Presbyterian Idol

It seems that Presbyterians in general have been freaked out about their numbers since at least the mid-1970s.  It's noted in the book The Big Sort that the decline, for Presbyterians and Catholics and Baptists and everyone, actually, began in about 1965. But now that our numbers nationally have dropped to around 1.9 million, we think that the end of the world is near.

Of course I would like it if we won the popularity contest, and had more numbers than all the other mainline denominations combined. But I don't remember reading anything about "Blessed are you when your membership tops 5 million" anywhere in the gospels.  Not even in John. Not even in the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas.  The book of Acts does talk about the day when three thousand souls were added to their numbers, and also that "day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved." (Acts 2:47).  But did you catch that?  We're not the ones that do the adding.  That's a gift from God. That must mean that our job is something else.

In the last few verses of Acts 15, we're told that Paul invited Barnabas to go with him to check out all of their "new church developments" and see how everyone was getting along.  Barnabas agreed, but said "Let's bring along John Mark too."  Nothing wrong with that, right?  The more the merrier and all that. But Paul said no. His objection had to do with the fact that John Mark had "deserted" them in Pamphylia and "had not accompanied them in the work." So quite the blowup ensued.  Barnabas and John Mark ended up going one direction, and Paul then invited Silas to go with him in another.  Funny, from that point on we read a lot more about Paul than we ever do about Barnabas or John Mark.

Some would write off this passage to the hard-headedness of Paul. But there's more going on here than that. For one, it shows me how bent we are on "church growth" these days, to the point that we are willing to take in anyone who will join our church, whether they are interested in our mission or not.  And we dare not say anything, even if it's the truth, to make anyone mad lest we lose a member. To me, that means that we have made a false idol of the numbers game, to the detriment of faithfulness. I hate to say it, but you know I'm right: sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is to bless certain members on their way, trusting God as we do. Not everyone is meant to go along. If we drag someone along who is less than committed at best and dangerous at worst, we have not gained anything and we have not furthered the cause of the Gospel.

But what about the poor John Marks of the world? Do we leave him behind to his own devices, and therefore to the wolves? Have we forsaken him?  Perhaps our job is to trust that God has not left John Mark behind. Perhaps someone else will help him, or he will help someone else.  We don't have to know that. But we do have to discern that accompanying Paul, or accompanying us, may not be his call in life.

Systems theory teaches that gearing towards the lowest common denominator does not strengthen the system. Rather, focusing on the health of the system will strengthen all of its members. That dram of wisdom, along with trusting God for the results, spares us from the idolatry of numbers.

Yes, of course, I want for there to be millions of happy and healthy Presbyterians.  That's not what I'm saying. What I do NOT want is for that to be our goal in life. Our goal is to witness to and to serve the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of Holy Spirit. If that's all that we do, we're going to be just fine.

Psychics, Pigs and Pharisees

Today's readings from the Daily Lectionary were a riot. All full of colorful characters.  From Acts 15, Peter and the Jerusalem Council, where Peter basically tells the Pharisees to get over it where God's grace is concerned.  From Mark 5, the story of the Gerasene Demoniac, where Jesus heals a man by casting his occupying evil spirits into a herd of swine. And last but not least, from 1 Samuel 28, the story of Saul - who had just thrown all the psychics and wizards out of the land, consulting (in costume) a psychic - known in Biblical lore as "The Witch of Endor." This was way too much fun to read. (And I commend them to you for your reading - but you must read ALL of them together for maximum impact!)

If there were psychics and wizards back in Old Testament times, why do we tend to freak out over them today and believe that they can no longer exist? If there were demons and evil spirits in Jesus' time, why are we surprised when we encounter them now? And what - there were gatekeepers in the church, who tried to separate the worthy from the unworthy? No!! Impossible.

But put them all together, and here's what I get:  God will use what God will use: pigs, psychics, Pharisees, you name it. Saith Peter:  "Why are you putting God to the test by placing on the neck of the disciples a yoke that neither our ancestors nor we have been able to bear? On the contrary, we believe that we will be saved through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will."

God will use what God will use. Mad dogs and Englishmen.  Even Missional Presbyters. Even alcoholics, people with terminal diseases, pregnant mothers, one-legged Ph.Ds, retired pastors, grieving widowers, two teenagers and their parents. All God's children got a place in the choir. How dare we test God by trying to restrain God's grace - by trying to put a yoke on that which is freely given to us.

As my friend Tom said yesterday, "Isn't it funny how pastors use the language 'seeking a call,' when really it's God doing the calling?" God's gifts are just that: God's gifts, freely given. Our job is to suit up and answer when they come, say "thank you" even if it doesn't seem like a gift at the time, and then put that gift to use. It's been done by psychics, pigs, and maybe even Pharisees - it's the least we can do.

Life Imitates Choir

I'm spending a week in Henryville, Indiana, experiencing the gift to the Presbyterian Church (USA) that is CREDO.  For eight days, other people cook other people clean, other people tend to your every need in order that you take the time to reflect upon your life and vocation.

One of the reflections on my vocation has to do with writing, how I love it and find it nourishing, and how I haven't gotten myself to do blogging in FIVE YEARS.  What's up with that!  When I return home my plan is to get a journal and some lovely colored pencils to do some image journaling - to play with color and see what comes from that.   But I cannot forsake my first love, the written word.  And so here I am, back.

This week we were shown the technique of "Life Line" to describe one's life:  how did I get here?  What were the stops along the way?  The speaker described his life in terms of vacation locales, places that had been important to him. They all had a similar theme. Another friend broke his life up into segments by the moves that he had made. I began to think about what my "skeleton" would be upon which I could frame my life.  and it turned into....  life lessons I learned from being a member of the Westminster Youth Choir.

Many of you know that I was a member of this choir for 5 of its 35-40 years, and it shaped me in every imaginable way - including my call to ministry. The director, William C. "Bill" Everitt, shaped us all by his choices, his mentoring, and his demand for excellence.  Some of the friendships I made in the choir continue to shape me to this day.

This was the choir in 1972.  See if you can find me! 

So, what have I learned in the way of life lessons from being a member of this choir?  

* It's all about the community. All are welcome. There's room for everyone, even some who couldn't really sing that well. In choral singing, there is no room for egos.  Dangly jewelry had to go. No scratching allowed! Any movements other than singing would distract from the whole.  Your ears had to cover about 75 people: the altos could not overpower the basses; one alto could not overpower one another.  The goal was to take those 75 disparate personalities and sing as one. 

* It's not performance, it's offering. Every year, we toured some part of the United States or Canada. We visited places we had never been, dressed and acted respectfully (once we got off the buses!), and offered our gift of music.  In turn we received the hospitality of strangers in meals and lodging. Mr. Everitt's personal slogan was taken from somewhere in Psalms or Proverbs, can't remember.  But I remember the saying:  "Offer not unto the Lord that which costs you nothing." In order to make that offering to God, we had to set aside our egos, our desires to wear jeans or flipflops, our ugly attitudes, our comfort. And it was always worth it. 

* Everyone has a job.  Some carried risers.  Some loaded luggage. Some made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Some were officers.  But everyone had to learn their part and contribute. Everyone had an assignment.

* Make sure everyone gets there.  In order to be in the choir, we had to take voice lessons weekly. And if we couldn't afford the $3 per Saturday for that lesson, somehow the teacher would get compensated. When tour time came around, our cost was a whopping $100 or so. Mainly that covered the cost of the Greyhound buses, since some meals and lodging were provided by the host churches. Even so, some of the kids weren't able to find that $100.  Funny - somehow, if there were 4 students who couldn't afford to go, 4 anonymous donors surfaced to pay their scholarship. It was grace at work.  On free days, Mr. E would dole out dollar bills to all of us for spending money. He sure didn't act like he was made out of money, but something tells me he was... and, that internally, he was rich beyond measure. 

* What goes in, comes out.  Mr. E wouldn't let us sing anything but the best music.  He challenged us with music from the early church and 8-part Russian anthems.  He delighted us with spirituals, but we had to make them ring. And there were some anthems that were so treasured, we had to prove to him that we were "up to par" before he would let us sing them.   We used to record for broadcast on KRLD Radio in Dallas. I'll never forget the time when Christmas was approaching, and he wanted us to record the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah. He put on the headphones, the tape began to roll, and we sang it perfectly. We were so proud of ourselves!  Then when the tape stopped, he said, "That was perfect.  Not a note out of place.  Now, let's record it again and sing it like we mean it."  That was all we needed.  I'm not sure there was a dry eye in the house that second time. Again, it's not performance: it's offering. 

These are only five life lessons learned from my time with the Westminster Youth Choir.  I could go on, and may well do in future  notes.  But these are the important ones that surface now for me. And for now, it is enough. 

On Death and Dying (Well)

It was ten years ago last July 4 that my mom died in her sleep. My dad died way before that – in January 1974, when I was a senior in high school. My in-laws died within less than a year of each other, and within about 18 months of my mother. When it comes to losing parents, I’ve been around the block a time or two.

Compared to many of my friends, I was ahead of the curve. Some of my closest are just now coming to terms with burying a mother or father. There are others who can’t begin to imagine what that day will be like – and there are some who pray to hasten that day.

One friend’s mother died last week. She was a few years younger than my mom and lived a long, full life. Her service was small, but her son and daughter were faithful to her wishes and made sure it was what she would have wanted. (to the point that I couldn’t find her obituary in the Dallas Morning News – she wouldn’t have wanted to pay for a listing!) Her long-time priest officiated at the service, and the family was surrounded by loved ones and full of thanksgiving for a good life well-lived. Was she perfect? Not on a bet. But she lived an unremarkably remarkable life, and died well.

As odd as it may sound, one of the things I love best about my mother was her funeral. The people who signed her guest book included postal workers, a hairdresser and a college president. She touched people across all walks of life. She was the kind of person who would give boxes of Russell Stover candy to people for Christmas – not to her girlfriends, but to the guys who sliced the beef at Austin’s Barbeque; to Vernon, who managed the Polar Bear Ice Cream parlor at Hampton and Illinois; to the postman; and yes, to that hairdresser who helped her stay beautiful for more than 20 years. She was the kind of person who made friends with people by sharing her baggie full of peppermints and butterscotch when the situation called for it. She spent her lunch hours on the night shift at the Main Post Office with people who were way younger and different from her in almost every way – doing Bible study. She was her three daughters’ and her grandchildren’s biggest fan, no doubt. But she was also the biggest fan of people who needed one. Was she perfect? Not on a bet. But she lived an unremarkably remarkable life, and died well.

I have another friend, an only child, whose father is still living – but he and his father died to each other a long time ago. His dad was a dashing figure – a pilot in World War II, son of a wealthy family, a world traveler, married to a Texas beauty, father to one of the finest people I know who has made a fabulous life with his wife and daughters. Some veneer of that relationship - and unfortunately, time has shown it to be only veneer -began to crack when his son left for college and was asked to return the house key. Pieces continued to chip off over the years, every time he and his second wife would do things to reject his son when it became clear his son would not be manipulated.

This week, whatever warm memories I had of the charming war hero disappeared altogether. He and his second wife have moved to an assisted living place in their town, and chose to hold an estate sale to clear out their belongings. Their son heard about it from someone else. Ultimately my friend chose to go to the sale, in order to buy back some of his heritage for his daughters. His father made money from the sale of many of his possessions, but I am far more struck by what he lost. Where did he ever get the idea that heritage can be bought and sold, that you can put a price on family? How sad that this dear, darling man is more than 90 years old, and somewhere along the line failed to get it. To paraphrase Dolly Levi, on those cold winter nights he won’t get to snuggle up with his three gorgeous granddaughters, or to a son who loved him and tried to please him, but to his cash register and his stuff: “it may be a little lumpy, but it rings.” More power to him.

Seems to me like the older you get, the more people you have to bury. I buried my dear friend Len Roberts earlier this year. Len was a surrogate father to me, who walked every step of the way with his only son Richard while Richard was dying from AIDS. I learned something from Len every time I was with him. I also lost two of my childhood friends this year, Randy and John, who had to die sooner rather than later for reasons known only to God. One was a beloved brother, husband, pastor and attorney; one was a good husband and father who could sing harmony to probably every song in the Beatles catalog. Neither one of them was around here long enough.

Stephen Covey, the author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, is not someone with whom I always agree. But one of those “habits” is apropos for this day: begin with the end in mind. How is it that you want to be remembered? What kind of legacy are you building for yourself? Do you want to be the kind of person who will be surrounded with loved ones at your death, whose funeral will be attended by hairdressers and college presidents? Do you want to be remembered for your “stuff” and for all the money you made at your estate sale? The choice is yours, and mine. After this week, I’m going to pay a little more attention to this question. While living well isn’t always a guarantee of dying well, it goes a long way towards getting us there.

Preach it, Brother!

Thursday night, I heard the best preacher I've heard in a long time: Stevie Wonder.

I've loved Stevie Wonder for most of my cognizant life. I discovered him anew when I was in high school, when he was just making the switch from "Little Stevie Wonder" with the harmonica to "Stevie Wonder" with the braids and the African rhythms. I still believe that Songs in the Key of Life is perhaps the most perfect album ever made; Oprah agrees with me and says that his song "As" (the chorus of which is "I'll be loving you always") is the most perfect song ever written.

When I was in seminary, I took a fabulous course called "The Theology of Culture" taught by George Heyer. We examined the theological impact of writers and musicians, all the way from Graham Greene to Prince. Our final project was to select an artist of our own choosing and develop what we saw as the theology inherent in their work. You guessed it, I chose Stevie and his theology as expressed in Songs in the Key of Life. Yes, it was brilliant. (the music and the paper!)

You may know that Stevie rarely tours, if ever. I'm honestly not aware of the last time I'd heard of him touring. So when I heard that he was going to be at the Nokia in Grand Prairie this past Wednesday, I just flipped. Until I remembered I had a conflict at church. Oh, that. So I chose duty over delight, but I was very blue about it. Then last Friday, I heard on the radio while driving that a second show had been added the next night. I almost had a wreck. I talked my friend Adele into going with me, and we got the best seats we could get.

Stevie sang for two and a half hours solid with no intermission. The entire audience stood with him for at least the last hour of it if not more. (the rest of the time, those that stood were either African-Americans - and others - who totally resonated with his life's work, or white couples who swayed to what must have been "their song" in high school.)

He started the concert by saying that it was for God's pleasure and theirs that he and the other musicians were there to perform. The opening song was from Key of Life - "Love's In Need of Love Today;" the closing song "As" ( which many folks know by its chorus, "I'll be loving you always") was too. He didn't have a set "set" - there were different songs in each evening's show. He improvised, he talked, he laughed, he cried when he started a duet with his daughter Aisha (who, for those of you keeping score, made her debut on Key of Life as the crying baby at the beginning of "Isn't She Lovely!") He came close to losing his pants when he was dancing around the set with one of his backup singers, but God was good and nothing beyond the music was revealed.

But the music was just as good as ever. The songs he sang sounded just as fresh as they did thirty years ago. His voice was still rich and agile. And his ability to improvise and have fun with the talent God gave him was immeasurable. In other words, after all these years, he is still a faithful, fallible and flawed human being who just happens to also be this incredibly gifted musician.

It was a powerful event. No one checked their watches. We were putty in his hands as he assigned us "parts" to the music - we were the brass section in "If You Really Loved Me," country-western vocalists on his mock makeover of "Signed, Sealed and Delivered," and percussionists on almost every song.

But it was more than just memories Stevie was conjuring up for us old geezers (the AVERAGE age of the event had to be more than 40). He was conjuring up hope in the name of God. He reminded us that peace was attainable, one person at a time, and that one person had to begin with ourselves. And as for going to a concert during the liturgical season of Advent, he couldn't have been more on target.

Which leaves me with my question for you today: what are you doing to conjure up hope? What are you doing to bring about peace, one person at a time? Are you living an hospitable life? It certainly gives me pause to ask these questions of myself. But as we all begin to ask these questions more and more frequently, I believe that God will honor our efforts. Each one of us has an impact on the world; each one of us can make a difference; but all together? Just imagine it.

Birthday Ramblings

So I had a birthday yesterday. It was 51 years ago that I was almost born at the corner of Zang and Davis in Oak Cliff, but fortunately my grandmother's lead foot got my mother to the hospital in time for my arrival. I was "a month early," probably because Mother miscounted. They were expecting me on Christmas Day - so when my aunt called Dad (who was visiting Uncle Harry in Austin) to say that Mary was in the hospital, he said "What for?" Thus began my life!

I was born on the 330th day of the year. I share an exact birthday with NASCAR driver Dale Jarrett (imagine my joy), and I share the day with Charles Schulz, Robert Goulet, Bill W (of Alcoholics Anonymous fame), Tina Turner (who I hope to resemble when I am her age), Cicciolina (the Italian porn star, go figure) and one Maud, Queen of Norway.

I suppose to some I was born on "the day the music died" - Tommy Dorsey died the day I was born. I hope he smiled when Paul and I danced to "Moonlight Serenade" on our wedding night.

Many things occurred on November 26, a few of which may explain who I am. The earliest recorded event on that day was in 43BC, when the "second triumvirate alliance of Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, and Marc Antony was formed. (I just want to know who was around to chisel down the minutes from that meeting)

On November 26, 1922, King Tut's tomb was entered for the first time in more than 3000 years by Howard Carter and Lord Carnavore. They were reported to have observed that he was looking kinda funky - which would be true for anyone who was born in Arizona and moved to Babylonia.

In Paris every year on the 26th, they observe "the Celebration of the Excellence of Sainte Genevieve." Most excellent!

But my favorite is that on November 26, 1942, some movie called "Casablanca" made its debut in New York City. That explains my fascination with ceiling fans and parrots and champagne, and men who sound like Peter Lorre and Captain Reneau, and all things related to Humphrey Bogart.

All in all, not a bad day. So far, not a bad life. Much for which to be grateful.

Austin Seminary Women in the 80's

Once the thought occurred to me in 1980 that I might indeed have a call to enter the ministry, it took me the better part of three years to finally enroll. I believe now that there was at least one reason for my delay: my “image” of what a clergywoman was supposed to be. It wasn’t pretty. I had visions of never wearing makeup again, of living forever in sensible shoes, and an eternity of G-rated movies. Knowing myself as I did, I was hard-pressed to believe that God was calling me to such an ascetic life.

That was before I began to explore my sense of call with such role models as Cynthia Logan, Cynthia Campbell, Ilene Dunn and Judy Fletcher. I was not aware of many clergywomen at all, much less Presbyterian clergywomen, when I began seminary in 1983. Cynthia Campbell was the only female professor on campus. After being reassured that there would indeed be cosmetics, attractive shoes (which is a plus, given our affinity for Geneva gowns) and yes, the occasional glass of wine, I decided that there was indeed room for someone like me in the gospel ministry.

First-year women were few in number in the fall of 1983: Rene, Ann, Nancy, Ardith and me - was that it?! Our entering class was small in number: twenty-five or so. That meant that only about 20% of our class was female. Given that, I didn’t feel the least bit singled out or discriminated against in the classroom or on campus. We women had the feeling that the real “pioneers” had come before us, so we didn’t feel the need to fight too many gender-related battles. Far from being discouraged or singled out, my experience was that women students were welcomed and encouraged on a par with the men.

The campus infrastructure still didn’t know what to do with us, however. The only time I really felt strange about being a female seminary student was when the handful of us - along with Cynthia Campbell - were invited to take part in a tea for the seminary wives’ association in the fall of 1983. How little we had in common with that group! I wasn’t even a wife at the time, much less the wife of a student. The wives were nice enough to us, but weren’t terribly interested in discussing what we were experiencing in the classroom. I’m sure that we seemed equally as foreign to them.

One of the fun things about being among the first “numerous” women on campus was that we got to be part of some of the first “all-women” events. The planning was neither intentional nor exclusive; it just happened that way. Our trip to Central America in January 1987 was the first all-female-student January trip. In spring of 1985, I also found myself to be one of what Prescott Williams later called “The Seven Sisters.” As it so happened, seven women students (and no men!) signed up to take Prescott’s Hebrew Exegesis of Isaiah class. Though we took note of these two all-women gatherings, I must say that by 1985 such gatherings felt more routine than remarkable.

One exercise was indeed an intentional grouping of the women students. In the spring of 1987, one class required that all seniors write their own statement of belief as well as take part in a group creed-writing exercise. The only caveat of the group exercise was that all group members must agree on all statements of the creed. Professors Cynthia Campbell and Prescott Williams presented for class vote two different groupings of students. One was a more random grouping; but we voted to take the more deliberate grouping, which one of my classmates labeled as “the smart ones, the women, the conservatives, and everyone else.”

As I recall, the women didn’t seem particularly thrilled about being singled out in this way. I think most of us would have preferred to be in blended groups. But we decided to make lemonade out of the situation, and it turned out to be great fun. Perhaps the main thing I learned (or had reinforced) is how diverse we women students were. Biology didn’t necessarily create unity. In the end, we were rather pleased with the distinctively feminine flavor of our statement of faith.

I wish I could say that our particular group of women students had been the force behind some impressive change around campus, or that we had fostered reforms in some way. But we didn’t. In my experience, the assimilation of women into the life of Austin Seminary was slow and steady, unremarkable but definitely there. In fact, we were FAR more welcomed, included, nurtured, and accepted in the seminary community than in some instances in the “real world.”

When I began interviewing with churches at the end of my senior year, one search committee asked me with a sneer if I could moderate a Session meeting. Realizing that my future with this particular committee was limited, I told them a better question was whether I was willing to moderate their Session.

In retrospect, however, I wouldn’t call the atmosphere of Austin Seminary an “ivory tower” for women students. Having absorbed from seminary the notion that male-female differences were a non-issue, I have been able to treat it as a non-issue with the various congregations I’ve served over the last 20 years. Instead of training me to be a “woman minister,” I’m grateful that Austin taught me to be the best minister that I could be - one that happens to be a woman, and who gratefully brings those gifts and differences to the ministry.