A Pastor's Biggest Fear

            There’s no playbook on how to be a pastor. I mean this in little ways; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said or thought, “Seminary certainly didn’t prepare me for that!” But I also mean it in big ways, particularly about how to be a leader in this big thing that we call the church. Now, don’t get me wrong: we learn a bit about leadership in seminary, but it is one of those things that it sometimes seems like you get or you don’t, and even the lessons we learn can fade over time.

            Here’s where I’m going with this: I have a single greatest fear as a pastor. I have plenty of small fears—mostly things that are personal quibbles—but I have one big fear. It’s this: I’m afraid that I will lose my edge over time. That might sound like a strange fear, but I think it’s a very real one. Part of what makes a pastor effective (it seems to me) is that he or she is willing to go places that you don’t often go in normal life. I don’t just mean talking about Jesus; I also mean naming some of the realities that we know but that make us uncomfortable. Part of my job is to talk about (in no particular order): death, sin and the things that we put before God. I wouldn’t be a very good pastor if I didn’t do that. I wouldn’t be a very good pastor if I didn’t talk about things that we need to talk about but do not feel comfortable saying anywhere else.

There are no "good" people: Your typical cheery Lenten sermon

Text: Luke 13:1-9, 31-35

            I don’t know about you but it seems to me that as bad as television has gotten the worst thing on TV has got to be the nightly news. It’s a little different out of Grand Forks but in the Twin Cities it’s so-and-so was murdered, such-and-such tragedy happened somewhere in the United States, bad weather is coming, the economy is crumbling, gas prices are rising, these countries are at war. You know the story. It’s always the same. It’s amazing any of us get by in such an awful world. I’m joking, of course, but you do get that sense from the nightly news that the world is an awful place that is out to get us.

            A few years back I was at a friend’s cabin for the 4^th of July and for some reason the nightly news was on the television. I suggest not trying this, but if you do happen to have around twenty people in a room watching the news just notice how the atmosphere in the room changes. Twenty people will go from enjoying a beautiful summer day off at the cabin to depression and anxiety and silence. I remember thinking, “Somebody please turn it off!”

Rejoice, Pray, Give Thanks -- Lent, week one

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

¹⁶Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

Rejoice always, pray always, give thanks always—that’s what Jesus wants for you. Simple enough. Then again, this is one of those little Bible verses that, if we’re honest with ourselves, brings out our inner nine-year-olds. It’s just not fair!

            I mean, it’s great to rejoice and to give thanks when we get what we want, but rejoicing when things are just “meh” or giving thanks when the referees, who are always out to get us by the way, ruin another closely contested game for our favorite sports team. That’s just not right; it’s just not fair. Giving thanks requires justice. It’s hard to imagine rejoicing after a bad storm or a fire or a bad accident, giving thanks after a premature death or in the midst of poverty or a recession. It’s hard to imagine praying without ceasing when God seems completely absent.

What happens when pastors get asked what they do

Text: Luke 10:25-42

            For those of you who don’t know Kate and I have been on a delayed honeymoon, cruising the Caribbean, and I’m going to flaunt that for all its worth today. We had a great time for a week on sunny beaches and reading outside and, of course, stuffing ourselves with food on a boat that didn’t break down; it was all just about perfect. But there is one thing that happens whenever we travel that doesn’t thrill me, even though admitting it might make me out to be a bit of a vacation scrooge. I don’t like talking with new people. Well, you might say, that’s me just being a good Scandinavian Lutheran, but it’s not that I don’t like meeting new people; instead, it’s tiring to have specific conversations about life back home—you know how these conversations go. Where are you from? Where’s that? That far north? Do you have polar bears? And then, inevitably, what do you do?

Dust

Text: Luke 9:51-62

            We mostly don’t know what to do with Ash Wednesday. I mean, we do the whole shpeel year after year. Come forward. Get ashes put on our foreheads. You are dust and yada yada, something depressing sounding. Return to our seats. Eventually, return home and wipe dust off our foreheads. But why dust? Why ashes? What does today have to do with anything other than the high holy days of soup suppers and this season called Lent?

            Well, a couple of things, actually.

            In the Gospel reading for today, Jesus’ ministry begins its course toward Jerusalem. If you can image the Gospels as a giant valley, in today’s reading we have reached the bottom of the valley and from here we are now ascending faster and faster toward the mountain top which is Jerusalem. The entire season of Lent is oriented toward the holy city where Jesus is heading—first to be celebrated with palms waving and finally to be crucified. But at this valley bottom of the Gospel narrative we have a series of strange stories about people who are willing to follow Jesus but are rebuked nonetheless. There’s the person who says he will follow wherever Jesus goes, whom Jesus shoots down with the line that foxes have holes and birds nests but the Son of Mon nowhere to call home. Then another wants to follow but has an obligation to bury his father, whom Jesus again reprimands, saying “Let the dead bury their own dead.” Another will follow but wants to wish family good-bye first, and again, Jesus rebukes him, saying, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back if fit for the kingdom of God.”

Why should I go to church?

The following is an adapation of an article to be published in the Kittson County Enterprise on February 20.

Why should I go to church?

Honestly, I don’t get asked this question often, but I think it’s behind a lot of the questions I do get asked. “Why should I be in worship on Sunday morning and not at the lake cabin?” “Why does God care?” “Why does it matter?” Those are the questions I sense behind the talk of busy-ness and exhaustion, behind the excuses and guilt. It seems that every time I meet members of the churches I serve they have a laundry list of excuses for why it took so long for me to meet them. The truth is I don’t know all the ins and outs of your lives. I don’t know what feeds you and what drains you, what gives you life and what takes it away, so honestly, I'm not judging. Really, I'm just more curious than anything.

It used to be, not that long ago, that people would go to church out of a sense of duty. If you’re a regularly attending church member over the age of 55 you may very well be a part of that generation. To go to church is, for you, second nature because church is the only place you’ve ever gone on Sunday morning. You did it because your parents did it and they required you to be there in tow; they did it consequently because their parents did it and so on and so forth for generations immemorial. However, the culture has changed. No longer is church the sole center of the community. We can mourn that—and maybe we should—but it doesn’t change the fact that it is so. What’s most important is how we react.