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The New and the Unexpected

DAILY COMMUTES

ONE OF THE BEST perks about my job is the “morning commute.” New Dublin Presbyterian Church sits at the end of a private road, elevated on a slight ridge. To get to my office from the manse, I simply walk about three hundred yards underneath ancient oak trees, past an iconic cemetery, and into a little white church with a green metal roof. Farmland stretches for miles all around and the green hills gently slope at the horizon. The landscape is beautiful and tranquil; it makes you want to take a deep breath and be at peace.

I try my best to maintain a welcoming office space at this picturesque church. I want the inside of the church to be just as open and inviting to visitors as the surrounding landscape. Despite this goal, I knew from my very first day on the job that much of my time should be spent out of the office. In the eyes of the folk at New Dublin, the work of a pastor is not confined to his or her study. As people come to church, I am expected to visit their homes. We are a throwback to the days when “preacher’s cookies” were whipped up on the spot because the preacher had dropped by unannounced for a friendly chat.

I have learned to appreciate these “afternoon commutes” to people’s homes just as much as my time in the office. Sometimes we must allow others to welcome us. A pastoral visit is like many social situations in that there is a great deal of importance placed upon food! In my first ten days of visiting alone, I ate ice cream, cookies, banana pudding, brownies, and strawberries, not to mention cup after cup of strong, black coffee. While I quickly learned that I could not keep track of all the edible gifts I received, I will admit that there have been several occasions when I have been grateful for the caffeine. The rules of etiquette for pastoral visitation include some tedious formalities. For instance, the summer forecast for southwestern Virginia inevitably includes some chance of thunderstorms, and most of my parishioners seem to enjoy speculating upon this ubiquitous topic. This can make me a little drowsy.

Do not assume, however, that I have been bored by my conversations. I am often amazed by the things people will share. During one visit, a woman described an evening when she looked out of her bedroom window and saw a vision of her brother-in-law dancing across the mountains in the distance. About two hours later, she received a phone call that he had died. Another parishioner is visited each night by a bright light that she believes is an angel. Such conversations are not held around a typical dinner table!

While a pastoral visit may include a discussion about the weather or a detailed chronicling of various aches and pains, I try to be patient and attentive because even the most mundane conversations can lead to a meaningful discussion of faith. Towards the end of the visit, I typically ask, “What have you been praying about lately?” I have seen this question act like a key that unlocks the real struggle inside. Quite unexpectedly, someone may give voice to what lies heavily on the heart.

One day I had an appointment to visit a family, but mistakenly presented myself at the wrong house. Though I was completely unexpected and unannounced, this church member graciously invited me inside. Even early in my ministry, I was beginning to understand the importance of hospitality in this culture. We sat at his kitchen table, drinking cold water from the well and chatting amicably. He and I do not have a great deal of experiences in common, and this fact became even more apparent as we talked. For instance, I do not include feeding the cows as part of my Sunday routine to get ready for church. While I enjoyed our time together, I knew that we both needed to get back to work. Just before I was about to leave for my scheduled appointment, I offered to pray for him and his family.

In response to my request for prayer concerns, tears fell freely down his sun-browned face. I couldn’t have been more surprised than if I saw a vision of my sister-in-law dancing across the distant mountains! This steady rock of the church whose clear blue eyes seemed forever set to the task at hand was crying. He shared the details of a sudden and tragic loss in the extended family, which had left him with questions about his faith. There in the kitchen, he added his voice to the great chorus of faithful people who have cried out in anguish, “Why God?”

I do not know how helpful I was to this parishioner on that day. I did not have much to say in response to his questions, much less any answers. I was still learning to find my way, literally around Dublin and figuratively as a pastor. But I was grateful for this unexpected visit and the chance to listen. Though I had visited the wrong house, sometimes we don’t know where we are going until we’ve already arrived.

This unexpected visit points to another lesson I learned quickly at New Dublin: some mistakes are actually gifts.

My first Sunday in the pulpit was Pentecost, which marks the church’s celebration of the gift of the Holy Spirit. According to the book of Acts, this spirit of fire came from heaven with a sound like a mighty rush of wind (Acts 2:2). How ironic that the very first sound out of my mouth was the mighty sound of microphone feedback! Though the sound system’s malfunction nearly busted everyone’s eardrums, this unexpected event did prove to be an unexpected blessing. As our ears rang, everyone shared a laugh, and I could see the anxiety melting away from their faces. I felt my own apprehension easing off my shoulders.

Perhaps others would have preferred a more somber or professional introduction. As I’ve reflected about this incident, I think it is a great illustration of the grace that my congregation affords me. I also believe that we could laugh together because we had started to trust each other. My reputation was growing as a “preacher who likes to visit.” Even before the first sermon, we were forming relationships that could stand the test of mishaps. This has continued to serve us well to this very day, no matter where life leads us on our daily commutes.

COWS ARE COOL!

While I do value pastoral visitation, I also spend a great deal of time in the church office. I love to study and I love to learn. I want to teach my academic knowledge by putting the wealth of biblical and theological scholarship into the language of the laity. Craig Barnes writes of the importance of “the fresh articulation of familiar old truths in a specific context.”¹ The message must be translated so it can be understood in a deeply personal way, which Barnes terms as “a realm beneath the presenting issues.”² We may have daily conversations about the weather, but the Bible and theological tradition speak to our hearts if we can only hear their messages as addressed to us.

As a pastor, serving as such a translator is much easier to understand within the walls of a study than it is to put into practice in the life of the congregation. Rob Bell offers a metaphor for this difficulty as “playing the piano while wearing oven mitts.” Bell explains: “We can make a noise, sometimes even hit the notes well enough to bang out a melody, but it doesn’t sound like it could, or should. The elements are all there—fingers, keys, strings, ears—but there’s something in the way, something inhibiting our ability to fully experience all the possibilities.”³ Bell’s image resonates with me. In reviewing sermons for this book, certain messages that I was trying to proclaim were not nearly as clear or as sharp as I would have liked for them to sound. I have cringed in embarrassment at some of the “notes” of my sermons. I take comfort in the fact that, just as there is grace to be found in mistakes, so grace can be heard in any sermon.

Here, then, is yet another importance of pastoral visits: messages can be learned through relationships. By reaching out to people in their physical space, we can discern where others are in their spiritual journey. It is fine and good to make declarative statements about theology and faith, but I’ve already suggested that it is the right question that unlocks a deep meaning in a personal way. By listening attentively and seeking to learn from others, perhaps we will then discover opportunities to translate some of that wonderful scholarship into words that ring true. Moreover, preachers can be taught a great deal by the classroom of daily experience.

On another visit during my first week as a pastor, I had asked a grandmother to tell me a little about her grandson. She responded by telling this story: Her ten-year-old grandson was visiting their farmhouse one evening last winter when his grandfather went out to feed the cattle. Despite his grandmother’s urging, the young man declined the invitation to accompany him. He was still watching television, comfortable by the fire, when the grandfather came back inside with a young calf cradled in his arms. This poor animal had fallen in the creek and was nearly frozen to death. Grandpa set the calf down in the living room and began vigorously rubbing its body with warm towels. Forget the television; the grandson was now transfixed by this battle against death. Wordlessly his grandfather held out another towel with his free hand. The boy grabbed it and joined in massaging the calf back to life. Thankfully, this towel therapy worked and that baby calf eventually stumbled to its feet in that awkward way of theirs. Then the grandson willingly accompanied his grandfather to the barn for the chores. In fact, he insisted on tagging along! The child came back and proudly announced, “Cows are cool!”

Imbedded in a grandmother’s love for her grandson is a valuable lesson for pastors. In order to preach, we must be in relationship. We must accept the offered towel or outstretched hand, and be willing to work beside the people in our congregation. Just as the boy’s insight into cows was gained through the laborious, even potentially tragic work alongside his grandfather, so a sermon must be forged in a loving relationship with parishioners. Even if the message does not hit all the right notes, something of God’s truth will be communicated.

To appreciate the deep wisdom of a child’s lesson that “cows are cool,” I have learned from Wendell Berry that I need to “let the farm judge.” A novelist, essayist, and poet, Berry is also a man who shows tremendous appreciation for the art of farming. For instance, he writes of the importance of animal husbandry in light of the needs of the land. Knowledge and skill, including modern breeding practices, play a vital role. But a conscientious farmer should “let the farm judge” which breed is most compatible with environmental factors, such as topography, climate, and soil quality. For instance, Berry’s farm is along the lower Kentucky River valley, so he grazes a breed of hill sheep that can maneuver across the landscape and eat the natural vegetation.⁴

Let me be clear that I am not making a pejorative comparison between the congregation of New Dublin and a farm! My point is I am coming into an existing ecosystem that has functioned before me and will continue to do so after I leave. My role is proactive; I am here to “work the land.” My tools are exegetical methods to till the fertile soil of the Bible. With prayer and patience, these seeds I plant may blossom and help people think theologically.

But I also feel a deep sense of respect for the parishioners and their ways of learning. The Spirit’s gift on Pentecost, after all, was the ability to speak in multiple languages. As the Holy Spirit empowered the people, the good news was translated so that others could hear of the mighty acts of God in their own languages (Acts 2:7–8). Just as our daily commutes and routine conversations might take us into unexpected territories and profound moments, so might God speak to us in new ways through our everyday experience. And it seems to me that this is pretty cool.

“NEW BIRDS IN THE TREES”

May 22nd, 2010

Acts 2:1–21

So, here I am—the new pastor on the block and a part of the new family in the manse. Everything that I see and do is new to me. For instance, I wake up early to go running around my new neighborhood. Everywhere I look, I see signs of the new day dawning: the rising sun, the dew on the grass, the morning mist. I thank God for each new day because I am excited to be here with you, excited about our new ministry together. Sometimes I swear that the birds roosting in the beautiful old oak trees by the cemetery are actually chirping, “New! New! New!”

The more I’ve thought about all of these new things, however, the more I’ve realized that even a new day is also part of an old pattern. The sun rises and sets. The next day it rises again, only to go back down the next evening. It is true that each morning is the start of a new day; but it is also true that even new things are still part of a larger history.

Over the years there have been many new people here at New Dublin Presbyterian Church, including many pastors. All of these generations of people remain a part of our new ministry because they are a part of us today. This is like the fact that my maternal grandfather passed away over fifteen years ago, but I still wear my watch upside down just like he did. I can look at a complete stranger smoking a pipe and vividly remember him. When I sling my arm over the back of a chair, my mother says that I remind her of him. Today she is watching me do new things in front of my new church, but Granddad is somehow here as well. Who we are today is shaped in part by those who came before us. The past is also present.

After only one week, I’ve already witnessed the past becoming present when you share your stories with me. Different parts of your history can be funny or serious, hopeful or sad. But no matter what, these stories are a part of you, and I am eager to listen. As your new pastor, I want to understand how the church has shaped your life. Getting to know you includes learning where you’ve been and who you’ve been with.

How fitting, then, that today we celebrate the start of our new ministry while we mark the beginning of the church at Pentecost. In our scripture from Acts, we remember that the gift of the Holy Spirit came from heaven like a rushing wind and appeared like tongues of fire. Suddenly Galileans could speak languages from all corners of the world. Things were new, new, new!

But notice that Peter explains these new things to the crowd in Jerusalem by citing the Old Testament. He quotes the prophet Joel, who wrote centuries before him about the outpouring of the Spirit (Acts 2:14–21). Peter spoke of new events, yet he emphasized that these events were also part of a history. At Pentecost, the past was also present.

By this point in my first sermon, I expect that some of you are thinking, “Amen!” Have you been worried that this new pastor was going to come into your church with a head too full of new ideas to listen to your cherished past?

I know a story about a young Methodist preacher who arrived at his new church fresh out of seminary. Immediately he noticed a certain tree in the front of the sanctuary. In fact, he bemoaned the fact that the tree was ugly and so very old. Not only was it an eyesore, the tree was leaning against the building and damaging the roof. This young preacher decided to fix this problem once and for all: he decided to cut the tree down.

Less than a day later, that same pastor was on his way out of town never to return! Why did the church dismiss him so quickly? He had cut down the tree planted by John Wesley, the famous founder of the Methodist church! In his eagerness to do something new, that pastor had destroyed the Wesley oak, that church’s oldest and most beloved possession.

Since New Dublin Presbyterian Church has been around even longer than John Wesley, I’m sure that this congregation has its own versions of the Wesley oak. You can rest assured that I am not going to cut them down. In fact, I honor the proud history of this congregation and believe in the legacy built by faithful generations. The past is present and should be honored.

Yet the past should not be worshipped. On Pentecost, Peter remembered the history of Israel’s prophets, but then he spoke of a new reality. Peter proclaimed the power of the Holy Spirit: the mighty, rushing wind that brought so many different people together. While I don’t believe that we should cut down the Wesley oak, Pentecost must not only be a celebration of the church’s past. I believe that the same power that inspired those first disciples wants to empower our church in new ways.

Perhaps some of you are hesitant to say, “Amen,” to this last idea. I am aware of a saying that some Christians want the Spirit to be like airplane coffee: weak, reliable, and given in small amounts. In the book of Acts, however, the Holy Spirit can hardly be compared to airplane coffee. In fact, the actions of the Spirit are often hard for the early Christians to swallow. The Spirit blesses both Jews and Gentiles; the Spirit starts new congregations in different parts of the world; the Spirit ordains both men and women to positions of leadership despite the fact that they do not exactly have the best resumes.

As your new pastor, I have already seen signs that the Spirit is moving in our midst, inspiring new things all around us. New youth are playing our organ. New leaders are working with our youth group. There is a new women’s fellowship. There is a new fundraiser to dig new wells in Africa. There are new plans to reinvigorate our partnership with a church in Mexico. The Holy Spirit inspires new ideas and encourages new activities. Over the next couple of months, you may hear the birds around here and swear that they are chirping, “New! New! New!”

As your new pastor, I would only ask that you join me in asking for the Spirit’s guidance. Let us pray to strike a balance between the old and the new. Let us pray for the power of the Holy Spirit to bring new life and maintain tradition. Let us pray for the wisdom to move forward with the past still present. By the power of the Holy Spirit, may new birds roost in the beautiful old trees, and may every member at New Dublin hear their songs of praise.

1. Barnes, The Pastor as Minor Poet, 26.

2. Ibid., 19.

3. Bell, Love Wins, 61.

4. Berry, “Let the Farm Judge,” 51–53