Chicken

It may have been noticed that I haven't posted since last August.  Some of that is busyness, some of it is laziness, a lot of it is childishness, but most of it has been cowardice.

Yes, cowardice.  This past autumn I interviewed for a half-time position as an interim pastor with a parish in my presbytery.  During the interview, I mentioned that they could see a sampling of my sermon style on my preaching blog.  Makes sense, right?

What I forgot was that the sermon blog was linked to this one.  And one of the committee members clicked through, found this blog, and, as she wrote me in an email, was deeply disturbed by what she read here.  Seems I was too open with my revelations about how things had gone in my previous parishes, and although I had disguised church and presbytery names well enough, it bothered her.

We talked on the phone about it, and she professed herself reassured about my history and my explanation of it, and said she'd only mention it to the other committee members if she felt she should.  But I didn't feel easy about it.  Up to that time I was pretty sure I'd be offered this job.  After this, I felt my past and my big mouth had come back to bite me again.

It's very like me to write and reveal and not expect what I've written to have any effect in the real world.  Hey, I think in imaginary conversations where I work out how I would explain things to other people; isn't a blog just more of the same?

No.  I guess it's not.  You know the term "chilling effect"?  That's what this had on me.  I felt literally cold inside. I took the link to here off the sermon blog.  And for months I've written nothing.  I was afraid to write anything.  Not here, at least.  Too paralyzed thinking about how what I say can be misconstrued or used against me.

Chicken, chicken, chicken.

As it turned out, after observing certain things while guest preaching in that parish, I decided the position was not for me.  It would have been impossible to do all that was wanted and needed on a mere half-time basis.  But for whatever reason I didn't ring them up and say so.  Maybe I wanted to be convinced otherwise, since I really need the work.  Eventually I heard from the search committee chairman himself: they were going on with other candidates.  I bit the bullet and asked what had eliminated me.  The answers weren't totally convincing, I thought.  Had the one committee member told them about this blog, and he didn't want to say so?  Better not to ask.  And as I said, by that time I'd tacitly withdrawn myself.

That's been almost four months ago, and I hope and expect they're beyond caring what I say here.  But I guess it's a lesson.  I have to be willing to stand up and take the heat for what I publish, or shut the dickens up.

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Twenty-one

Monday, 26 December, 1988
St. Stephen’s Day
Löhenthal* to Hapsburg to Königsfelden to Zürich to Löhenthal

I’d intended to take off for Florence this morning but it didn’t seem time yet to go. And Lukas’s* parents suggested a trip along a scenic route in the process of returning Frau Heimdorfer* to Zürich.

So we visited the castle which is the actual first seat of the Hapsburg family (who were originally from Alsace-Lorraine, it turns out) and then a church where one of the later Hapsburgs was assassinated,† Königsfelden. It was closed and we couldn’t go in.

After dropping Granny off, Herr Renzberger* took us up to a restaurant overlooking Zürich for coffee and cake. Unfortunately yesterday was much nicer; today’s fog rather obscured the view, a fact Lukas’s mother continued to apologise for.

Thereafter we drove around the city of Zürich a bit, looking at their Christmas decorations.

Then we headed back to Löhenthal. A couple times Max* got a little spacy at the wheel and let the car drift over the righthand white line. "Achtung, Max!" says Greti*, and each time he insists he’s awake . . .

That's right, Herr Renzberger, keep the car on the road . . . I may have been getting more and more depressed today but it would not be a good day to die. Any way you look at it, I couldn’t and wouldn’t choose Lukas for my leading man in a tragic and romantic death scene, especially the way he was behaving. It’d be absurd.

On our return I got out my train schedule and began to figure out what’s happening in the next week and a half. I’ve decided to go back to Oxford the 6th. My train pass ends that day anyway.

They asked me when I was leaving and seemed surprised when I said tomorrow. But I think it’s a good idea. If I stay any longer I’m liable to allow myself to blow up at Lukas when he says or does (or doesn’t do) some little thing, just to try to get some interaction out of him.

I went to his room this morning and talked to him about his thesis paper on pastoral counselling. He didn’t invite me in and we conducted the conversation with me standing in the doorway. Still, happily, I got him to do the talking. But it felt more like an interview than a conversation.

And I discovered he’s not the person to ask when trying to find out how he knows he has a call to the ministry. That sort of thing apparently isn’t Done in the Reformed church. They seem more hyper-intellectual than a pile of bleeding Presbyterians.

Maybe I’ll ask Nigel*. It’s important, because I’m looking for that sort of certainty for myself.

Did something decadent after everyone went to bed. Pulled out one of Lukas’s English language books and read it through. A work of fiction, not all that well written, but still I needed something of the sort.

Yeah, I know that sounds strange. I don't mean I needed a badly-written book; what I needed what something in English that gave me something to think about besides Lukas's inexplicable behaviour and how uncomfortable it's making me.

It was an older book called In His Steps by a guy named Charles Sheldon. It starts out all right, with a pastor and some of his church members resolving to live their lives according to the maxim, "What would Jesus do?" But the author has everyone in the town eventually jumping on board and the whole town being gloriously transformed and the movement eventually spreading to Chicago and points beyond. Sure, it'd be nice, but is it real? I mean, even if some people could be consistent about keeping this up, is it really believable that there would be no hold-outs at all?

By the time I finished it, it was making me uncomfortable in its own way. If you can think of God as the Author of human history, it's almost like Sheldon is standing there confronting the Lord with his hands on his hips, saying, "Hey, God, I can make my characters be totally virtuous and godly-- why can't You?"

But as I say, it was a change.
______________________
†I've learned subsequently that the Habsburg in question wasn't actually murdered in the church building. King Albert I was killed on that particular spot in 1308, and the church was later erected over the site in his honor.

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Twenty

Sunday, 25 December, 1988
Christmas Day
Löhenthal*

I figured out this morning why I feel so resentful about the missing clothes. If you base your life upon the idea that one of the chief aims is to cause no one else any trouble, naturally if they force you to cause them trouble by asking them for things only they can give and which are essential (like access to your clean underwear), they’ve caused you to commit a major sin. And that is intolerable.

Now, if they do things for you voluntarily, without having been asked, or if you’re paying for them to do whatever, that’s different.

Decided this must be ridiculous from a Christian standpoint so got mostly dressed and went up and asked Frau Renzberger*, rather stumblingly, I’m afraid, about the unmentionables.

I was up a little earlier, relatively-speaking, than yesterday. Lukas* was only just stirring himself.

The main feature of breakfast was a traditional bread called a Topf,† braided in a large round. Frau Renzberger makes hers without eggs, so it will keep longer, and it doesn’t have as much sugar in as my egg bread recipe. Had it with the rose hip butter (Hagenbutter) one of the neighbors brought over Friday.

Frau Renzberger (ok, Greti*) admired my dress and was amazed to find I’d made it. She pointed this out to Lukas, saying, "She can do everything!" In any other situation, you’d think she Meant something by it. But as things developed, no . . .

Lukas, his father, and I were the only ones who went to church. It was a beautiful blue sunny day and a pleasant walk to the little white Reformed church with its landmark steeple. Built in the 1500's, I think, and nicely restored.

No choir this morning, though they did have an ensemble of recorders that played in the intervals. And the organ. None of the hymns were what you’d call Christmas warhorses from American standards, though the tune of the last one was Sicilian Mariners. I was told at dinner that it just wouldn’t be Christmas without that one.

I understood the Gospel reading, the gist of the words to the hymns, and the Scripture references in the sermon. The minister preached from the first chapter of John’s gospel and brought in other Christological themes from the same book. But I couldn’t tell you what the exegesis was or if I would’ve been willing to add my Amen had I heard it in English. Still, when the minister ended by bringing in something about Hoffnung-- hope-- the very concept brought tears to my eyes. Yes, hope, that someday all this will be behind me and that my greatest cross will not be my own personality.

At Communion time, the minister consecrates the elements, then two of the church council help him distribute. The people went forward, two rows at a time. The minister gave each one of the Bread, and then the Cup is passed from hand to hand. I received it from Lukas then passed it to his father. Then the pastor pronounced the declaration from Isaiah that "the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light," adding, "Alleluia, amen." And we took our seats and the next group came up. The organist played "Wachet Auf" during this; not the Bach chorale version, though.

On the way home we saw a duck in the stream and a horsedrawn carriage out for a drive (Don’t I sound like a three year old?) and discussed preaching styles and theological education. Lukas is appalled that in England (America, too) you can qualify for the ministry after only three years of divinity school. In Switzerland and Germany, they can’t be ministers till after they’ve studied theology for seven years. I refrained from pointing out that maybe that’s why so much goofy doctrine and outright heresy comes out of those two countries. The ministers become too ivory tower and too much removed from the actual practice of the gospel. "Another damned theologian comes grunting out of the Black Forest"‡ is a quotation that came to mind, though not to the lips . . .

Lukas and I had our inevitable theological argument back home before dinner. We were discussing the service and the style of giving Communion and he said that the elements in his church are just like any other bread and wine anywhere, no symbological value whatsoever . . . In fact, he said, a pint of beer and a ploughman’s lunch at the local pub is just as much Communion as what we did in church this morning.

I said, well, what do you do with the verse in I Corinthians that says whoever eats and drinks the Communion elements without recognising the body and blood of the Lord Jesus Christ eats and drinks condemnation on himself?

And he said, oh, his church doesn’t put as much weight on the epistles of Paul, rather on the Gospels.

(Ye gods.) OK, say I, what about Jesus saying, "This is my body, do this in remembrance of Me?"

Lukas says, it’s only a remembrance.

I wasn’t about to accept this "only" but I wanted him to see what he was overlooking even in the little that he was allowing Holy Communion to be. Yes, I said, but it is a remembrance, something that doesn’t necessarily happen at a normal meal.

He wasn’t moved. The root of his argument seemed to be the urge towards inclusiveness, that no one, not even non-Christians, should be left out of what he seems to see as a token fellowship meal (as opposed to a sign of the Christian's special relationship with God through Jesus Christ).

He’s telling me his point of view and smiling as if to say, "Surely you see I’m right!" And I’m thinking, God, I wish he were, he’s such a sweetheart, I wish I could honestly agree with him-- but I can’t. As I see it, he and his church as a whole are still reacting against that horribly erroneous trend in Roman Catholicism in which the mysteries of the faith were reserved only for the initiated few, the clergy. But the Swiss Reformed have really gone crazy with it, it seems to me, not only saying that the mysteries of the faith are available to all, but also that there are no mysteries.

I tried to compromise with him, saying I could see his point of view if he meant that Christians should have the same sacramental attitude to food outside the church as they do to that given within it . . . but still, I think we could have had a good bang up argument if his father hadn’t called us to dinner. I was trying to see his point of view without prostituting what I see as the truth on this, but he was making no effort to do likewise. Most frustrating.

Happily for the preservation of the Christmas peace, the only explosion this afternoon was from the cork of the bottle of Champagne I brought. Herr Max Renzberger* opened it just before dinner. The cork flew out the open french windows into the yard, who knows where. Bringing that seems definitely to have been a good move.

Christmas dinner was interesting. It did not focus around a major meat dish like turkey or a roast. Rather, it was raclette, a traditional Swiss dish in which each person melts a certain kind of cheese in individual dishes in a special heating unit brought to the table, and drips the cheese over boiled potatoes, mushrooms, onions, olives, artichokes, and other such items. There was wine with this, and Christmas cookies after.

At the end of dinner Lukas declared that if I wanted to go for a walk after supper, I’d have to go with his father, he was tired and was going to bed. I did not express a desire to follow either of their examples; neither of these options, a walk with Herr Renzberger* Senior nor a nap, seemed like a particularly fun way to spend an already short day.

Not that I spent it any more usefully. I looked at a cathedral book that’d been gotten out for me, then tackled my French version of Hector’s Mémoires. Have to confess it’s more fun in English, where I can just read through, but I’ll get the French eventually.

So the afternoon passed quite quietly (no football games around here), only broken up by the general farewell to Thaddeaus* when his father made ready to drive him home.

At 6:30 or so everyone left was ready for a walk, so shoes were changed and we all went for a tour of Löhenthal under the stars. First time I’ve seen the Big Dipper since I’ve been in the Eastern Hemisphere.

I’m impressed with the solicitous care Lukas took of his grandmother, supporting her on his arm. Me, I found it awkward, because if I hung back to be with them it would look deliberate. And somehow it seemed essential I not appear to have any ulterior motives towards him. So I tended to walk with his parents, holding back every so often when it seemed we were getting too far ahead. Still, I found it disconcerting that when I did rejoin him and Granny he never engaged me in conversation, only talked with his grandmother in German.

Back at the house, there were the leftovers from last night’s charcuterie and more cookies and wine.

They were kind enough to let me call Mom in Houston to wish her a Merry Christmas . . . Got her right away. Nothing much earthshaking said, only that Leila* [my 17-year-old niece] wasn’t going to be there for Christmas dinner, she actually has a job, in a movie theater. Shock. Hope it goes well.

I couldn’t tell Mom much, not having the time at international rates and also because I was feeling more than a little subdued. It had occurred to me that Lukas really hadn’t spoken to me since before dinner, though it couldn’t’ve been the theological discussion, we’ve had those at Coverdale* and it’s never bothered him before. But I’d noticed that if anyone addressed me in English, it was his parents. And my ability to find sufficient enjoyment simply in the sound of him speaking Swiss German was beginning to wear off.

Another awkwardness at bedtime this evening. Greti had taken not only my shirts to be ironed but also my nightgown. I had to go to the master bedroom to inquire in usual tongue-tied fashion after its whereabouts after she and Max had already started getting ready for bed. The thing was sitting in their bathtub . . . It was rather difficult trying to make her understand I do not need an ironed nightgown, I need something to sleep in. Especially difficult saying so in front of Max.
_________________________
†Seems I misunderstood and it's actually called a Zopf, and it's usually formed as a braid.
‡The saying is by the writer Wilfrid Sheed, and I probably got it from an article by Cullen Murphy in the December 1986 Atlantic Monthly. So far (Feb. 2009) I am unable to discover in what context Mr. Sheed first said or published it.

The Last Shall Be First

Tonight was our first Village Singers performance of the 2008-2009 concert season, or maybe it was the last concert of the 2007-2008 run.

It definitely was a reprise of our spring concert program, done at a church that couldn't fit us in last May but could this evening.

The concert went well; at least Linda our director was pleased, and she's pretty darn particular, especially about little things like harsh terminal rrrrs and people not holding legato lines or singing in their throats.

The interesting thing for me was that the venue was a church in a nearby town that's been without a pastor for a year or more. They'd had one interim pastor and I'd heard in late June that they might be looking for another. So I sent my church resume in. When I didn't hear back, following up was difficult, since the only contact information was via snail-mail in care of the church. And I admit I didn't feel it was worth it, as in August my executive presbyter enthusiastically mentioned during a committee meeting how the interim pastor had ripped out the Communion table, font, and pulpit, got rid of the hymnals, and installed the praise band's instruments front and center on the chancel. Me, I do not consider endless theologically-shallow chorusses to be a Means of Grace, so I figured that church wouldn't want me anyway.

But earlier this month I encountered some folks who know people who go to that church, and they told me my EP had gotten it totally wrong. Yes, they do have a praise band that plays sometimes, but everything else is still there, too.

Well then. Tonight was my chance to talk to someone face to face and see where things stood.

Hmm. Hymnals still in the pews. Communion table, font, pulpit, all still there on the platform, only moved aside to make room for our choir risers.

But were they still looking for a follow-on interim pastor? Had they even received my resume at all?

I found my opportunity as we were sitting in the fellowship hall, waiting to go on. I approached the elder who was expediting our performance, and asked him about it.

"Oh! I wish we'd had a chance to talk to you sooner!" Obviously, he'd never seen my resume. "We've decided not to get another interim; we think we're farther along in our search for a permanent pastor than that. But we've hired a seminary student to come in and fill our pulpit every Sunday. He starts the beginning of November."

I found out who this is: He's also the youth director at another church in the area. We voted him in as an official candidate for ministry at the presbytery meeting last Tuesday.

"He was recommended by the executive presbyter," said my informant.

Oh, gee, thanks, Mr. EP, sir, I didn't say. Thanks for the vote of confidence, not even giving them my name so they could at least talk to me.

But then I think back to that committee meeting in August, when the EP was describing how this church was proving its missional bona fides by minimizing the traditional media of church growth and nurture, e.g., the Word and Sacraments, and exalting contemporary, popular means like praise music. When it came time to recommend a steady pulpit supply for this church, that young man's name and reputation automatically must have come to him.

Or maybe my EP didn't think I'd be interested in a steady pulpit supply position.

However it was, the elder I talked to tonight asked me to give him my card anyway. "You never know," he said.

I don't expect anything out of it under the circs, but he might know somebody who knows somebody who needs an interim pastor. The more my name is out there, the better.

Lost in the Sticks

I am not a happy camper.

Today was Day Two of our western-part-of-the-synod leadership conference, and oh, yes, the camp where it was held is very rural and attractive. I wish I'd had more time to explore the paths and hills.

But today, the personal and group reflection activities had more and more to do with how we were going to put the principles we'd learned to work in our parishes, and I'm thinking, Rot it, but I don't have a parish! Oh dear, oh dear, the day is coming to an end and I'm coming to the end of what I can use now!

And never, ever, since first thing yesterday, did we talk about It, about the Pastor Competency Model.

That is, not until about twenty minutes before the end, when a guy who pastors a church in my town got up and made an argument for it. "At first I thought it was really legalistic," he said, "but then I realized you can't be a good pastor without having all fifteen of these competencies."

Yeah, maybe, sure, but these precise interview questions designed to bring out whether you have these competencies, since when are they unchangeable holy scripture? Funny, yesterday I was afraid we'd be addressing them and my lack of experience would be revealed, but today I wanted us to confront them head on so I could find out how strict and absolute they were. But nothing was officially said.

I couldn't leave without knowing. So after we were dismissed, I accompanied the official from Big City Presbytery* back to her lodgings, to ask her about it in private.

She confirmed that they instruct interview committees to use these questions not just for potential solo and senior pastors, but for associate pastors as well.

"I can see," I said, "how someone who had several years experience in ministry could answer all these satisfactorily, but what about someone, say, who's just out of seminary?"

"Oh," she answered cheerfully, "the answers don't have to be restricted to someone's time in ministry! We figure if someone is the right kind of candidate, they will have done all these things sometime in their lives before that! Besides, the questions aren't about experience anyway, they're about competencies!"

I would beg to differ-- few of the questions leave you open to describe what you have accomplished under a given competency, they assume you have had particular experiences and accomplished certain things, in a congregational context, and call on you to describe how they went! Good things to have done if one has done them, certainly, but not all things that can be taken care of in the first years of a ministry, let alone in a student internship.

But this wasn't the time or the place to deal with the matter. She had to hurry off to another engagement. But she gave me her card and told me to ring her up to discuss it.

Will I or won't I? On one hand, it might be useful to explore what sort of answers might be considered satisfactory should I get an interview out of one or more of the feelers I've put out in Big City Presbytery.*

On the other hand, I've definitely learned from a misspent ministerial life that it's a mistake to put too much confidence in presbytery officials, especially when it involves revealing one's self-doubts. In my experience they tend to take you entirely too much at your own estimation. And when they could stand between you and getting a post, we're talking fatal error.

No, I have to face this thing and find my own way out of this forest. I need to consider how I might answer these forty-five questions if I'm ever called on to do so. And where I can't by myself, I should consult people who know me and my work to give me perspective. Maybe I've done a lot of these things and never even realized it!

Mai Kompittinz, Let Me Show U Itt

Tomorrow-- later today-- I'm off for a two-day pastoral leadership training event, up in the wild woods of some church camp or other an hour north of here.

I'm informed it's based on something called the Pastor Competency Model. And right now I don't feel particularly competent.

Because I obtained a copy of that document a few months ago, and I know it's around here somewhere, but I just can't figure out where.

And I'm short of printer paper and can't print out another copy from the email attachment I got from the presbytery.

So here it is, 2:30 in the morning, and I figured I could just pull this thing out of my file cabinet two hours ago and be all set, and I'm still going through folders and files and stacks and piles.

This is not a great exhibition of competence.

It's all the more annoying because when I first read this document I found it miserably demoralizing. If I remember correctly, it was formulated by some synod or other as an aid to churches seeking pastors. It lists qualities and skills a good pastor should have, and suggests questions search committees should ask candidates to determine if they have them.

I'm not saying the competencies listed aren't good to have. No. But a lot of the questions require the applicant to share some pretty darned intimate and soul-bearing stuff with a roomful of strangers. Is all this stuff really a search committee's business . . . or by asking that, do I reveal my incompetence?

Other questions call upon the candidate to report on his or her past performance to prove competency at overcoming obstacles and so on. And just reading them a few months back at my dining room table, my mind went totally blank. I mean, I know I've had experiences and dealt with the kind of issues the questions are about, but whatever could I say if I ever got asked in an interview about it? It's all lost in the murk!

Like my copy of this document. I know I have it . . . unless . . . oh, dear, I couldn't have accidently chucked it, could I?

No, I don't do that sort of thing. I keep everything, whether I like it or not.

Or did the presbytery official I got that copy from ask for it back?

Well, maybe that's what happened. And maybe I should do something competent now, like try to save paper by printing out the digital document at two pages per sheet.

. . . Oh, damn! I'm not even competent at bloody Microsoft Word, and I can't figure out how.

However, I just looked again (for the fourth time), in my Church Job Search file, and found the silly thing.

Good. We will spare at least a portion of a tree. And a smidgin of my sense of competence.

As for the training event tomorrow (this) afternoon . . . I wonder if we will be called upon to shaaarrre. I'm not exactly in the mood.

If I have to, you think I could pretend it's just a verbal blog entry?

(Sorry. That sounds really incompetent.)

Are We Smiling Yet?

Sandy at Curly's Corner invited me to come round to her place and pick up this cute award, which came to her by way of her good blogging friend Carol at Charli and Me. Sandy's passing it out to everyone on her blog roll as well as anyone who stops by to read her blog. Thank you so much, Sandy!

By their example and in the spirit of their kindness, I'm also passing this lovely little award on to everyone who stops by to read my blog as well as those already on my Favorites list. Every blog I visit can give me reason to smile . . . in some way or other . . . so feel free to pick this up for yourself and pass it along.

But of course there is one tiny little catch..... The tag that goes along with the award. The tag is this: Name five songs that you are embarrassed to sing.

. . . Five songs I'm embarrassed to sing. Hoo-boy! If my pipes and my wind are working, I'm not exactly embarrassed to sing anything . . . that is, if it's actually singable and it won't scandalize the parish (when I've got a parish) . . .

But then, there are those songs I'm embarrassed to sing, where the scandal comes because I am embarrassed to sing them. Here, then, is my own Hall of Shame:

1) In the Garden. Yes, I'm aware that a lot of very nice people get a lot of comfort out of this hymn. Maybe that's you (are you smiling yet?). A lot of people also get a lot of comfort out of Sugar Frosted Flakes. The perpetrator of this religious ditty, C. Austin Miles, claims he was inspired by the story of Mary Magdalene coming to the empty tomb of Christ the first Easter morning. If so, his Mary Magdalene and Jesus of Nazareth were a pair that would warm the cockles of Dan Brown's heart. A prettier lovers' tryst you never stumbled upon. Gnostic, sentimental, unbiblical. And I'm supposed to sing this? Feh!

In the same vein is

2) He Lives. "You ask me how I know He lives? He lives within my heart!" No, you poor creature, you know He lives because the Holy Spirit has revealed that fact to you in the Holy Scriptures! Your feelings will tell you all sorts of lies. Go through some horrible tragedy, and your heart will tell you God has abandoned you, even though He's right with you all along. Feelings are great, if they fit the facts. But even if they don't, the truth of what God did in Jesus Christ keeps on going and you can grab hold of it by faith. That's how I know He lives. That's a song worth singing, not a poor pitiful piece of pietistic poetry set to a circus tune.

(So are we smiling yet?)

3) Here I Am, Lord. The basic idea of this hymn is fine. It's about responding to God's call to serve Him in the world. It's used a lot for ordination and commitment services, and appropriately, too. But there's this phrase in the chorus: "Is it I, Lord?" I'm sorry, but without fail that reminds me of what Judas said to Jesus just before he betrayed Him. And what's up with this "I will go, Lord, if You lead me"? Am I supposed to proclaim that God might call someone to do His will, then carelessly forget to guide that person into how and when and where? I sing that, and I feel like I'm putting conditions on my obedience. Before God, that's something I'm embarrassed to do.

4) Any modern "praise" chorus where you could excise the word "Jesus" or "Lord" and put in "Baby" instead, and it wouldn't make a dime's worth of difference. See my DaVinci Code reference under Embarrassing Song No. 1. Especially when I have to stand there for ten minutes singing the same damn words over and over twenty times. Are the Catholics right about Purgatory? That's where these perpetrations make me feel I am. Embarrassing.

5) Any good traditional hymn that's been bowlderized and politically-corrected by modern hymnbook editors, a la the efforts of the committee that patched together the 1990 Presbyterian Hymnal. Witness what was done to Be Thou My Vision, one of my favorites. As a woman, I was never offended by "Thou my great Father, I Thy true son." Give me credit for some sense: It's about relationship, not sex or gender. Never mind! That line is out, out, out! Ditto the parts about "High King of heaven." That title for God brought us the rich Irishness of the hymn, with its echoes of all the petty chieftains pledging fealty to the high king at Tara, now signifying the desires and demands of our lives bowing the knee to Christ as universal Sovereign. That's gone, people! We don't want to offend anybody with any reminders that there might be a hierarchy in creation, with the uncreated Lord at the top, oh, no! I'm surprised the wise editors left in the part about "Ruler of all" at the end. But I guess they knew they had to draw the line somewhere, and they wanted a ruler to draw it with.

This version embarrasses me so much, I won't program this hymn without putting the unaltered version in as an insert in the bulletin. Preferably with the third verse that's always excised from American hymnals:

Be thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight;

be thou my whole armor, be thou my true might;

be thou my soul's shelter, be thou my strong tower:

O raise thou me heavenward, great Power of my power.

That's something I'll never be embarrassed to sing.

But O, Sandy! Are you embarrassed you passed this award on to me? Are we still smiling?

Church Nightmares?

As if I hadn't enough to keep me busy, I've become a Gordon Ramsay junkie. I don't have cable TV, but I managed to catch every episode of Hell's Kitchen Season 4 on Hulu.com. And when I get time, I watch episodes of Kitchen Nightmares (UK version, of course) on YouTube.

For the uninitiated, Gordon Ramsay is a world-class, Scottish-born, f-bomb-dropping chef with twelve Michelin stars and millions of dollars per year in revenue from his various restaurants worldwide. On Kitchen Nightmares, he spends a week at some tanking restaurant somewhere and, at little or no cost to the establishment (as I understand it), works with might, main, and brain to pull them out of the soup.

Time and again, the featured restaurant is going down because the owners/head chefs have some fixed idea of what their eatery should be like, but it bears no relation to what they can actually cook and serve, what ingredients are affordable and available, or what the potential customers actually like and want. And Chef Ramsay's fix generally is, "Find out what you can do and do it attractively and well. Let your customers know what you have now that you have your act together. Stop trying to attract the type of customers who aren't out there. Stop trying to be too clever-- keep it simple and uncomplicated. And while you're at it, clean out your f*cking [sorry, wouldn't be GR without the f-word at least once] deep-freeze and kitchen!!"

But O! the nightmare! It never fails: The owners/chefs seldom listen to Ramsay. Often they sabotage what he's trying to do. They want to go on doing exactly what's got them in the mess in the first place. But O, Chef Gordon, save us! Pull our chestnuts out of the fire!!

Last Sunday, I couldn't help but think of Gordon Ramsay and Kitchen Nightmares. I was being interviewed for an Interim Pastor position at a church over in an adjacent county. And practically the first thing I heard from the interviewing committee was how wonderful it used to be with them back in the 1980s, when their youth group was bursting the church at the seams. Practically the first question I got was how good was I at relating to youth.

But do they have any teenagers among the church membership right now? Apparently very few. Are there gangs and gangs of unchurched teenagers in the church's catchment area right now? Apparently they have no idea.

Is it a good thing to be a church with a lot of families with well-involved teenaged kids? Oh, certainly, yes. But is that where this church is now? No. Are families with teenagers the type of people who are living in that area, spiritually starving for the good news of Jesus Christ? What if they're not?

But they want to hire an interim pastor who can come in for a year and miraculously revive their image of themselves as the church with all the kids. Never mind the unchurched people of whatever age who are actually there in the neighborhood and need to be ministered to. Never mind that the talents and gifts of the people of the church might go better to serve a totally different demographic. We have our image of what we want to be, and you'd better buy into it, Pastor, whether it's realistic or not!!!

I told them, yes, I'm pretty good at working with kids--if I'm allowed to be an adult and a mentor and not a superannuated ersatz-teenager buddy. But maybe, I suggested, what if the Holy Spirit just might be leading them to other fields of ministry that better fit who they are now . . . ???

I felt like Gordon Ramsay telling the owner of a pub in Lancashire to knock it off with the exotic Asian stuff out of mixes and try serving up good fresh honest pub grub for a change.

I can't take the Kitchen Nightmares analogy too far: There's one fixed item on any church's menu that can not and must not change, whether the public thinks they want it or not: Jesus Christ crucified for our sins and risen for our life. But how the church lives out that good news in 2008 may not be just as it was in 1985!

I wouldn't be surprised if they don't hire me. They also want their new IP to generate a lot of new programs, and I told them that programs have to follow needs, and be run by the members. And they're hoping their new Interim Pastor will move into the manse. No, not feasible. Not for a one-year contract. Alas! that's another dream of theirs I've destroyed.

But I can't rule them out myself. This dream-on attitude is endemic with most struggling mainline churches. It'd be the same anywhere else!

If I were to be taken on at this church, I'd have it easier than Gordon Ramsay in one way-- I'd have a year to redd up the place, where he only has a week. But it'd be a lot harder, too-- I can't overawe anybody with the ecclesiastical equivalent of twelve Michelin stars . . . and unlike Chef Ramsay, I am not permitted to cuss.

Steady On

I heard from the chairman of my Committee on Ministry this afternoon. I'm on the docket for the July 7th meeting, hopefully to find out why so many restrictions have been put on me regarding prospective fields of ministry, and to see what can be done about it.

And my response was not relief and gratitude, but gut-level panic.

Steady on, girl. The only reason ever given to me for the restrictions was that I seemed to "need more mentoring than usual." I know what I can and will say to that. But there's always the paranoid fear that There's Something They're Not Telling You, something so awful you'll melt in terror to hear it about yourself.

I lived with that sensation when I had trouble with my presbytery in the Midwest, nine years ago, at the start of my ordained ministry. To make things worse, that COM's attitude was that if I didn't know what I'd done wrong, it just went to prove I wasn't "self-aware" enough to pastor a church. They weren't going to enlighten me!

It made me wonder if, all unbeknownst to myself, I was going out in the village at night and gibbering obscenities under people's windows.

When at last I (and most of my church session) couldn't stand it anymore, I was driven to hire a crackerjack employment law attorney (who was also a Presbyterian deacon) who made the COM chairman 'fess up. My sins? I'd refused to let the retired pastor of the church resume and continue his ministry through me, and I'd proved how "unpastoral" I was by preaching a sermon series on the articles of the Apostles' Creed!

Oh, dear.

That was another presbytery, another COM, another COM chairman. It was the former chairman of the COM here who came up with the "needs an unusual amount of mentoring" rationale. I have to wonder, did this opinion of his come from conversations with the presbytery in the Midwest?

And are they still angry at me because I faced them with that attorney? Angry enough to muddy my chances here?

Good grief, I hope not.

But if I'm going to prove on the 7th that all that-- however much of "all that" there really was-- is in the past, the stomach will have to give the thinking duties back to the brain.

Thank God, I've got three weeks to get my head, stomach, and heart all back where they belong!

Painful

I have a Village Singers concert to sing in early this afternoon at a church over the other side of the metro area. No way I could make it to an 11:00 o'clock service and be on the risers on time. So I attended the 9:00 o'clock service at a large church in my area.

It's the "contemporary" service. I'd been to it a couple times previously, before the congregation added on their big new informal worship/multipurpose center.

This morning, I learned that the addition means not only a lot more space, it also means a bigger-and-better sound system and a lot more noise.

Lay aside the tunes and words of what was being sung. I'm talking about loudness. Volume. Decibels. Noise!!!

An ear-shattering, deafening force of sound that socked me in the senses as soon as I walked in the door.

And that was with only the worship team performing. This was the "prelude," after all.

I looked around to find some friends who attend this church, to see if I could sit with them. As I did, my eyes fell on infants, small children, elderly people, all folks whose hearing would be especially vulnerable to such an onslaught. But the kids' parents were sitting there quite happily with their little ones, and the white-haired elders seemed totally unfazed, all oblivious to what the amplification was doing to their ears.

Me, I could tell what it was doing to mine. By the next-to-the-last chorus, started by the praise team alone, I had to cover my ears and hope my friends would not be embarrassed to be seen sitting with me. At the first da capo, the congregation rose and joined in. I followed suit, and tried covering just one ear so I could hold my song sheet with the other. But on the second repeat (third go-round), the sound technician ramped up the volume a few dozen more dBs, and I had to drop the paper and cover the other ear as well. Jesu iuva me, it was painful. By the time the chorus was over, my left ear was ringing.

I made it through the rest of the service and greeted my friends now that it was acceptable to raise my voice over the din of the postlude and the babel of other shouting voices. Then I beat it back to the relative silence of my home, where I quietly played a hymn on my new old piano.

And to let my hearing recover in time, I hope, for this afternoon's concert.

But it's nearly noon and my left ear is still buzzing.

But I have to wonder about the hearing of all the members who attend that service every week, and services like it all over the world. Don't they know what that level of volume is doing to their ears? Or are they so used to iPod buds in their ears, surround-sound home theaters, and mega-boost car stereos all turned up to Level 10, that worship at that decibel level is only what they're used to?

More ominously, do they and all the other proponents of big loud worship services think the sound has to be cranked all the way up in order for them truly to worship? Just writing this, I have an uneasy feeling that some pastors and worship leaders would say I'm just being cranky to object to this, or old-fashioned, or worse-- that I just don't want people to worship Jesus.

But that's what I do want. I want people to worship Jesus, the eternal Son of God, who is not hard of hearing and who doesn't need the needle to fly off the sound meter in order to hear our praise. I want us to worship Jesus, the lover of our souls, who receives the sincere songs of our hearts and minds and voices but isn't impressed by the power of our technology.

Kyrie eleieson! I'm reminded of Elijah on Mount Carmel with the prophets of Baal:

"At noon Elijah began to taunt them, 'Shout louder!' he said. 'Surely [Baal] is a god! Perhaps he is deep in thought, or busy, or relieving himself. Maybe he is sleeping and must be awakened.' So they shouted louder . . . . "

We are not worshippers of Baal. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is not deaf, or distracted, or asleep. Why do we Christians persist in acting as if we were, and He is?