal or revitalization (like nursing hurting ministries back to health), nor is it wrong for the pastor to ask the church to provide avenues for his/her own renewal (like paying for retreats or sabbaticals).

4. Make Room for Physical Health

Ministry is a notoriously unhealthy profession, with pastors suffering disproportionately from obesity and all that it entails.  Long amounts of time spent writing and talking to people over sweets and soda are emphatically not what the doctor ordered.  Ensure your pastor has enough time in their day-to-day schedule to maintain a regular workout routine, and even consider providing exercise equipment at the church or paying for a gym membership.

5. Don't Let Wounds Fester

To springboard off of #4, spiritual health has a lot of overlap with physical health, including the reality of injuries and afflictions.  If the congregation has wounded you in some way, seek care from us immediately.  If we have wounded you in some way, seek reconciliation with us immediately.  Even a minor spiritual wound, like a physical wound, can get infected and grow into a much bigger concern if left unattended.

6. Know When to Make Your Case

Pastors are people--we have good days and bad, but regardless, Sunday in particular is not the day to come to us with any serious sort of grievance.  Why?  Our brains are like lab rats on Red Bull, and I promise you, we will forget everything you're saying to us.  Think about it--you wouldn't expect your favorite music artist to remember anything you shouted to them at a concert, right?  The same logic applies here.  It isn't personal, it's just human nature.

7. Similarly, Don't Ambush

Almost every pastor I know (including yours truly) has a horror story about being blindsided about something or other by a congregant or small group of congregants.  Soften the ground first by broaching the subject clearly--but not artificially urgently--over email or telephone so that we know what to expect.  We're silently thanking you for it, believe me.

8. Respect Our Time

A colleague of mine (who shall remain nameless) once slapped a sign to his office door saying something to the effect of: "I'm usually here, except when I'm somewhere else, but even then, I should still be here as well."  Recognizing that this is a job for us in addition to a calling, and that we too get tired at the end of the day and cannot work at all hours, is clutch.  Similarly, if we have blocked off certain hours (or a day) for studying and sermon preparation, PLEASE honor that.  If we are unprepared preachers, the entire church suffers.

9. Don't Butter Us Up

Yes, we pastors love being affirmed and appreciated, because a lot of the work we do is invisible to the vast majority of the congregation.  But because our work is so relational and interpersonal, we tend to have finely tuned BS detectors, and we often know when we are being genuinely complimented and cared for, and when we being brown-nosed.  Please don't try to manipulate our emotions, it is far more apt to do harm than good.

10. When In Doubt, Ask

Please do not go behind our backs to do things.  If you want to try something new, just ask!  Especially if it is something innovative or creative (see #1), I promise you, we will be listening with open ears.  Plus, if you get us on board, we are liable to do everything we can to empower you and make sure your new ministry goes well!  It really is a win-win.

As always, I welcome your feedback.  Pastors, what do you wish your church would do for you more?  Laypeople, what do you think you could do or not do to help facilitate your pastor's success within  your parish?  What have I left out?  What have I said that you might you take issue with?

Yours in Christ,
Eric

This Week's Sermon: "When Children Ask"

Exodus 12:21-28

21 Then Moses called together all of Israel’s elders and said to them, “Go pick out one of the flock for your families, and slaughter the Passover lamb. 22 Take a bunch of hyssop, dip it into the blood that is in the bowl, and touch the beam above the door and the two doorposts with the blood in the bowl. None of you should go out the door of your house until morning. 23 When the Lord comes by to strike down the Egyptians and sees the blood on the beam above the door and on the two doorposts, the Lord will pass over that door. He won’t let the destroyer enter your houses to strike you down. 24 You should observe this ritual as a regulation for all time for you and your children. 25 When you enter the land that the Lord has promised to give you, be sure that you observe this ritual. 26 And when your children ask you, ‘What does this ritual mean to you?’ 27 you will say, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, for the Lord passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt. When he struck down the Egyptians, he spared our houses.’” The people then bowed down and worshipped. 28 The Israelites went and did exactly what the Lord had commanded Moses and Aaron to do. (CEB)

“Behold a New Thing: The Tribal Church,” Week Four

The refrains coming out of this tiny, minority community sounded noble, even courageous, when placed in a vacuum: “We feel that our culture is being threatened and we want to protect it and we want to nurture it…and suddenly, we don’t feel welcome anymore.”

Except that the refrains were coming from an all-white community of Afrikaners—of Dutch Reformed settlers—in South Africa.  This is the nation that the Dutch Afrikaners were responsible for decades for constructing and maintaining the apartheid system of segregation that systematically disenfranchised an entire nation’s indigenous peoples from their own government, and I have to assume the plaintive cries of preserving one’s culture were told without a trace of irony, despite the shameful past of this community’s forefathers repressing and threatening the culture of native South Africans for the better part of a century.

And it is a tradition that continued on to today in worst of forms in this small, cloistered community outside Pretoria.  The rules are clear and unyielding: no Jews. No blacks.  No Catholics.  Even people of mixed-race backgrounds need not apply.

And having served on a mission to South Africa seven years ago, I saw bits and pieces of this lingering mentality, but not like this.  I read about and hear about these stories now, and all I can think of is, “What is it that you are fighting so hard to preserve, really?  Is it tradition?  Is it culture?  Or is it a way you have grown accustomed to that should have gone extinct long ago?”  And in so many words, that describes the thought process of the church, over, and over and over.

We tell ourselves churches must look a certain way and beat ourselves up when they don’t.  But the church is what I imagine a child must be like—as Tina Fey puts it in her memoir Bossypants, yes, you can teach a child manners and dress her up in embarrassing little sailor outfits, but at some point, that child is going to be whatever she is going to be (and, ironically or no, that very line reflects the wonder and splendor of the divine name itself from Exodus 3: I Am Who I Am).

And that’s kind of what it is like for us, you know?  Lots of people would say they know what we should look like—they want to tell us which little sailor outfits to dress up in—but at some point, this church is going to be whatever this church is.  And after being here as your pastor for nearly two years, I have found the closest thing possible to describing what this church is, and what we can become: a so-called tribal church, ministering to a missing generation of believers.

This term comes from a 2007 book of the same name by Carol Howard Merritt, a Generation X evangelically-raised Presbyterian pastor and author.  And we will be basing this new six-week sermon series on this book, as we look at what exactly a tribal church is, and what it can truly do.  We kicked off the series by examining one of the initial tenets of the book: “fostering intergenerational relationships,” followed by “encouraging economic understanding.”  This past week, we had the theme of “cultivating unambiguous inclusion,” and this week, we arrive at the theme (and chapter) of “discovering affirming traditions.”  Carol writes in this chapter:

As new generations gather in a church, vital congregations learn to adapt their customs while keeping their traditions…Church members want new people to attend the church because they hope to lighten the load in fundraising events, keep dwindling programs alive, and support the diminishing budget.  Sometimes it happens that way, but more often, if the members become intentional about ministering to younger generations, they will move away from assimilating the new people into existing customs and begin a process of forming new communities.  The body will become aware of the gifts and needs of that particular group and respond to them by teaching the traditions of belief and practice in a more fluid, not rigid, way…

In the midst of this spiritual renewal, it’s difficult to point out the steps of the process.  Instead, forming spiritual communities is like painting: an artist sketches regularly, studies objects and figures, learns from the great works of history, and shows up at the sketchbook or canvas every day.  Much of what she produces may be inconsequential, but then suddenly something begins to move within her.  She picks up the brush, after some time she feels stirred internally and externally, and creates a work of great beauty.

In the midst of centuries of enslavement in Egypt, followed by the brutality of the ten plagues required to release the Israelites—and to prove the superiority of YHWH to the Egyptian deities—we would be forgiven for thinking of our religion in the same manner as the artist, for much of what was produced probably fell short of great beauty, of profound expectation, or of, quite simply, the warm-and-fuzzy love we might associate with God these days.  The circumstances of the Israelites in Egypt were not—and are not—a masterpiece in any way.

But out of those circumstances of enslavement and bondage comes one of the most immortal religious traditions ever to grace the globe, a tradition that lives on not only in Jewish tradition, but in Christian tradition as well under the aegis of the Passion story: the sacrificial lamb.

Part of the Passover tradition—and the holiday gets its name from the most literal sense of the term, for the Lord “passed over” the houses of the Israelites during the tenth plague, the killing of the firstborn—included a meal, prepared quickly to be consumed quickly: unleavened bread (possessing yeast that week was punishable by exile!), bitter herbs, and the meat of a lamb.

But whereas today, we might discard any part of the animal we did not want, God instructs the Israelites to use every part of the animal, including its blood: they are to use it to mark the lintel and posts of their doors, to protect them from the destroying capability of God’s own power.

And so a tradition was born.  The Passover became a part of Jewish religion, and then a part of Christian religion, for the Passion story takes place during the celebration of the Passover.

But notice how, in Exodus, when the first Passover is being prepared, it is not enough for Moses to simply instruct his people on how to do it—he also tells them why.  Because this is a ritual that will be adhered to for millennia, at some point our children, and our children’s children, will ask, “Why on earth do we do this?” And we can say, “Because God Himself calls us to do so.”

Imagine saying that in church today!  When someone asks us, “Why do you do this,” or “Why do you do that,” how often do we reply with, “Because God tells us it is right that we should do so?”

Or, more to the point, how often do we really reply with, “God instructs us to,” rather than, “Well, this is the way we have always done it?”

There are a many great things in the church that were nearly sacrificed upon the altar of “Well, this is how we have always done it,” like having Bibles translated into our native languages, rather than remaining entirely in Latin, or not renting out pews to families of the highest bidders.  God called us to neither make Scripture or the sanctuary inaccessible, yet for centuries, the church was in the business of doing both.  Why?  Because that’s how they had always done it.

In her book, Carol calls this sort of thing the difference between custom and tradition.  Traditions are the things that must be kept because they what make a church community distinct: traditions are what make us who we are today.  Just as the Passover led the Israelites—and, subsequently, the Jewish faith—to who they were and are today, so too do traditions like Easter, like Pentecost, like Epiphany all lead us to be the Christians whom we are today.

As such, we could no sooner stop doing those things than we could stop being Christians.

But then there are customs that we keep, and often for the best of reasons—it isn’t always that the reason is to nakedly raise money for the church at the expense of shaming the poor, as was the case when churches would do things like auction off pews.  But those customs—like clinging to the apartheid of old in South Africa—can at times segregate churches from the outside world: the world they are called to make better, the world God created for them, the world from which they receive new brothers and sisters who come in the doors and say, “Teach me about Jesus.”  It’s the sort of stuff that we won’t have a good answer for when our children ask why we do it.

What do we as a congregation do that maybe segregates us from the people we are called to serve and to reach on behalf of Jesus?  What do we do, that when our children or our children’s children come to church and ask us why we do it, will we perhaps not have a good answer for?

I don’t really know the answers to those questions, because I have been in the church my entire life. I am steeped in its ways.  This is where we lifelong churchgoers can be taught, as it were, by our newly-christened and baptized brethren: how do they see us, versus how we see ourselves?

And if it sounds like I am asking you to obey the dictates of others at the expense of what we choose to do, know that it is in fact quite the opposite.  The Passover—the entire story of Exodus, in fact—is a tale ultimately of liberation from the chains of slavery.  And I truly believe that one of the ways that we can remain true to that story today is by seeing what we have chained ourselves to—both inside and outside of church—and working anew towards cutting ourselves free.  For that is, I think, what God wants, in end: a people made free, liberated from themselves and from one another, because only when such liberation takes place can the authentic worship of the maker of heaven and earth truly begin.  

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Rev. Eric Atcheson

Longview, Washington

June 23, 2013

Exodus International and the Nature of Forgiveness

(So far, the feedback from yesterday's post ("10 Things Pastors Need to Hear from Their Congregations") has been fantastic.  I truly did not expect the reception that post has received, and that has also indicated to me that this is definitely a conversation we are all in need of having.  I'll be out of town tomorrow and Saturday for my college reunion, but I'll have a follow-up post up next week. -E.A.)

As many of y'all know by now, yesterday the conservative Christian organization Exodus International--famous and infamous for its role in pioneering so-called "reparative therapy" (aka "pray away the gay") for gay and lesbian Christians--announced that its board had voted unanimously to permanently close its doors.

Immediate reactions from my friends and colleagues on social media was both swift and diverse: while many applauded this step that Exodus has taken--and the powerful apology from its President, Alan Chambers, that accompanied it--I also had a significant number of friends who expressed the sentiment, in so many words, that "saying sorry isn't enough" in this case.

(Full disclosure: I self-identify as a straight ally, and I believe very strongly in the church as a safe place for gay and lesbian siblings in Christ to come out and be affirmed for who they are.)

The nature of forgiveness is tricky because while it is clear that I should forgive someone for wrongs done to me (indeed, Christ commands as such), the question of forgiving someone for wrongs done to others is far murkier.

Honestly, I don't think it is my place to forgive Exodus on behalf of my openly gay friends who at a point in their lives went to Exodus for reparative therapy.

It goes wider than that as well, for it is probably not my place to forgive the wider church on behalf of my openly gay friends who have been so wounded by the church that they have never returned--nor do they (understandably) have any desire to.

At seminary, I had openly gay classmates whom I humbly would consider to be fantastically qualified to serve the body of Christ as ordained pastors, but who would face uphill-to-impassable resistance from their denominations and governing bodies simply because of their sexual orientation.

And I cannot--and should not--forgive their denominations on their behalf.

So while my heart swelled as I read Alan Chambers' apology, I realized that I had no forgiveness to offer to him, even as he acknowledged that there is--at least indirectly--blood on his hands with the line: "I am profoundly sorry that many have walked away from their faith and some have chosen to end their lives."  

Yet I also have to think that acknowledgement of, and repentance for, this ultimate wrong represents the first step towards any true reconciliation, and I commend Alan for the courage he is currently showing.  My gut instinct is that his words were both honest and heartfelt, and I cannot imagine the inner pain and turmoil that it takes to write such a detailed apology for public consumption.

But forgiveness, in this particular circumstance, is not mine to give.

I pray for him--and all those associate with Exodus--that God will guide their future endeavors towards, as he puts it, "peace and the common good."  I earnestly hope that they are successful in this.  And if my gay and lesbian friends seek to forgive Exodus, I am more than happy to pray with them, counsel them, support them, and be there for them in every way that I know how.

But if there is one thing I have learned as an ally, it is that speaking for someone else--especially someone who has already been marginalized by the dominant voices in our culture--rarely does anybody any good.

This has simply been my experience, though.  Do you think I am selling forgiveness short?  Is there a way for heterosexual Christians like myself can offer forgiveness to Exodus in a way that is respectful to our GLBTQ brothers and sisters?

I am open to your words, for I am still processing all of this myself.

Yours in Christ,
Eric

10 Things Pastors Need to Hear from Their Congregations

Earlier today, the Christian author and blogger Rachel Held Evans posted a short-but-insightful list of 11 things she, as a layperson, wished that we pastors said more often.  I commented that I thought the list was fantastic, and a fellow commenter suggested making a companion list of 10 things pastors wish their congregations said more often.

This is my attempt at such a list, and it should not be construed as a direct criticism of my parish--indeed, some of these items are things they already say to me that I wish other churches would say more frequently to their pastors!

1. How can I be praying for you?

I do a lot of praying with people and for people while rarely asking for prayer in return.  But I definitely need prayer in return, because I am not Super-Pastor.  Some days, I barely even feel like an ordinary, un-super pastor, because on my own, I am simply a very, very weak man.

2. I'm sorry.  I was wrong.  Please forgive me.

This is a direct copy-and-paste of Rachel's own #2 item, because it definitely fits for us as well.  Pastors have to withstand a lot of second-guessing and--in unhealthier situations--ad hominem criticisms, but we are called to turn the other cheek rather than repaying meanness for meanness.

3. Enjoy your time away.

For pastors, vacation time is sacrosanct and vital to our well-being, but I have had to engage in educational efforts to show why my vacation time (of which I get four weeks per year) is so vital, so that I might stop being asked, "How come you get so much time off?  I only see you once a week!"

4. Let's give it a try.

I think that while pastors may have a very hard time saying "no" to their congregants, congregations can be quite skilled at saying "no" to their pastor and their pastor's ideas.  It doesn't even have to be a "yes"--just agreeing to give something the old college try is often enough.

5. Here's what I liked/didn't like about your sermon today...

Don't get me wrong, I'll take the "good sermon today, preacher" compliments.  But you know why we love it when you engage us on the substance of what we said, even if you disagree with us?  It shows that you were listening, and it reminds us that our preaching and teaching is valued by you.

6. How can I help?

 A lot of our volunteers have set tasks that they do--and do well--at our church.  And I love that--reliability is a huge gift in the church.  But I also love it when someone comes to me, willing to help out wherever they can, because it shows they care about the church's needs, whatever they might be.

7. Is everything okay?

Part of serving a smaller congregation means that my congregants and I grow extremely familiar with one another, and many of them can tell if I didn't bring my A-game that day.  Showing concern for me first--rather than reaching immediately for criticism--means an awful, awful lot to me.

8. Don't stop being yourself.

I am lucky to serve a church that not only doesn't mind that their pastor enjoys scotch, plays poker, and is a loudmouth Kansas City sports fan--they embrace it, even if a stereotypical pastor would not drink or gamble.  Quite simply, I am affirmed for who I am.  They affirm Eric, not just "Pastor Eric."

9. Whenever you can make it is fine.

Pastors get a lot of invites to a lot of family events in the church--and I love going to such events, but when my schedule begins to crowd up, please do not be offended if I am only able to make a token appearance, or am running late.  It doesn't mean that I, or God, loves you any less.

10. Be not afraid!

I saved the biggest (for me) for last--quite simply, I am sometimes afraid to try things and risk either failing or upsetting church matriarchs/patriarchs.  But risk is a necessary dimension of ministering in the name of Jesus Christ, and pastors today cannot afford to be risk-averse!

Those are just my top ten, written more or less off the top of my head, based on my own experience and on the experience of my friends and colleagues in ministry.  What things do you wish your church would say more often to you (if you are a pastor) or to your pastor?

Yours in Christ,
Eric

This Week's Sermon: "We Were Slaves"

Deuteronomy 24:17-22

17 Don’t obstruct the legal rights of an immigrant or orphan. Don’t take a widow’s coat as pledge for a loan. 18 Remember how you were a slave in Egypt but how the Lord your God saved you from that. That’s why I’m commanding you to do this thing. 19 Whenever you are reaping the harvest of your field and you leave some grain in the field, don’t go back and get it. Let it go to the immigrants, the orphans, and the widows so that the Lord your God blesses you in all that you do. 20 Similarly, when you beat the olives off your olive trees, don’t go back over them twice. Let the leftovers go to the immigrants, the orphans, and the widows. 21 Again, when you pick the grapes of your vineyard, don’t pick them over twice. Let the leftovers go to the immigrants, the orphans, and the widows. 22 Remember how you were a slave in Egypt. That’s why I am commanding you to do this thing. (CEB)

“Behold a New Thing: The Tribal Church,” Week Three

The face of the 99-year-old woman ran like a map, with gentle wrinkles and creases diving and folding to create something that I imagined the flow of a river must look like if put to a human face.  And while you or I might not know her from Adam, that face tells a story.

This woman was the last of her kind—an ethnic Armenian living in the town of Chunkush in southeastern Turkey, where over 10,000 Armenians once lived before the purges of the Armenian Holocaust during the First World War, nearly 100 years ago.  She is also what writer Chris Bohjalian calls a “hidden Armenian.”  As he writes:

She…had grown up and grown old aware of who and what she (is)—Armenian—but forced to conform and remain silent.  That was the price of survival in the days after the genocide, and it’s a custom that, in small villages such as Chunkush, endures today…whenever we asked Asiya about being Armenian, she would shake her head ruefully and grow silent.  One time, her daughter chimed in: “No.  We can’t talk about that.”

No.  We can’t talk about that.

It is a refrain that I rarely hear, in all honesty, and only in very specific circumstances, like if I’m counseling someone through a past spiritual trauma, or if someone asks me about the rapture.

But I also hear it from Christians.  A lot.  About any number of things, but especially about the things that tend to divide us, like marriage equality, or the theological worth of eggplants.  And so we remain silent for fear of having our welcome revoked.  And how I wish that weren’t so.

We tell ourselves churches must look a certain way and beat ourselves up when they don’t.  But the church is what I imagine a child must be like—as Tina Fey puts it in her memoir Bossypants, yes, you can teach a child manners and dress her up in embarrassing little sailor outfits, but at some point, that child is going to be whatever she is going to be (and, ironically or no, that very line reflects the wonder and splendor of the divine name itself from Exodus 3: I Am Who I Am).

And that’s kind of what it is like for us, you know?  Lots of people would say they know what we should look like—they want to tell us which little sailor outfits to dress up in—but at some point, this church is going to be whatever this church is.  And after being here as your pastor for nearly two years, I have found the closest thing possible to describing what this church is, and what we can become: a so-called tribal church, ministering to a missing generation of believers.

This term comes from a 2007 book of the same name by Carol Howard Merritt, a Generation X evangelically-raised Presbyterian pastor and author.  And we will be basing this new six-week sermon series on this book, as we look at what exactly a tribal church is, and what it can truly do.  We kicked off the series by examining one of the initial tenets of the book: “fostering intergenerational relationships,” followed by “encouraging economic understanding.”  This week, we see the theme of “cultivating unambiguous inclusion.”  Carol writes in this chapter:

The law of Jesus was a relationship; it did not factor in the object of the action, it only mattered how the subject responded...in contrast, our mainline denominational churches endlessly debate who’s on and who’s off our lists… (but) the majority of young adults in our country…see their duty as spiritual people as being to treat others as they would like to be treated, and that means that they don’t tolerate intolerance.

Throughout the exchanges over the doctrine of salvation and acceptable views of sexuality, as our denominations stand with their clipboards (like bouncers –E.A.), negotiating who is good enough to be on our list, they frequently leave those under forty on the wrong side of the ropes.

When I hear arguments in the church, I am told that the church needs to stand up against the evil of a diverse culture, and not allow the world to taint the pure message of the Gospel.  Yet, as a part of an age group which welcomes diversity, it feels like the church is fighting against the very richness and difference of my generation, my friends, and me—a richness and difference that it perceives as somehow tainted and sinful.

A richness perceived as somehow tainted.

It is why a lot of younger Christians have had to “come out of the closet,” as it were, about views they have that may not tow the line that their church or denomination preaches: that they are accepting of gays and lesbians, or that they don’t believe that members of other churches or denominations are necessarily bound for hell.  It is a difficult thing to swim upstream like that, when you are already seen as naïve because of your age, or a heretic because of your conscience.

And so people—young people and new people especially—in the church may remain in silence, fearful of upsetting the delicate status quo.

Not unlike the foreigner whom Deuteronomy 24 tries to protect.

Among the 613 laws the Torah hands down, I have to admit that this is one of my favorites.  I know I am not supposed to play favorites with the Word of God—that the entirety of Scripture is God-breathed, inspired, and useful for teaching.  But we all have our favorite verses and passages, and this is one of mine.

Because for most of my childhood, I was one of those “hidden Armenians.”  My great-grandparents fled Armenia in 1915, at great personal risk and expense, for Russia.  Except a few years later, the Bolsheviks came a-knocking, and Russia wasn’t such a great place to be either.  And so my family fled illegally to the United States, where we have lived and died ever since.  We still have the fake passports my great-grandparents used.

And I tell that story because it is not unlike some of the stories I hear from all of you—making quiet exoduses from your previous church homes, whether because you had to relocate for a job, or because you felt or were told you were no longer welcome at the church you once were at.  And on a personal level as your pastor, I am so sorry for the pain that this causes you.

Part of coping with the pain means remembering where it came from.  It is why God is quick to remind the Israelites of why, exactly, they must provide for and care for the foreigner (in addition to the orphans and widows, who were similarly vulnerable populations in Biblical times): because they themselves were foreigners not so long ago, when they were slaves in Egypt.

When they were slaves.  It is a shameful memory that, being far removed from it ourselves, we would probably just as soon assume someone would want to forget.  So shameful, though, that it actually convinces me of the truth in this statement behind the law.  After all, if the Exodus hadn’t happened like that, who on earth would make up an origin story of their people being enslaved and let free through no great insurrection or rebellion of their own?

To admit, “we were slaves” is something that is—and should be—profoundly humbling.  And it is something we can and must admit to ourselves when we come to church.

Because for many of us, this is a church that we have grown to love.  We have worshiped here for weeks, months, years, sometimes decades.  And somewhere within that fabric of time, we are apt to forget what it was like to worship here for the first time, unsure of everything that was going on, not knowing what to expect, hesitant about sitting anywhere lest it be “someone else’s pew.”  Even for the most seasoned Christian, a church was once a foreign land for them as well.

And so we are charged to remember that once upon a time, we, too, were the foreigners in this church that welcomed us in.  We, too, were the strangers.  We too, came from the humble places.

Part of being in church might mean feeling like you are privileged—after all, we have this beautiful sanctuary in which to worship, we have these wonderful friends and family with whom to worship, and most of all, we have this God who came to earth and gave everything for us.

With that sort of array of gifts, we are liable to feel privileged, for the church is indeed a blessing.  But it is a paradoxical privilege—it is privilege that must humble us as well, for we cannot forget our pasts.  We cannot forget that there was a time in our lives—however long ago it may be, even if it was as a little child—when we did not know how to be a part of the church.

Within the scope and scale of our privileged habitat of the church, we have trained our ears to hear the name of Jesus proclaimed, to listen to his teachings interpreted, and to know His Word.

But it was not always thus.  Just as it was for the Israelites that they did not always have a home of their own.  In this way, we are very much alike.  We did not always have a church home of our own, whether because we were too young to remember it, or we did not have one that accepted us for who we are, or for any other reason.  Yet, part of having a home now means not only opening it up to anyone who might perchance stumble across it, but by proactively loving as ourselves that anyone who does find themselves drawn into the worship and fellowship and discipleship that takes place within these walls.  Because in the end, these walls have doors, not gates.  Let us keep those doors open.  

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Rev. Eric Atcheson

Longview, Washington

June 16, 2013

The Nature of Failure in Ministry, Part II

(If you haven't read the post immediately preceding this one--my post on how we as senior/lead pastors can fail at times--I gently suggest that you scroll down and do so, as this post is a follow-up to that one. -E.A.)

When I was asked by my now-regional minister, Sandy Messick, to prayerfully consider the job opening I now have--as pastor of Longview FCC--I realized after much prayer, deliberation, and counsel from trusted friends and mentors that the only way I could ever be able to accept this call is if I was okay with the possibility never achieving any of the objectives the church needed from its new pastor.

Read that again: the only way I could accept this call was if I was okay with the possibility of failing at this call.

To greatly oversimplify matters, the ministry I am predominantly involved in here is a church revitalization: when I arrived, we had an average worship attendance of 25-30 people in a sanctuary that accommodates a congregation seven or eight times that size.  We were far too small for our beautiful, historic building.  And, like many mainline congregations across the country, we were getting older and older.  It's a tough spot to be in, but I saw that this was a congregation that firmly believed that God was not finished with them, and I found that I shared that conviction.

But I had allow myself to be okay with the contingency that I would be the pastor under whose watch this congregation closed its doors, if  (God forbid) it ever came to that.

Because I didn't know if I could do what this congregation was asking me to help them do.

On a theological level, this is a practical sort of a leap of faith that existentialism's grandfather (and my theological mancrush) Soren Kierkegaard talks about.  Walking on solid ground only gets you so far--at some point, you have to leave your feet.

So I left my feet, and accepted this church as the place God was calling me to be right now, by trusting in Him rather than in my own skills (or lack thereof).

And, as I wrote in Tuesday's post, I felt like I had absolutely no idea what I was doing for my first few months here.  I am told, however, that I hid it well.

In thinking back over that time in my ministry here, though, I realized another truth that I had half-wittingly stumbled upon:

The whole shebang of ministry is like that.  Becoming a pastor is all one big leap of faith.

After all, the average length of a pastor's career in ministry (before either retirement or a career change) is only 14 years.  By that math, I have an average chance of being out of ministry before I turn 40.

Even in order to say "yes" to God and enter ordained ministry, I had to be okay with eventual "failure," of burning out, dropping out, and doing something else with my life.

Now, I want to emphasize that I do not believe myself to be burned out all: I routinely take time to pray and ask myself how high my job satisfaction is, and it is usually quite high.  I love what I do and where I get to do it.  But I have also experienced things that I can understand why someone would feel discouraged about ministry by.

After all, I'm on call 24/7, even on my days off.  As a solo pastor, I am constantly putting out little fires here and there.  And as an introvert, being around people for any sustained length of time exhausts me.

And in the midst of those influences, the pressure to do well is always there.

So despite my own weaknesses and shortcomings, I (and I imagine a great many other pastors) still fear failure.

One of the biggest things I have tried to do over the past two years of my time here is to purge myself of that fear.  I am not so naive or vain to say that I have been successful at achieving that goal.

But once I began to let that fear go, I did begin to see new and amazing things begin to happen at this church that I love and serve.

And for that, I know that I have God to thank.

Yours in Christ,
Eric

The Nature of Failure in Being a Senior/Lead Pastor...or a Senior/Lead ANYTHING

This June marks the four-year anniversary of my being continuously engaged in some form of ministry.  I began as an intern chaplain in the inpatient psychiatric ward of California Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco, before transitioning to parish ministry that autumn as a part-time student associate minister of First Christian Church in Concord, California, and then to my current position here in Longview.

And with four years of experience to look back on (I know, I make myself sound old, when I'm still not yet 30), I have realized that there is simply no substitute for the proverbial trenches.  Sitting in a classroom may not be yours (or mine, at times) cup of tea, but I have come to believe that it is infinitely easier to come up with answers from behind a desk, considering questions and examining case studies that are either purely hypothetical or carefully sanitized of any identifying information.

And probably the way I have experienced this the most has been in the transition from associate to senior pastor.  Because all of the sudden, the buck stops with me now.  Not only are all those case studies actually real people for me, but I also have become the person spiritually responsible for them.

Talk about the blind leading the blind.

I joke about this with my congregants, but there is a kernel of truth to this: I probably had no idea what I was doing my first three or four months on the job.  Sure, I knew I had to preach on Sundays, I had to sit in on and report to our Board of Directors meetings, I had to cast a vision for the congregation, and about a million other things.

I knew I had to do all those things.

I just didn't know how to do any of them.  Or at least do any of them particularly well.

Admitting that truth isn't me trying to knock on my seminary or my field education.  It's just reality.

I was a 25-year-old pastor who had (and has, now, at 27) plenty of desire, drive, and determination.  But I was still in over my head.

And that meant that I have had some pretty spectacular failures so far in my two years here, including:

-Attempting to get a Sunday evening Taize-style prayer service going.  I eventually had to take that poor worship service out back and shoot it.

-Mistakenly thinking that we could pull off having our new youth group on Saturday afternoons.

-And flubbing my sermon for a graveside funeral so badly that the deceased woman's daughter got up and basically filled in the blanks for me.

All of which leads me to say this, to all y'all:

YOUR PASTOR IS HUMAN.

We make mistakes.  Sometimes, big ones.

Which in turn leads me to say this to all my pastor colleagues:

YOU WILL SCREW UP.

(I know, I really should go into motivational speaking, right?)

Don't get me wrong--we should be good at our jobs.  I should be a good pastor.  And I should want to be a good pastor, because I have been entrusted with this expression of the body of Christ--this parish that I serve.

But being a good pastor doesn't cause God to love me more.  It doesn't get me an extra slice of grace or anything of the sort.

God loves the people we may think of as screw-ups too.

And so, ultimately, attaching too much importance to my successes--and trying to bury too many of my failures--is how I think many of us get led down the road of egoism.  We worship ourselves and our deeds rather than God.

And so, today, I have publicly admitted a few of my bigger goof-ups in ministry (see above).

Not because I think confession should be public.

But because it is liberating for me to do so.  It allows me to get the focus back on God.

And I encourage you to be able to do the same--in whatever arena in life you lead, be it at the workplace, at school, at home--wherever--be okay to admit your finite humanness.

Because, paradoxically, rather than chaining yourself to your mistakes, it helps to free you from them, while still keeping the lessons you have learned.

Now, if someone would like to tell me my penance as a part of this whole public confessional post, that would just be spiffy.

Yours in Christ,
Eric