To Be Continued…

The local church of which I’m a member – I dare not call it “my” church since it certainly doesn’t belong to me – called a new pastor today. Our previous pastor left suddenly 17 months ago and our congregation is strong enough to carry on with interim leadership and a good staff. But today, after an excellent send up by the search committee, Tyler Tankersly stood behind the pulpit and claimed the hearts and minds of a pretty sophisticated group of Christians.

He’s 33 years old and this church is of a stature that more typically requires its new pastor to have acquired a few gray hairs of age, wisdom and experience. Tyler demonstrated those qualities without the adornment of any gray.

We’ve grown past the traditional Baptist “trial sermon” process of selecting a pastor based on his sugar stick sermon. But we’re still Baptist enough to appreciate good preaching. And we received a message based on origins – the origin of Batman, the origin of Marvel comic book characters and the origins of the Church and the practices of early Christians.

Like the best sermons, this one engaged us, enlightened and informed us, made us laugh and want more. He turned the mirror of scripture toward us so we could see ourselves reflected among the first Christians who studied together, prayed, worshiped, shared everything until genuine koinonia flourished. While translated “fellowship,”koinonia in this case was achieved, as Tyler said, “when friends become family.”

When we looked at our watches, it wasn’t to see if we could still beat the Methodists to the restaurant, it was to wonder, “Is he done already?”

Stepping out from behind the pulpit he said three implied words hung over both the early Christians’ experience and our unfinished story. Those words are, “to be continued,” he said, and then closed in prayer.

To explain a bit how this is done, Tyler and his wife, Jess, left the sanctuary to wait, while the church was called into business meeting. The chairman of the search committee moved that Tyler Tankersly be elected as our next pastor. A chorus of “seconds” resounded, and deacons distributed ballots.

Probably 500 members mingled and visited while music played and the ballots were counted. Although there was no doubt that Tyler would be “called,” we needed to go through the motions, follow the bylaws and hang around to give him and Jess a resounding, standing round of applause when they were ushered, humbled, back into the room with Tyler as “our new pastor.”

The vote total wasn’t announced. I knew it would be positive, and I also knew it wouldn’t be unanimous. We have enough members for our tribe to include at least one who would feel it his duty to make sure it wasn’t unanimous, just out of principle. I’m not sure what principle that is, but some feel unanimity has no part in holiness. I learned later that we have three such folks.

As endearing as he seems, and as seasoned as is his preaching, two things stand out from the day.

First, on Tyler’s first secret visit to our church, the search committee chair gave him a tour of the splendid facilities in which we function and worship. Our sanctuary truly is striking and when the chair turned on the lights, Tyler walked halfway down the center aisle and paused, absorbing the imagery of the stained glass and magnificent modern architecture.

The committee chair invited Tyler to stand behind the pulpit, to get a feel of it, to look out over the large room and imagine himself preaching to a full house.

“It’s not the right time,” Tyler told. On a second visit, this time with his wife, he was again invited to stand behind the pulpit and again he demurred, saying “It’s not the right moment.”

This morning, when the chairman introduced Tyler, he told that story, wrapped his arm around Tyler’s shoulder, pointed to the pulpit and said, “Now is the time!”

Second, when the vote had been counted, the invitation extended and Tyler and Jess welcomed to our church, he said the past months had been bathed in prayer and he asked for prayer for his family’s transition. Then he choked up a bit, and asked that his new church pray for the church he is leaving because he truly loves those people and he knows his leaving will hurt.

That’s when I saw his heart laid bare and when I thanked Holy Spirit for leading him to Ardmore Baptist Church. And that’s when I knew we could say the positive contribution of this church and its people in its community is “to be continued.”

Sometimes you hit a wall

beach tideWhen the ocean is warm, I like to wade toward the waves from the shallow edge of the beach, my feet scratching a hold into the sandy bottom, feeling the water slide around my ankles, then shins, then knees. About the point when it gets really sensitive, I have to decide whether to keep walking toward London, or jump in headfirst and get soaked all at once.

If I dive in, I come up sputtering and shaking the water from my eyes. If I decide to keep walking, I lift my shoulders as if I can tiptoe past the sensitive and somehow get soaked without getting wet.

When I’ve reached water about waist depth, I can pause and enjoy, feeling the ebb and flow of the ocean, rolling to the beach to fill the little sand castle moats built by kids with red plastic shovels, and then drag them flat. When I turn to do a little body surfing, or at least to challenge the waves a little further out, I fight the water’s resistance, plodding resolutely forward where the surf breaks.

That is where the short walls of water curl up, spitting little white caps, and burst over me, whacking me backward and I have to retrace a couple steps just to get back to where I was.

In a windy spring season like this one, cycling sometimes feels like those days in the waves. Invisible walls of wind roll out from the horizon and buffet me. Side winds are most dangerous as they can make me wobble and lean the wrong direction at a most inopportune time.

Leaning over the handlebars, trying to carve a lane through the curtain of steady wind, a sudden burst hits me with every bit the force of a wave of water. It doesn’t knock me backward, but it feels like my wheels suddenly rolled into a vat of mush and I have to grind on the pedals to regain momentum.

Sometimes my daily news feed hits me like that.

Learning this week about the suicides of two young people who had survived the Stoneman Douglas High School massacre in February 2018 hit me like that blast of wind. In the same day, I learned the father of a child who had been slaughtered at Newtown had taken his own life after six years of dealing with his awful pain. Combine that with news of a dear friend whose life is suddenly upside down and my typically stoic countenance flipped onto its back, as well.

How much can we feel? How wide an opening should we tear in our hearts to absorb the world’s pain, in the vain belief that by doing so, we can somehow soothe it?

Much, if not most, of the information that hurts, enrages, mystifies, baffles and saddens would have passed unknown to us a half generation ago. But now, we know. With how much of what we know, can we engage? I don’t have the capacity to empathize with all the sadness of which I’m aware.

Yet, I want to share the pain of those I love because sharing is a salve that hurries the healing of open wounds. I want my ears to absorb their sorrows and my shoulders to offer pillows of comfort.

But, a hurting world is too much. Its pain is a flood. If I allow each swell of sorrow to whack me like a wave of wind or water, I’ll never move forward.

Each of us has capacity to care. None of us can carry the burdens of the world. Nor should we feel we must.

Because social media and news outlets pour into our senses a steady stream of pain, theologian and ethicist Stanley Hauerwas, says too many pastors –those called to care –are “a quivering mass of availability.”

What to do? I’ll not cloak myself in a curtain of despair because I know that God loves His creation – so much so that He took on the form of man to help us understand the depth of that love.

Rather than be paralyzed by any tide of tears, I will try to let myself be moved only by those things about which I can do something.

And then, I will do something.

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Phrases

You may expect an article about “Thanksgiving phrases” to be filled with words of thanksgiving, praise and gratitude – syrupy slogans poured over a Norman Rockwell painting.

But four days in Nana and Papa’s house with up to 10 children at a time – all under age 10 – becomes an exercise in instruction, training, and preserving sanity, especially when Nana is under the weather.

Grandchildren, their parents, their parents’ friends visiting with their own children filling a house not constructed under military grade specifications created a colorful chaos in which ever diligent parents tried to find teachable moments. Following is a random litany of phrases that boiled to the surface that will give you an idea of the scene.

“How old are you?” “Seven and a half. It’s a hard age.”

“Can I have a cookie?”

“Who wants to play me in ping pong?”

“I’ve got winner.”

“I demand a rematch.”

“Is that special egg nog? Or is it just egg nog?”

“Turn that down!”

“Where is this supposed to go?”

“Do you need to go potty?”

“Who didn’t flush?”

“Can we take the bikes to the greenway?”

“Can we go back to the park?”

“I wanna play.”

“No one will play with me.”

“How’s Nana feeling?”

“Are you feeling better Jules?”

“I’m all betta.”

“I’ve got your number, daddy.” (Says 2 ½ year old)

“Probably not.”

“I’m hungry.”

“As you wish.” (Quoting Princess Bride, which practically ran on looped replay)

“Can I have a cookie?”

“You just ate.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“Have you picked up all the toys?”

“Go outside and play.”

“Shhhh. Nana’s trying to sleep.”

“Why can’t we have dessert?
“What were you playing outside?” “Ghost in the graveyard.”

“Larkin hurt her knee.”

“Go back out. You’re fine.”

“Colton hit me with a towel as hard as he could.”

“Colton hit Harper in the eye with a bat.”

“Is this a clean cup?”

“Are these clean dishes in the dishwasher?”

“Can I get some help here?”

“No running in and out.”

“Shut the door!”

“Carry your dishes to the sink.”

“Are we out of milk?”

“I thought we were going to have popcorn and a movie.”

“I want some cantelopee.”

“Who’s going to the grocery store?”

“I’m hungry.”

Thank goodness for the ping pong table, warm weather, forewarned emergency services and accommodating neighbors.

Happy Thanksgiving!