I returned to pastoral ministry on October 1st of last year. Here are a few brief scenes from that time…
In the middle of a service not too long after I began, two of Our Town’s Finest walked in and sat in the back. One was in uniform, the other in plain clothes. I didn’t know what to make of it, but forged ahead with the rest of the service, which included an All Saints time of remembrance and communion.
After I processed to the back at the end, I wished them good morning, and they returned greetings. Of course, most of the congregation knew them by name and said hello. The plainclothed gentleman turned out to be the Chief, so we introduced ourselves to each other.
It turns out that they just do this every once in a while as a way to check on our safety. There was an incident at the church in the past year when a man going through an episode had wandered in, and they had helped address the situation. So now they sometimes pay friendly visits.
The All Saints remembrance was well-received. It was the first time in years that they’d had one. The communion bread that I bought had garlic in it, and it smelled fantastic.
Partway through our last service before Thanksgiving, an older man and younger woman entered and sat in the back row. When I got to the back during the postlude, the man used a translation app on his phone to ask for assistance with food and possibly a hotel room. I conferred with a few members about what kind of emergency assistance the church has available, and came up with a plan for someone to run out and get a Dollar General gift card, and to invite them to take whatever they would like from our table of food donations that we dedicated during worship. Another member supplied a gift card as well.
The man thanked us and then signaled that he wanted prayer. We circled up, and quickly realized that he meant that he wanted to pray for us, which he then did in his own language (he indicated to someone else that they were Italian). When his prayer concluded, I walked with him up to the table where the food sat. They chose a few things and the gift card arrived soon after.
While all of this unfolded, other members were busy decorating the sanctuary for the upcoming season during which we’ll remember another family that faced great need and vulnerability during their journey, and would depend on the hospitality of others to get them through.
I included a reference to Deadpool in my sermon, and it seemed to go over well. A little boy made sure to show me his LEGO Iron Man, War Machine, and Ultron figures in response.
One of the primary benefits of being away from the pastorate for 5+ years has been learning to let go of any felt need for perfection. Time and distance allowed me to look back and realize how little things, which I treated as Big Things in the moment, were in fact not Big Things.
Advent and Christmas were the times of year that made me the most anxious. I felt the pressure of crafting The Perfect Season, which I thought was coming from others but really was just coming from myself.
So today, when the wrong first hymn was printed in the bulletin–a holdover from last week’s cancelled service, which I know I’ve done before myself–we just announced the correct one. And when I realized that the sound system hadn’t been turned on, I just used my Extra Powered Up Preaching Voice during the sermon.
And it was all fine. These were not Big Things. They would not inhibit Jesus from being born. People were not going to discuss the bulletin typo at great length over Christmas dinner.
These are not Big Things. In fact, I’d go so far as to argue that there are very few Big Things when it comes to how churches journey through this season together.
It was nice to experience December having finally had this revelation.
A young man and his family shared some wonderful special music throughout the service. There were two babies in attendance, and they made themselves heard, too.
I soothed the aftermath of my Extra Powered Up Preaching Voice with cough drops. We made it through. It was all fine. It was fine on Christmas Eve later that month, too.
If I hadn’t changed jobs in 2020, my son would have been in my next confirmation class. That transition, along with the general disruption that the pandemic brought, placed the prospect of him going through a process for church membership, let alone any semblance of what constitutes typical faith formation for a teenager, into disarray.
As I recall, he had a small window to be part of something where we began attending, but a variety of factors just didn’t align in the right way. I greatly valued my own time in youth group, so I was ever hopeful that he would find something faith-related that interested him. He’s attended youth activities with school friends a few times, and has asked me questions over the years, but that’s been the extent of it.
One morning in late winter, along with my wife and I, he joined the church where I now pastor. Finally, a few months away from graduating, he formally became a member of a congregation for the first time. He didn’t take the neat, tidy, linear road to get there, but this is what it is. I can only hope and pray that he continues to ask questions and explores and develops his spiritual life going forward, which I’m confident that he will. He’s more than capable and quite inquisitive. And of course, I’ll be more than happy to walk with him.
Our youngest also joined us up front. I thought that she would just stand with us, but she went ahead and answered the membership questions along with us. I hadn’t expected that. In fact, I had been considering that she along with one or two other kids around her age could be part of the church’s first confirmation program in many, many years. But she answered the questions and as far as I’m concerned, became a member as well.
It appears that there won’t be a neat, tidy, linear road for her, either.
Whatever. We’ll figure it out.
Leading up to Easter Sunday, someone suggested that we have a time of fellowship before worship. The thought of people enjoying time together on Easter sounded like the good and right thing to do.
In support of the idea, someone else volunteered to bring donuts (from my favorite place in nearby Orrville, so I was sold). We were set for our low-key Easter coffee hour.
The first day it was announced, someone asked, “hey, can I bring a ham?” No one was going to turn that down.
Then others who heard that there’d be ham said “hey, I’ll bring an egg casserole.” Before long, half the congregation had volunteered to bring food or to help decorate.
So this morning, we enjoyed a full Easter breakfast, a far cry from where it started as an informal time of donuts and coffee. It was the first time in many years that the church had had one, and it was a delicious beginning to a morning of joy. And the entire thing had grown organically. No committee, no sign-up sheet, just people catching inspiration from the desire to be together.
And of course I had a donut. If you’re bringing something from my favorite area bakery, I’m automatically in.
In late summer, we had a Blessing of the Backpacks. If I’d been more on the ball, we would have done it last week before our people’s school year began. But instead, I announced it at the end of worship, and we did it the next Sunday.
Nearly half of our attendees stood up front as students (including me for the first time!) or teachers/staff. We stretched out our hands and prayed as this new season unfolds.
There were a few hiccups: I wrongly believed that people would know our opening hymn, and our projector laptop had a glitch. I’ll await God’s performance review demanding that those items get fixed.
But our school folks were blessed, God’s praises were sung, and the Word was preached regardless. And we’ll do our best again next Sunday.
For communion Sundays, I usually get naan to break during the liturgy. But the store was out of naan, so during a recent service I elevated a chalupa instead. Similar appearance, ultimately the same sentiment.
At various points over the years I’ve used Kaiser rolls, hot dog buns, and I think during the pandemic I used the heel of a loaf of bread.
Ultimately, it doesn’t need to be homemade or artisan to be holy.
My junior year of high school, two of my classmates died in a car crash. As you can imagine, it was devastating for so many of us. We had lost friends and peers, and it probably also hit many on an existential level. As a mentor would say about another friend’s death years later: “people your age aren’t supposed to die.”
The girl who died was named Meryn. She was a bright soul who was kind to everyone. To those of us whose goal in those years was just to get through each day, that kindness was especially noticed and appreciated. Even 30 years later, I can still hear her voice and her laugh, and can see her smile. I remember us supporting each other during my brief track career in 8th grade.
One morning before worship, a few members were talking about her dad, who I hadn’t known is now in an assisted living situation. They each know him through different means, and my one member visits him regularly. As my church is located the next town over from where I graduated, hearing familiar names isn’t really surprising, and I listened with interest.
This member can remember Meryn from when she was a small child, and she even watched her from time to time. She painted a picture of a sweet little girl whose kindness was evident even then.
Roots run deep out here in these small towns, and they also spread far, mingling in ways that can surprise you. I counted myself incredibly blessed to hear these stories of a life cut tragically short, and to hear how those of us who still remember and are still picking up the pieces in our own way so many years later are helping each other do so.
