Those %&@#! Numbers

I’m struggling as a pastor these days. I know I’m not the only one. While I expend a lot of energy convincing myself and everyone around me that I’m doing well, ministry is great and everything’s coming up roses, sometimes it takes more energy than I can muster to maintain the façade. If I’m completely honest, I have to admit that I’m fumbling to find my way.

It’s odd that in this, my sixth and most likely last parish, I am less confident than I have ever been about my ability as a pastor. I was not prepared for ministry in the 21^st century. I can’t think of a single thing I learned in seminary that applies to today. I’m sure there must be something, but I’m hard-pressed to tell you what. Even with 40 years of parish ministry under my belt, the ministry skills I’ve picked up through experience don’t seem to apply.

It reminds me a lot of the time I spent immersed in Costa Rica while I was in a school to learn Spanish. One day I got lost as I was walking to school, and I couldn’t find my way back. My Spanish was so limited that no one I stopped on the street could help me. Yes, this is a lot like that.

Last Sunday the number of people we had at worship was abysmal—the worst I've seen since I’ve been at Ascension (apart from traditionally low Sundays, like the week between Christmas and New Year’s). When I saw the number, it threw me into a tizzy, and I’m questioning whether I’m the right pastor to be serving this congregation. In my head, I know that the number of butts in the pews has only a little bit to do with me and a long list of other variables are at play, but in my heart, I feel like it’s basically my fault.

How can a simple number throw me into such a funk? The whole time I’ve been a pastor, I’ve pushed back against those who look at numbers as a way of determining worthiness among clergy and the congregations they serve. (Even back in seminary I wrote a paper about success vs. faithfulness in determining clergy self-worth.) Upon meeting someone new, when they find out I’m a pastor, one of the first things they’ll ask me is, “How large is your congregation?” as if that’s the most important thing to know about my value as a pastor. I’ve hated that question, even when I’ve served very large congregations. There is no correlation between the size of a congregation and its faithfulness to the mission God has called it to be about in the world. So, when I find myself being sucked into the numbers game and allowing Sunday attendance figures to throw me into a funk, my anger becomes directed toward myself and then I begin sliding into a full-blown depression. (I’m hoping to avoid that by blogging about it.)

It’s painful for me to recognize that of the six congregations I’ve served, this is the first one that is declining numerically on my watch. I’m not sure what to do about it. I can console myself by noting the individuals I’ve seen transformed during my time at Ascension, and the way the congregation has grown in its understanding of mission to those outside the walls of the congregation, while continuing to care for its aging members. I can see God at work in so many ways. And that should be enough to sustain me, but there is always the very human part of me that looks at those %&@#! numbers.

I know that churches need to change to meet the demands of a culture that is rapidly changing around us. But that’s a whole lot easier in theory than reality. It’s far easier to start a new mission church than to turn an established church around in its mission. People who have been a part of Ascension for decades are with us for a reason. Change threatens to displace them, and while I sometimes get frustrated with resistance to change, I understand it and sympathize with their fears. Aren’t people who like things just the way they are, thank you very much, also included in God’s loving embrace? There is no easy solution to this dilemma.

Any possible direction we might take in the future is impeded when we get hung up on numbers. A bold new mission may very well alienate the people who are with us, and we’ll lose them. But if we proceed the way we always have, we will continue to bleed numerically while the world around us leaves us in the dust. Not a good look for God's people--stuck in one place, dusty and bleeding. I don't know how to deal with this.

I’m just starting to see that serving in a congregation that is declining numerically may be just what I need right now. It’s a clear reminder to me that I am not in control and Ascension Lutheran Church isn’t all about me. I can’t make everybody happy. I can’t make them want to worship with us on Sunday mornings. I can’t make them give their hearts to a life of service through our community. I can’t change the culture that competes with us for attention. None of that is up to me. And maybe it’s going to take serving a congregation with declining numbers for me to trust in God.

Isn’t that the way God always works? We pastors act as if it all depends on us and we work as hard as we can to do what we think God wants. In truth, it’s what we want, and it may or may not be what God wants. There is always an opportunity when I throw my hands in the air and cry, “Nothing I try is working! I don’t know what I’m doing! God help me!” There’s an opportunity for God to step into the void and do what God has been wanting to do all along, if I’d just get out of the way.

Doctor, My Eyes

I’m a bit freaked out about my eyes these days. Not too long ago I went back to progressive lenses in my glasses. I had tried them years ago and finding the sweet spot where I could see left me circling my head around so much that it made me dizzy. I returned to good old-fashioned bifocals. Then this spring, when I was ordering new glasses, I was encouraged to give progressives another shot as they have improved over the last 20 years. With the promise of a money-back guarantee, I had nothing to lose, and much to my delight, they were great.

I enjoyed my new glasses for a couple of weeks and then, quite abruptly, I was having difficulty seeing. It felt like I was wearing someone else’s prescription. The clarity was gone and everything was slightly distorted. Of course, this was affecting my balance and I was getting horrific headaches. Reading a book, one of my great pleasures in life, suddenly became maddening for me.

After a few weeks of this, I finally went to the optometrist. The evening before my appointment I covered one eye and then the other and realized that I have a large spot on my right eye that was messing with me. Of course, that sent me to the internet and I had to read all the reasons why I had this crazy spot. None of them were good, but the good thing is that it turned out to be none of them.

My optometrist is a smart guy. He knew immediately what it was. By the time I saw him, it was into the evening hours, but he had the cell phone number for a retina doc and called him immediately. Suddenly, this puzzling vision problem I had been walking around with for weeks had become an emergency. The diagnosis: ocular histoplasmosis.

I first heard of histoplasmosis after I moved to Charlotte, North Carolina, and had an eye exam. As the optometrist looked into my dilated eyes, he asked, “Did you grow up in the Cincinnati area?” What?! Why would he ask that? Well, he went to optometry school at the University of Dayton and saw a lot of people who had these weird little scars in their eyeballs that were caused by a childhood disease called histoplasmosis. I had never heard of it, but apparently, it’s a disease I had when I was a kid. And virtually every kid who grew up in the region of the country where I did, had it, too.

It’s an illness that presents itself a lot like the flu, so when you have it, people don’t realize it’s anything other than the flu. It’s caused by airborne fungal spores that come from bat and bird droppings. Yeah, you read that right. Weird, huh? Some people call it “Spelunkers Disease” because if you spend time in caves, you get it from the bats. Basically, though, it’s in the dirt and air, so you can’t do much to protect yourself. 

I can’t tell you why the place where I grew up is the epicenter, but it is. If I hadn’t had these little scars in my eyeballs that were discovered after I moved to Charlotte, I never would have known about it. Not once had I heard the word histoplasmosis while I lived in Ohio. Denial? Ignorance? Conspiracy? Dunno. But strange.

It’s primarily a lung disease, and I learned from x-rays that I have scars there, too. Other people who had the disease as a child have spots on their lungs as well, but not everybody. And the disease can also move to your eyes, although not with everyone, and we all don’t have the scars to prove it. I have scars in both places. Lucky me.  

When I first learned of these scars on my eyeballs, I was relieved to know that I was, in fact, quite lucky, because they weren’t located where they would affect my vision. Whew! There was a large scar on my right eye that just cleared my retina, so I had narrowly escaped partial blindness.

As it turns out, I had 60+ years of luck with that eye. For some reason, that histo scar has been activated or some vessels around it have burst, or something like that. Anyway, there is a bunch of mushy stuff around it and under it and that’s what’s causing the spot.

The day I learned about all this, complete with photos and more information than I could absorb, is the same day I had the first shot in my eyeball. It’s the same sort of treatment that people with macular degeneration receive, and it’s not nearly as awful as it sounds. But I do have to say that, when I signed a consent form giving someone permission to stick a needle in my eye, it was surreal. Never in my life had I ever imagined such a moment. Now it will become a regular part of my life, at least for years, maybe for the rest of my life.

My prognosis is good, the doctor says. There is a 90% chance they will be able to keep the spot from getting any worse. So, hopefully I won’t lose the vision in my right eye completely. But seeing is such a struggle for me that I can’t imagine going through the rest of my life like this. The spot will never go away and there is a good chance it won’t get better. I’m trying to accept that and consider it progress that I have finally stopped shouting “Out, damn spot! Out I say!” like Lady Macbeth every time I wake up in the morning and open my eyes. In time, I will adjust to my new normal.

It’s been exactly a week since I had my first needle in the eye. I know there are far worse things, and I’m thankful that I was able to see as well as I did for as long as I did, almost 67 years. But the one thing I keep thinking about is how I wish I could have one more day without this freakin’ spot. I didn’t know my last day to see clearly was my last day. If I had, I would have paid more attention to the sunset, the flowers in my garden, the faces of the people I love...

The Fine Line Between Prophet and Asshole

“There’s a fine line between being a prophet and being… an asshole,” said one of my friends at a recent gathering of pastors. Although we all laughed, we could identify with the struggle. A very fine line. Yes.

I can’t imagine how a person could serve as a pastor without taking on the prophetic role. Within the Church, the gap between the kind of people God calls us to be and the kind of people we really are is so clear that I am compelled to speak to it. To ignore it is to ignore my calling.

I often have trouble with the delivery of such a message. It burns within me until I can’t stand it anymore, and out it comes. It’s difficult for me to navigate that and sometimes my prophetic passion gets the best of me. What I’m saying may be the prophetic truth of God’s Kingdom, but in the way I’m saying it I cross the line into Asshole-dom.

On the same day that I heard my colleague say these words in the morning, I was at a Congregation Council meeting that night. For devotions we read a chapter that mentioned the topic of core values, so I gave each of them a blank piece of paper and asked them to jot down what they saw as their personal core values and then the core values of Ascension. Although it was just a quick exercise for them, it had been a long exercise for me as I prepared for the evening.

I spent time reading up on core values as those hidden beliefs we carry around that we may not even realize we have, and yet they influence everything we do. Often in the church, the hardest core values to see are the ones that prevent us from being the people God would have us be. So, that’s the way I approached the exercise, with that in mind.

The people sitting around the table with me weren’t thinking about any of that. They were thinking about core values as the things Ascension most values. So, when it came time for them to share, they were all positive values. Ascension values outreach, caring for others, education… Yes, all of that was true. They listed beautiful, affirming values we can all be proud of.

Then it was my turn. And what I had to share was not positive. So, I had a decision to make in a split second. I could have made something up to complete the exercise on a feel-good note. Or, I could share what I really wrote and throw cold, wet, negative noodles in their faces. In context, it wasn’t a choice between being prophet or asshole. I could only choose to be an asshole or not. And, guess what I chose?

I need you to know that I love these people. And, despite the way I may appear to others, I greatly prefer to be liked over being disliked. So, I tend to feel like an asshole whenever I’m being prophetic. But that doesn’t stop me from going there. Because as much as I prefer to be liked, some of my core values are honesty, which I’ve picked up from my relationship with my mother, and faithfulness, which I’ve picked up from my relationship with God. So, my inner drive to be honest and faithful overrides my desire to be liked.

Perhaps the fine line between prophet and asshole is in the eyes of the beholder; maybe it all depends on where we’re coming from. Maybe. But I don’t think so, because I have seen other pastors who thought they were being prophetic clearly acting like assholes. It’s not an entirely subjective label. The problem is that many assholes have no idea they’re acting like assholes. I’m cursed with enough self-awareness that I realize when I’m coming across like an asshole, occasionally in the moment, but pert near always afterwards.

So, where does that leave me? Doing the best I can, sometimes hitting the mark and sometimes missing it. Recognizing that I am simul prophet et asshole. In fact, to my congregation on any given Sunday, there are some who appreciate the challenge of my words and others who resent being told that they aren’t the people God wants them to be. For some I’m Pastor Prophet, and for others I’m Pastor Asshole... during the same sermon.

The fine line between prophet and asshole is a difficult one, but it’s a line I choose to walk. Because there are far worse things than being Pastor Prophet/Asshole. Like being Pastor Please-like-me or Pastor Who-Gives-a-Crap.  

Everybody Loves Nick

My grandson Nick enters kindergarten next year. Not too long ago he went to see his school. My daughter explained to him that he will be starting all over at a new school and his friends from Pre-K won’t be with him. His reaction? “That’s okay. I’ll make new friends. Everybody loves me.” 

I haven’t stopped thinking about this since my daughter shared it with me because I don’t know if I ever, in my entire life, saw the world as Nick sees it. I can’t remember a time when I ever believed that everybody loves me. It’s not something I have experienced or expected in my life. When I enter a new situation with new people, I never assume they will love me. I don’t even assume that they will like me.

What a difference it would have made for me if I had been like Nick, and I assumed I could make new friends wherever I went because, of course, everybody loves me. I suspect I would have lived more confidently and courageously. I would have become a woman who isn’t afraid to be who she is. I would have entered into relationships, not from a position of insecurity, needing to be loved by the other, but knowing that I am lovable, and if I’m not loved by the other, it’s not because of a deficiency in me, but a deficiency in the one who doesn’t love me. That would have changed the course of my life, to be sure.

Nothing traumatic happened to make me the way I am. Perhaps it was the circumstances of my childhood, or the way I was parented. Perhaps it’s just the way my brain is wired. But I know I’m not alone. The world is filled with people who don’t assume everybody loves them. Even worse, there are those who have grown up expecting other people to hate them. They live in a world where they’re judged by others for things they can’t control: their ethnicity, their physical appearance, their intellect, their gender identity or sexual orientation… What would their lives be like if they grew up like Nick, believing everybody loves them? What would our world be like? 

I suspect that what Nick believes is, in fact, true. He is a lovable kid. I’m not just saying that because I’m his Nana. Other kids love him. He’s smart and funny and kind to other people. What’s not to love? Anywhere he goes, Nick believes people will love him. It’s the best possible world for a five-year-old to live in. Of course, some day, somewhere, there will be someone who doesn’t love him. It will be a painful learning for Nick; I hope it doesn’t happen for him any time soon. But when it does, I trust that he will have stored up enough love within himself to overcome it.