I'm not very patient with people. I was noticing this, especially, this week while driving down the road.
When I get stuck behind a slow driver, I start talking to them, "Oh come on!" or "Get out of my way" or other phrases not worth repeating here. Sometimes I get so exasperated that as I finally fly past them, I think about shaking my fist in their direction.
But I never do it.
Not because I am restrained by righteousness or by a guilty conscience, but because I as I'm passing, I finally see the driver. Sometimes it's a Granny, who's hunched over and who can barely see over her steering wheel. Sometimes it's a mother, desperately trying to drive and reach in the back seat to entertain her baby. Sometimes it's a teenager who looks apprehensive, nervous, and feeling sorry that they can't drive any faster and their parent is sitting in the front seat-- white knuckled.
And then I feel badly. Why couldn't I have just had more patience, more grace with these people? Why couldn't I have stuck it out with them just a little longer? Why was I in such a big hurry?
I'm realizing that I do the same thing in friendships and relationships a lot of times. I'm guilty of being impatient with my church members. When my limited patience has finally run out with others, I tend to want to leave, just as I zoom past others down the highway. I don't want to deal with these people any more.
And then I really see them. My friends, my members-- I see them. Their pain, their hidden addictions, the struggles and joys they each experience. I tap on my breaks, as I remember:
If you want to go fast, go alone
If you want to go far, go together
And ultimately, roadtrips are so much more fun when you are traveling in a caravan, rather than in a car all by yourself.
Here's to the journey.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
TLAR
How do you decide when something is good enough?
I remember in grade school that if I got a 97 or 98 on a math test that those scores were unacceptable. It was good, but not good enough.
In college I always felt like there was something more I should be doing. I made good grades, I spent time with my friends, I tried new activities, but at times I felt those things were good but not good enough.
Living on my own for two months has been a lesson in good enough. I'm paying all my bills and on-time, but I'm not necessarily living off of a budget. I'm cooking a few times a week, but I'm still eating out more than I should. I clean my house fairly regularly, but I still haven't unpacked all my boxes or gotten all of my books and papers off of my living room floor. I have stacks of papers all waiting to be filed away. I'm doing okay; things are good, but are they good enough?
Last year at Southern, my friend Jon Tillay, redefined what was good enough. He would write a paper for a class and then pronounce it TLAR. I asked him once what that meant and he said, "That looks about right." In other words, it's good enough.
Maybe I need to evaluate my life and my home in terms of TLAR. The books in the corner? That looks about right. The stacks of papers needing to be organized? That looks about right. The fact that my refrigerator needs to be cleaned out and restocked with groceries? That looks about right.
Perhaps good enough for me right now is just that I am getting up each morning, working, eating, talking with friends and family, taking time to read and reflect, and sleeping. Maybe my life doesn't need to look like a Real Simple magazine spread where every thing is neatly organized and picture perfect. Maybe what I have right now looks about right.
I remember in grade school that if I got a 97 or 98 on a math test that those scores were unacceptable. It was good, but not good enough.
In college I always felt like there was something more I should be doing. I made good grades, I spent time with my friends, I tried new activities, but at times I felt those things were good but not good enough.
Living on my own for two months has been a lesson in good enough. I'm paying all my bills and on-time, but I'm not necessarily living off of a budget. I'm cooking a few times a week, but I'm still eating out more than I should. I clean my house fairly regularly, but I still haven't unpacked all my boxes or gotten all of my books and papers off of my living room floor. I have stacks of papers all waiting to be filed away. I'm doing okay; things are good, but are they good enough?
Last year at Southern, my friend Jon Tillay, redefined what was good enough. He would write a paper for a class and then pronounce it TLAR. I asked him once what that meant and he said, "That looks about right." In other words, it's good enough.
Maybe I need to evaluate my life and my home in terms of TLAR. The books in the corner? That looks about right. The stacks of papers needing to be organized? That looks about right. The fact that my refrigerator needs to be cleaned out and restocked with groceries? That looks about right.
Perhaps good enough for me right now is just that I am getting up each morning, working, eating, talking with friends and family, taking time to read and reflect, and sleeping. Maybe my life doesn't need to look like a Real Simple magazine spread where every thing is neatly organized and picture perfect. Maybe what I have right now looks about right.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Celebrating Shallowness
How do you live deeply in a world that celebrates shallowness? (And at this point in the evening, I am second-guessing myself as to whether or not shallowness is actually a word. Let's say it is.)
I consider myself to be a deep person. That's not to say that I can't be shallow, selfish, or that I am a twenty-two year old sage; I'm not. I am, however, the kind of person who doesn't want to have 400 friends on Facebook that I can read about their lives through status updates. I'd rather have a close group of friends that I talk to on a regular basis, see as often as I can, and who know me and who still love me.
But the world that we live in champions breadth and not depth. It's like the action song, "Deep and Wide" where you get to the part where you sing, "Hmm and wide". Our culture loves to leave out the deep part.
But maybe it's not only the surrounding culture that we live in-- maybe it's the church, too. I am working as an associate pastor and if someone were to ask what my job description is, I think my best reply would be: Jack of all trades, master of none. I preach, teach Sabbath schools, lead a baptismal class, attend plenty of committees and board meetings, head up the registration tables during our current evangelistic effort, visit members in their homes, counsel young women who want to know "how far you can go without sinning" with their boyfriends, attend funerals, greet people on Sabbath mornings, pray, and for good measure, occasionally, design an invitation to a prayer breakfast.
The fact is I am not gifted at doing all of those things. I'm probably competent at doing most of those things, but gifted, no. And I don't necessarily like doing all of those things either. I called my ministerial director today and asked him what he was expecting out of my time in Savannah working as an associate. He said he wanted me to have a "broad exposure" to pastoral ministry.
But what if as people and pastors we didn't place such a high emphasis on breadth and instead placed equal balance on breadth and depth? Or just focused on depth for a while? What would that look like? How would our lives be different? As Christians, as human beings, is this worth thinking about? Maybe so.
"And I ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God." -- Ephesians 3, Message
I consider myself to be a deep person. That's not to say that I can't be shallow, selfish, or that I am a twenty-two year old sage; I'm not. I am, however, the kind of person who doesn't want to have 400 friends on Facebook that I can read about their lives through status updates. I'd rather have a close group of friends that I talk to on a regular basis, see as often as I can, and who know me and who still love me.
But the world that we live in champions breadth and not depth. It's like the action song, "Deep and Wide" where you get to the part where you sing, "Hmm and wide". Our culture loves to leave out the deep part.
But maybe it's not only the surrounding culture that we live in-- maybe it's the church, too. I am working as an associate pastor and if someone were to ask what my job description is, I think my best reply would be: Jack of all trades, master of none. I preach, teach Sabbath schools, lead a baptismal class, attend plenty of committees and board meetings, head up the registration tables during our current evangelistic effort, visit members in their homes, counsel young women who want to know "how far you can go without sinning" with their boyfriends, attend funerals, greet people on Sabbath mornings, pray, and for good measure, occasionally, design an invitation to a prayer breakfast.
The fact is I am not gifted at doing all of those things. I'm probably competent at doing most of those things, but gifted, no. And I don't necessarily like doing all of those things either. I called my ministerial director today and asked him what he was expecting out of my time in Savannah working as an associate. He said he wanted me to have a "broad exposure" to pastoral ministry.
But what if as people and pastors we didn't place such a high emphasis on breadth and instead placed equal balance on breadth and depth? Or just focused on depth for a while? What would that look like? How would our lives be different? As Christians, as human beings, is this worth thinking about? Maybe so.
"And I ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God." -- Ephesians 3, Message
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Body and Soul
I get itchy when Christians talk about souls. Not as in "we are concerned for their souls" or "their soul has now departed and they're looking down on us now." I raise my eyebrows and scratch my clavicle when someone prays, "Lord, thank you for all the souls that are making decisions for You."
They aren't merely souls; the people we are referring to are human beings who have souls. They are embodied souls. I think my itchiness flares up because it can come across that we only care about people's salvation and we care nothing about their lives in the here and now. This is precisely where the social gospel comes in, which if I understand it correctly, says, "We don't see you as a soul; we see you as a human being and as Christians, we care about if you have enough to eat, if you have a place to sleep, and other bodily matters-- because your soul resides in a body."
Of course I want people to know Christ and to trust in Him for salvation. And I think it would be wrong and careless of me to feed, clothe, and provide shelter for someone only to neglect the condition of their soul. But the bottom line is that the bodies we all now reside in are not temporary trappings until we are set free to float off to meet God. The last time I read 1 Thessalonians 4, I'm pretty sure I read something about resurrected bodies.
Does anybody else break out in hives when you overhear talk about souls?
They aren't merely souls; the people we are referring to are human beings who have souls. They are embodied souls. I think my itchiness flares up because it can come across that we only care about people's salvation and we care nothing about their lives in the here and now. This is precisely where the social gospel comes in, which if I understand it correctly, says, "We don't see you as a soul; we see you as a human being and as Christians, we care about if you have enough to eat, if you have a place to sleep, and other bodily matters-- because your soul resides in a body."
Of course I want people to know Christ and to trust in Him for salvation. And I think it would be wrong and careless of me to feed, clothe, and provide shelter for someone only to neglect the condition of their soul. But the bottom line is that the bodies we all now reside in are not temporary trappings until we are set free to float off to meet God. The last time I read 1 Thessalonians 4, I'm pretty sure I read something about resurrected bodies.
Does anybody else break out in hives when you overhear talk about souls?
Monday, September 14, 2009
Change of Plans
I think it is entirely possible that God called me to pastoral ministry simply to strip away my selfishness and to sanctify me. My call to ministry may or may not have anything to do with God using me to minister to others; I think it's entirely possible that God is using my time and experiences in Savannah to save me. For instance:
I was at potluck on Sabbath, standing in the kitchen attempting to scarf down remnants of mysteriously vague potluck dishes, when a young woman with her three young children in tow, comes and asks me for the key to a storage closet. I quickly pasted a smile on my face, set down my plate of food on the kitchen counter, and as I walked out of the kitchen, I whispered to one of the ladies cleaning the kitchen, "Please don't throw out my plate! I got interrupted, but I'll be back."
My comments sound polite enough in written form, but unfortunately, we derive more than 57% of the messages content from a person's tone and body language. So really, my comments would have been something like this:
"Please don't throw out my plate! [whine] I got interrupted [roll of eyes], but I'll be back." And with being said, the woman requesting the storage key turned to me and said, "Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting."
No, now I'm sorry. Really sorry.
Even though I had been up since 7, at church since 9, just finished preaching a twenty-five minute sermon, greeted every church member, and had arrived at potluck to cold, remnants of potluck dishes, and had to eat in the kitchen standing up, somehow none of that justified the way I had just made this young woman feel. I was tired, but I was selfish and stingy in the way I had responded to someone who simply needed to check the storage closet for supplies. As in supplies she wanted to use to volunteer her time and energy to bless our church with an Adventurer's program.
Or take my plans for this evening for example: We just started a Revelation Seminar evangelistic series and I haven't had an evening at home for the last six nights or so. But tonight is an off night and I made plans. Big plans. I had already plotted out that I was going to wear my pajamas and my New England Patriots cap to watch the Patriots play in the season opener against the Buffalo Bills. I was really feeling ambitious because I planned to do laundry and clean my house during the commercial breaks. A well-deserved evening at home, I thought.
And then my phone rang with bad news. One of our church member's mother was tragically killed in a car accident on her way to church this Sabbath and they are having the funeral home visitation service tonight. From 7-10 pm.
Good-bye pajamas and Pats cap; hello black suit and heels.
I know in my heart that I need to be with this family. I've experienced sudden tragedy like this before, too. I know that my response and presence should flow from a good pastor's heart, but instead, I find myself in awe of my rotten selfishness. I'm angry. Frustrated. On the verge of throwing a fit and claiming that I am "exhausted." Threatening (only to myself) to quit and become a journalist. Or work as a cashier at Target.
I remember attending a women's leadership conference last fall and hearing a hospital chaplain describe a moment in ministry that nearly split her in two. She had scheduled a hair cut for herself in the afternoon and had been looking forward to it all day, but as it came time for her to leave for her appointment, she found out one of her patients was dying. In her heart, she knew she needed to be there with the patient and with his family. But she also found herself angry and asking, "What about my hair appointment?"
I remember thinking at the time, "Wow, something like missing your hair cut could cause that much inner conflict and turmoil?" And now I know the answer is yes; look what a canceled evening of pajama-wearing, football-watching, laundry-doing, house-cleaning has done to me.
Dr. Parker told us in Church Ministry class that as pastors you must set boundaries within the context of sacrifice. Nice platitude, but how do you quantifiably measure that? Does that mean I give of myself and my evening off 3 out of 4 times? Do I not take a day off for five weeks during our evangelistic series? Strangely, I am reminded of Peter's response to Christ: "Shall I forgive my brother seven times?" After all, Jesus had just spouted off a platitude, too, "You must forgive one another." And Peter wants to know the limits; he wants to know a quantifiable amount of times he will be asked to forgive. Jesus' response shows He is concerned about Peter's heart and him developing a heart of forgiveness.
I want God to work in my heart and to strip away the selfishness that lines my heart like outdated wallpaper. God, give me an unselfish heart.
"Create in me a clean heart, O God." -Psalm 51:10
"A broken and contrite heart You will not despise." -Psalm 51:17
I was at potluck on Sabbath, standing in the kitchen attempting to scarf down remnants of mysteriously vague potluck dishes, when a young woman with her three young children in tow, comes and asks me for the key to a storage closet. I quickly pasted a smile on my face, set down my plate of food on the kitchen counter, and as I walked out of the kitchen, I whispered to one of the ladies cleaning the kitchen, "Please don't throw out my plate! I got interrupted, but I'll be back."
My comments sound polite enough in written form, but unfortunately, we derive more than 57% of the messages content from a person's tone and body language. So really, my comments would have been something like this:
"Please don't throw out my plate! [whine] I got interrupted [roll of eyes], but I'll be back." And with being said, the woman requesting the storage key turned to me and said, "Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting."
No, now I'm sorry. Really sorry.
Even though I had been up since 7, at church since 9, just finished preaching a twenty-five minute sermon, greeted every church member, and had arrived at potluck to cold, remnants of potluck dishes, and had to eat in the kitchen standing up, somehow none of that justified the way I had just made this young woman feel. I was tired, but I was selfish and stingy in the way I had responded to someone who simply needed to check the storage closet for supplies. As in supplies she wanted to use to volunteer her time and energy to bless our church with an Adventurer's program.
Or take my plans for this evening for example: We just started a Revelation Seminar evangelistic series and I haven't had an evening at home for the last six nights or so. But tonight is an off night and I made plans. Big plans. I had already plotted out that I was going to wear my pajamas and my New England Patriots cap to watch the Patriots play in the season opener against the Buffalo Bills. I was really feeling ambitious because I planned to do laundry and clean my house during the commercial breaks. A well-deserved evening at home, I thought.
And then my phone rang with bad news. One of our church member's mother was tragically killed in a car accident on her way to church this Sabbath and they are having the funeral home visitation service tonight. From 7-10 pm.
Good-bye pajamas and Pats cap; hello black suit and heels.
I know in my heart that I need to be with this family. I've experienced sudden tragedy like this before, too. I know that my response and presence should flow from a good pastor's heart, but instead, I find myself in awe of my rotten selfishness. I'm angry. Frustrated. On the verge of throwing a fit and claiming that I am "exhausted." Threatening (only to myself) to quit and become a journalist. Or work as a cashier at Target.
I remember attending a women's leadership conference last fall and hearing a hospital chaplain describe a moment in ministry that nearly split her in two. She had scheduled a hair cut for herself in the afternoon and had been looking forward to it all day, but as it came time for her to leave for her appointment, she found out one of her patients was dying. In her heart, she knew she needed to be there with the patient and with his family. But she also found herself angry and asking, "What about my hair appointment?"
I remember thinking at the time, "Wow, something like missing your hair cut could cause that much inner conflict and turmoil?" And now I know the answer is yes; look what a canceled evening of pajama-wearing, football-watching, laundry-doing, house-cleaning has done to me.
Dr. Parker told us in Church Ministry class that as pastors you must set boundaries within the context of sacrifice. Nice platitude, but how do you quantifiably measure that? Does that mean I give of myself and my evening off 3 out of 4 times? Do I not take a day off for five weeks during our evangelistic series? Strangely, I am reminded of Peter's response to Christ: "Shall I forgive my brother seven times?" After all, Jesus had just spouted off a platitude, too, "You must forgive one another." And Peter wants to know the limits; he wants to know a quantifiable amount of times he will be asked to forgive. Jesus' response shows He is concerned about Peter's heart and him developing a heart of forgiveness.
I want God to work in my heart and to strip away the selfishness that lines my heart like outdated wallpaper. God, give me an unselfish heart.
"Create in me a clean heart, O God." -Psalm 51:10
"A broken and contrite heart You will not despise." -Psalm 51:17
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Things that happen at Church
Oh, the things that happen in church! Have I ever mentioned that I love the people at my church? Really, truly do; I see Christ in them and I want Christ to be formed in them. But sometimes the things that happen in church when juxtaposed with each other are humorous. Take today for example:
I taught one of the adult Sabbath School classes today. We had a good discussion, I was able to read a couple of excerpts from Mere Christianity, and all in all, I think it went well. After the class, I had a few people tell me that they enjoyed the class and one woman hugged me and said, "I'm so glad you are here."
Then as I was heading back to meet with our worship participants and to pray with them, one woman from the class stopped me and uttered this rebuke:
"You have got to stop cracking your knuckles."
I was dumb struck, actually. Not because I don't crack my knuckles, I do, and my Mom is one of those people who is chronically annoyed by people who crack their knuckles in church. But I was surprised because I had no memory of any obnoxious cracking during class. I meekly asked,
"Oh, did I crack my knuckles during class?"
"Yes." She then shoved one of her hands towards me and I looked to see swollen, arthritic fingers and joints.
"I used to crack my knuckles all the time and see what it has done to me? You have got to stop today!"
I didn't think it would be a good idea to point out the fact that she is easily in her sixties and that her swollen, arthritic fingers could also be related to age. Instead, I nodded dumbly and thanked her for her reproof.
After the worship service, I was flagged over by a middle-aged woman who attends our church. I I like her, she's from the Mid-west, and is fairly straight to the point. But you can never tell what the next thing out of her mouth will be. Her opening question to me is:
"How old are you?"
I have no problem with people asking me that question. I'm twenty-two. And I hope when I reach thirty-eight or fifty-two that I won't mind people asking me, either. Age is age. However, this is the South and generally speaking, asking someone their age, without preface or permission is usually not considered good manners.
I smile back at her and say, "I'm twenty-two."
I half expected her to say, "Oh, wow! You are so young..." and then maybe make a comment about how I don't have enough life experience to be teaching the Sabbath School lesson (where she was a participant in class). Instead, she continues:
"My husband's brother is single..."
Not "May I ask you a personal question?" Or "are you in a relationship right now?" But a statement of fact: her brother-in-law is single right now. If only that were all, because she added:
"Yes, he's single, but he's about my age."
Now it's my turn to feel sort of awkward. This woman is middle-aged, but thanks to the modern miracles of make-up and plastic surgery, I have no idea how old she is. (Not saying that she has had plastic surgery; just the prevalence of said elective surgery make age-guessing much more difficult.) I don't feel right asking her or trying smoothly to comment about her age. Thankfully, she filled in the gaps for me.
"I'm forty-six."
Oh my word. Forty-six? This guy is forty-six? Like as in twenty-four, almost a quarter of a century older than I am? As in only a couple years younger (and I do mean just a couple) than my parents? I hope the shock didn't register on my face and thankfully, I didn't have a chance to say anything before she concluded:
"Well, I just know that it is hard to meet people once you've graduated from college."
Help me, God. If I were to try and draw a lesson from these two conversations in church today it could be this:
A) Stop cracking my knuckles before I get ape hands
B) Hurry up and get married to someone who is forty-six who won't be able to see when my hands do turn into ape hands
Once again, I smile politely, thank her and say, "Thanks for thinking of me."
Thinking of me? Yes, my church prays for me and thinks about me and apparently the Body of Christ is concerned about my bad habits and marital status, too. I think these are only conversations you could possibly have at church.
I taught one of the adult Sabbath School classes today. We had a good discussion, I was able to read a couple of excerpts from Mere Christianity, and all in all, I think it went well. After the class, I had a few people tell me that they enjoyed the class and one woman hugged me and said, "I'm so glad you are here."
Then as I was heading back to meet with our worship participants and to pray with them, one woman from the class stopped me and uttered this rebuke:
"You have got to stop cracking your knuckles."
I was dumb struck, actually. Not because I don't crack my knuckles, I do, and my Mom is one of those people who is chronically annoyed by people who crack their knuckles in church. But I was surprised because I had no memory of any obnoxious cracking during class. I meekly asked,
"Oh, did I crack my knuckles during class?"
"Yes." She then shoved one of her hands towards me and I looked to see swollen, arthritic fingers and joints.
"I used to crack my knuckles all the time and see what it has done to me? You have got to stop today!"
I didn't think it would be a good idea to point out the fact that she is easily in her sixties and that her swollen, arthritic fingers could also be related to age. Instead, I nodded dumbly and thanked her for her reproof.
After the worship service, I was flagged over by a middle-aged woman who attends our church. I I like her, she's from the Mid-west, and is fairly straight to the point. But you can never tell what the next thing out of her mouth will be. Her opening question to me is:
"How old are you?"
I have no problem with people asking me that question. I'm twenty-two. And I hope when I reach thirty-eight or fifty-two that I won't mind people asking me, either. Age is age. However, this is the South and generally speaking, asking someone their age, without preface or permission is usually not considered good manners.
I smile back at her and say, "I'm twenty-two."
I half expected her to say, "Oh, wow! You are so young..." and then maybe make a comment about how I don't have enough life experience to be teaching the Sabbath School lesson (where she was a participant in class). Instead, she continues:
"My husband's brother is single..."
Not "May I ask you a personal question?" Or "are you in a relationship right now?" But a statement of fact: her brother-in-law is single right now. If only that were all, because she added:
"Yes, he's single, but he's about my age."
Now it's my turn to feel sort of awkward. This woman is middle-aged, but thanks to the modern miracles of make-up and plastic surgery, I have no idea how old she is. (Not saying that she has had plastic surgery; just the prevalence of said elective surgery make age-guessing much more difficult.) I don't feel right asking her or trying smoothly to comment about her age. Thankfully, she filled in the gaps for me.
"I'm forty-six."
Oh my word. Forty-six? This guy is forty-six? Like as in twenty-four, almost a quarter of a century older than I am? As in only a couple years younger (and I do mean just a couple) than my parents? I hope the shock didn't register on my face and thankfully, I didn't have a chance to say anything before she concluded:
"Well, I just know that it is hard to meet people once you've graduated from college."
Help me, God. If I were to try and draw a lesson from these two conversations in church today it could be this:
A) Stop cracking my knuckles before I get ape hands
B) Hurry up and get married to someone who is forty-six who won't be able to see when my hands do turn into ape hands
Once again, I smile politely, thank her and say, "Thanks for thinking of me."
Thinking of me? Yes, my church prays for me and thinks about me and apparently the Body of Christ is concerned about my bad habits and marital status, too. I think these are only conversations you could possibly have at church.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Why I *Like* My Job
I have been working in Savannah for all of twenty-six days now. And I think I really like pastoral ministry. Not love, though. Not yet.
I think a clear sign of why I like pastoral ministry and some of my colleagues, undoubtedly, love pastoral ministry could be measured by what we loved, pursued, and excelled in while taking classes at Southern. I loved biblical languages, exegesis, and systematic theology. Many of my friends and classmates liked the practical classes like Personal Evangelism and Church Ministry-- I did not share the same affinity, but then again, they weren't all that thrilled with learning Hebrew paradigms, either.
And yesterday, while attending a ministerial meeting, one of the Georgia-Cumberland VP's asked me if I was enjoying my time in Savannah. I said yes, that I was having a great time. I also added that being a pastor was different than being a full-time student. He then remarked that I had probably passed the point where anyone was ever going to ask me what my GPA was or whether or not I remembered systematic theology.
I was aghast. I loved systematic theology. And I enjoyed the challenge of earning good grades. If I were to cut out the Hebrew, Greek, exegesis, and systematics out of my life as a pastor I would be depressed. They are a part of pastoral ministry just like administration and committees are too.
I don't know if it's fair to say that I only like my job-- there are parts that I love. Really, really love. Like visiting members, studying for a sermon, preaching, discerning what God is doing in the lives of my members and in our city, and praying for and with my church members. And most of all, I love the people in my church. I really do. I walked in to the sanctuary on my second Sabbath here and thought, "I am going to love these people. I really am." And I do.
But there are also parts that I strongly dislike about my job, too. Like the arguments over where to place the church bulletin board. Or whether or not we should all bring our own hot-dogs to the church bonfire. Like the committees that drain me of energy and consume four or five evenings of my week. Like having to spend so much vital force on simply maintaining our church building and programming.
I hope, one day, that maybe I will love pastoring and will truly love it, different from the way that I love pizza or reading a good book. As for right now, though, I am truly contented to be in Savannah and to have the job that I do.
I think a clear sign of why I like pastoral ministry and some of my colleagues, undoubtedly, love pastoral ministry could be measured by what we loved, pursued, and excelled in while taking classes at Southern. I loved biblical languages, exegesis, and systematic theology. Many of my friends and classmates liked the practical classes like Personal Evangelism and Church Ministry-- I did not share the same affinity, but then again, they weren't all that thrilled with learning Hebrew paradigms, either.
And yesterday, while attending a ministerial meeting, one of the Georgia-Cumberland VP's asked me if I was enjoying my time in Savannah. I said yes, that I was having a great time. I also added that being a pastor was different than being a full-time student. He then remarked that I had probably passed the point where anyone was ever going to ask me what my GPA was or whether or not I remembered systematic theology.
I was aghast. I loved systematic theology. And I enjoyed the challenge of earning good grades. If I were to cut out the Hebrew, Greek, exegesis, and systematics out of my life as a pastor I would be depressed. They are a part of pastoral ministry just like administration and committees are too.
I don't know if it's fair to say that I only like my job-- there are parts that I love. Really, really love. Like visiting members, studying for a sermon, preaching, discerning what God is doing in the lives of my members and in our city, and praying for and with my church members. And most of all, I love the people in my church. I really do. I walked in to the sanctuary on my second Sabbath here and thought, "I am going to love these people. I really am." And I do.
But there are also parts that I strongly dislike about my job, too. Like the arguments over where to place the church bulletin board. Or whether or not we should all bring our own hot-dogs to the church bonfire. Like the committees that drain me of energy and consume four or five evenings of my week. Like having to spend so much vital force on simply maintaining our church building and programming.
I hope, one day, that maybe I will love pastoring and will truly love it, different from the way that I love pizza or reading a good book. As for right now, though, I am truly contented to be in Savannah and to have the job that I do.
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