It’s been a few years since I made a hospital visit. Our pastor is on vacation and since I’m filling in for him for a few weeks, I got the call about a member being admitted from the emergency room.
I’d been to this hospital many times. It was familiar, but different. The automatic entry didn’t open as I approached, a sign pointing me to the other front entrance. Stanchions guided me past a security guard and through a metal detector. That was new. A receptionist found the room number for me, took my picture, and printed out my photo visitor ID tag for the day. This was a new procedure for this location.
I made my way to the elevators. One thing that hadn’t changed was waiting for an elevator. All four working elevators were up at the top floors of the hospital. The stairs were right there behind me, so I took them to the third floor.
I had a great visit. The patient gave me the usual, “You didn’t have to come all the way down here.” I’m thinking, “Of course I did. That’s what pastors do. That’s what the church does. “I was sick and you visited me” (Matthew 25:36).
Our conversation was punctuated by a tech drawing blood and a nurse checking in. I didn’t stay long, knowing that when you’re not feeling well, a short visit is always better. After a prayer I was on my way.
I’m always fascinated with all the activity in a hospital. I marvel at the choreographed flow of doctors, nurses, techs, and other caregivers. I’m in awe of the medical technology. I’m fascinated by the healing process and all that goes into it.
I learn something new about diseases, medications, treatments, and wellness every time I visit someone. I appreciate the opportunity to continue my education!
I walked into the church fifteen minutes before my bible class was to begin. My arms were full with a bible, bible class handouts, bottles of water for a children’s sermon, and my alb and stoles for the next few weeks.
The door was open and I met Robert in a church t-shirt. Anne, the previous but now retired secretary, was there too. I asked, “Where should I put my stuff?”
She said, “Don’t you have a key?”
“Um, no, I don’t.” While I’ve been worshiping here for about six months, this was my first time filling in as worship leader and preacher. I assumed that they would be ready for me. That was not a good assumption.
Anne let me in the pastor’s office with the warning, “The door will lock behind you.” Maybe I should just leave it open. “Another pastor did that; someone came and took all of his stuff.” Ok. Not going to repeat that mistake.
A minute later, Anne came with a key. “Here’s a spare.” Awesome. I’ll take good care of it. I hung up my alb and stoles, then went to get ready for bible class.
I knew there wouldn’t be coffee prepared. That only happens on the first Sunday of the month. This was the fourth of five Sundays. I set out my handouts and got ready for the class to arrive.
After a lively bible class, I put my bible in the pulpit and headed back to the office to get ready. I found the microphone and beltpack, but no batteries. Hmm. I asked numerous people where I might find batteries. No one had a clue. Finally, Anne said, “I think we have some in the office.” She found a couple of AAs, and I was ready to go.
The service went well. Afterwards, everyone quickly left, and I hoped that someone was there to lock up. In the past, as the pastor of a church, I checked doors, set alarms, and was usually the last one out. In this context, none of that was my job.
This congregation has been in search of a full time pastor for three years. In the meantime, interim pastors have filled in. Who’s in charge of making sure everthing that happens on a Sunday morning happens on any given Sunday morning? Elders? Ushers? Anyone?
Sometimes it’s good to be on the other side. Now I can help them make sure they are ready for others who may fill in until they have a full-time pastor.
Somehow I managed to fly under the radar for about a year and a half. Rick was at my table at bible class last night, along with Dick, Michael, and Jay. The lesson that night, from John Stott’s book The Radical Disciple, was about nonconformity. Disciples of Jesus need regular reminders not to slip into ethical relativism (where the lines between right and wrong are blurred). Our standard is God’s Word.
I shared with the table that ninety-five percent of the weddings I’ve performed were for couples who were already living together. Counseling and marrying them was a step in the right direction.
Rick looked at me and said, “Wait a minute. You did weddings?”
“Sure, lots of them.”
He asked again, “Really? How could you do weddings?”
Dick, sitting to my left, chucked, “He was a pastor for twenty-six years just up the road before his retirement.”
Rick was incredulous. “You were a pastor? I thought you were just a regular guy!”
I assured Rick, “I am just a regular guy. That was my occupation for thirty-six years.”
Rick and I have been friends for about eighteen months. I guess my previous occupation just never came up. And that’s OK. I enjoy being a regular guy. It’s fun love flying under the radar.
While walking the dogs the other day (we take them out about twice a day), my mind wandered to some of the meals I ate while visiting new members and homebound folks. Coffee and cookies were pretty common. Sometimes good. Sometimes not. Sometimes out of a package. Sometimes homemade.
And sometimes I got a meal. Kathy was one I visited many times, while she was taking care of her father at home and then later when she couldn’t get out and around. But she could cook.
On one occasion, I had a vicar (pastoral intern) in tow when we went to visit her at lunch time. She roasted two whole chickens for us. These were surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, and rolls. All this was followed by a Klondike bar for dessert. She always had six or seven varieties of Kondike bars in her freezer. That’s why you couldn’t find many in the store. It was enough food for a dozen people.
Pastoral ministry tip: just take a little bit of everything. Pace yourself. When pressured to get seconds, take even smaller spoonfuls. And, of course, leave room for dessert.
The day would come when Kathy couldn’t prepare meals for me. So she would have me take her out for lunch. We hit Olive Garden, Red Lobster, Alfie’s (on the beach in Ormond Beach, FL), TGI Fridays. She always paid, even though she was living off an impossibly small monthly income. She never ate much, but took home leftovers for the rest of the week. She also took home all the packs of butter on the table to go with the rolls.
When Kathy couldn’t physically get in and out of my car, she would have me stop and bring lunch. Her favorite was Chinese take out. While I would get General Tso’s chicken and fried rice, she would always request a large container of egg drop soup. When I arrived, she would drop a whole stick of butter into the soup container, and stir it until it all melted. I know, I little rich for me, too.
She also got meals on wheels each week. I got to try one of those meals. The microwavable meal was some kind of meat (the label didn’t specify), green beans, mashed turnips, and a roll. As I ate the meal she graciously shared with me, I remembered that I had eaten goat in Haiti, and banana soup and ugali in Kenya. I’ll live.
When she could no longer cook, Kathy offered me a pork roast out of the bottom of her freezer, underneath all the Klondike bars. When I asked how long it had been in there, she said, “I think it’s from last year.” It was over a year old.
That I said, “No thank you.” I wasn’t sure I’d live through that. One needs both faith and wisdom to survive in this world.
Another member I went to visit, S., had grown up in Cambodia. She escaped in the 1980’s, found refuge through a church in Michigan, and there met her husband. For my visit, she prepared enough food for twenty people. She deep fried two-dozen homemade spring rolls over a small backyard burner. To this she added multiple vegetable, noodle, and sesame seed side dishes. All for me. She didn’t even eat. She just watched me. I brought home a nice container of leftovers from her house.
And then there are many visits to ninety-eight year old B., who lived with her daughter, B2. Before Covid, B. would be awake most of the night and sleep late into the day, so she didn’t make church very often. It was a three-hour event when I came to visit. B2 always prepared a wonderful meal. I had chicken parmesan, tilapia, short ribs, meat loaf, pork loin chops. The sides were all kinds of vegetables, potatoes, rice, and bread. And of course, a dessert, most often some kind of cake or pie, with a scoop of ice cream. B. and B2. had lived in Bolivia back in the seventies, and had an arsenal of South American cuisine to draw from. Yes, it was always delicious. But it was also enough food for eight to ten people. I never had to worry about supper on the days I went to visit this family.
Every once in a great while, I would visit a family who offered me a beer. One such family thought I was German, so I had a choice of six imports that day. I only had one, since I still had to work that day and I also had to drive home.
P. who was a non-drinker, had the most extensive selection of beer and liquor in town. Whenever I visited him after his wife died, he always offered me a “bump and boost.” I think he meant a shot and a beer.
For me, the coffee (strong and black, please) was the best part. Caffeine is an essential part of an afternoon visit, if you catch my drift.
If I think of more snack and meal reviews from my time in ministry, I’ll be back to write a sequel.
Those were the words of a retired pastor friend of mine who began attending our church after about fifty years of ministry. I appreciate his candor, but I really didn’t understand what he meant.
Until now.
Now I am retired from full time pastoral ministry, and for the first time in thirty-six years, my wife and I have had to pick a church to attend. We did not move after my retirement. We have a lot of family in the area, plus we already live in a place where many retire to (Florida). My denomination asked that we not attend the church I retired from, to let the next pastor and congregation get used to each other.
So for the first time in forever, we got to pick where we worshiped on Sunday morning.
Here is the challenging part of this whole experience. I have found it hard to not critique the preacher, music, facility, and experience in the places where we have gone to worship. I have always wanted God to be the focus of worship. But when I walk into a church, he’s the last person on my mind.
Were the people friendly? Was the preacher engaging? Was the sermon biblical and applicable? Was the music well done? Did I know the songs so I could sing along? What would people say if they knew I worshiped at this church? What did this church believe, teach, and confess?
I had so many questions. And you’ll notice, none of them had anything to do with the one I was there to worship.
Did I encounter the one true God? Was my mind renewed? Did I offer up a sacrifice of praise? Was I assured of God’s grace? Did Christ’s love compel me to love, serve, and witness to others people? How was I encouraged? How was I challenged?
When I was the preacher, I was occupied with the logistics, the message, and connecting with those who came to worship. Now, as the worshiper, none of those things were on my plate. Now my job was to listen, confess, repent, and live a new life.
In hindsight, I now realize that I should have taken more time off to be a worshiper in the congregation. I should have taken time to remember what it was like to listen, to question, to take God’s word to heart, and set out to live a new life. I believe a sabbatical would have been an asset to my ministry.
So I am learning how to worship again. I am forgetting what is behind – a career of pastoral ministry – and pressing on into retirement as a listener, a worshiper, and a member.
It is once again a season of growth for our community and our congregation. So, I find myself out visiting a lot of individuals and families who have come to worship with us and expressed an interest in our church. With at least two first-time guests each week, this is keeping me pretty busy and pretty much out of trouble. For now.
In the course of conversation, folks will share their church background and experiences with me, including what their last pastor was like. Sometimes he or she was awesome. But more often than not, I hear a lot of disparaging comments about ministers and ministries. Some of the stories are unsettling, including tales of affairs, embezzlement, addiction and fraud. Others are filled with disappointment, discouragement and disgust.
These conversations always make me feel a little uncomfortable. I do not need to be reminded that every single pastor is a sinner in desperate need of grace. I already know that from personal experience and reminders from those who know me well. I also feel sad as I sit and listen. I’ve had great relationships with a lot of people in the church. I wish more had similar experiences.
The thing that occurred to me the other day was that on any given day, someone is probably talking about me that way. No, I haven’t done anything illegal. But I know I’ve angered, disappointed, aggravated, irritated, ignored, dismissed, insulted, and confused many who have come through our doors. They’re not telling their next pastor nice stories about me. I’m the one who let them down.
It’s good to keep this in mind. It’s humbling. It reminds me not to think too highly of myself. It also sternly reminds me that my self esteem is not built on the failings of others. My worth comes from Christ’s love for me.
The first two weeks were great. Five high schoolers came for week one when we tried to smash coconuts. The bible lesson was about Deborah, and Jael who drove a tent spike through the enemy general’s head in the book of Judges. It wasn’t so easy to drive a spike through a coconut, so we simply smashed it with a sladgehammer.
Seven middle and high schoolers came on week two for feats of strength and airing grievances. We talked about Samson and wise vs. foolish choices. The discussion kind of lagged until we talked about the Festivus custom of airing grievances. The room came to life. That they wanted to do. Just lay it all out.
I was stoked for week three. This was going way better than I imagined. I am trying to revive youth bible class at church, which has lay dormant for the past eighteen Covid months. Emails, texts, letters, postcards. And then, they showed up.It was worth the effort. This could be done.
Week three came and I was confident. This would be a great year. There was just one problem. No one showed up. Zip. Zero. Nada. An empty room. Not one student showed up.
OK. Time to stop and think about the current situation. Joint custody means many can only come every other week. Jobs mean some have to work on Sunday mornings. Covid means some will not be feeling well or will be quarantining. Weekends means some will be traveling. Some are spending the night with friends. Others are dancing competitively in far away places.
I believe the empty room was the perfect storm of all of the above. The attendance of one week is no predictor of the next. The fun of one week does not translate into the enthusiasm of the next. The classroom of today says nothing about the future.
The only thing you have is now.
If they are there, in the room, you have a moment to listen, question, teach and pray. If they are not there you have a moment to pray, listen, plan and trust. You are not the only influence in their lives. But by grace, you will be an influence.
So, week four comes. One youth is there. We wait. And we wait. OK, no one else is coming, you can go home. Ten minutes later the text comes, “Was I late, or did you cancel class?” Oh, me of little faith. If I had just waited a few more minutes!
I should know. On mission trips, I learned about island time. The clock is not so important. The people are. Their presence determines the time. It’s not the when, but the who that counts.
Lesson learned. Zero attendance doesn’t mean no one is coming. An empty room doesn’t mean class is cancelled. Wait just a few more moments.
I had a colleague who had a very hard time sleeping on Saturday nights. He always lay awake, worrying about Sunday. So he decided to not even try. Sleeping, that is. He would stay up all night from Saturday into Sunday preparing his sermon, and then preach the following morning.
Good for him. I could never do that. I’d be dozing off during my own sermon! That never goes over well. I’ve got my sermon mostly done by Wednesday and go over it a few times sometime on Saturday. Some pastors have a Saturday night service. For me, that would be a drag. My Saturdays could involve any number of things.
Today I worked in the yard, visited a family mourning a death, ran a few errands and got a few chores done around the house. Other Saturdays I have gone to a movie with my wife, performed a funeral, painted a room in my house, played with grandchildren, had some extended family over for supper and built a play fort in the back yard.
My day off is Friday. If you suggest, “How about Friday?” I will typically answer, “No, that doesn’t work for me.” Saturdays however are flexible. Sometimes I had nothing going on. Sometimes my plate is full.
The one thing I never do is discuss the question, “Do you want to go to church tomorrow?” That’s pretty funny. With retirement on the horizon, maybe we’ll have that discussion. But for now, Saturday means I set my alarm for 4:30. Sunday’s coming!
I saved the lion’s share of my visiting for Wednesday and Thursday this week. My rounds included a hospital, two nursing homes and one family’s residence. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, but at the end of the day, I have to admit I was weary. As I reflect on the day, I can’t help but wonder why. I got plenty of sleep the night before (about 8 hours) and ate well. I exercise and am fairly fit. But I didn’t do anything physically demanding. Why was I so tired?
When I left my study at church, a crew of seven was tearing out and installing huge new AC units for our sanctuary. When I stopped home for lunch, a crew was reroofing my neighbor’s house across the street. My wife was working a twelve-hour shift in the hospital ER. My daughters chased their toddlers around all day. They all had plenty of reason to be tired at the end of a shift. Me? Not so much.
Yet I still felt a different kind of fatigue, one that still surprises me. It’s a spiritual weariness, one that follows a day of preaching, teaching or in some way caring for people. It isn’t something that’s easy to put your finger on, but it’s real. A tired spirit is just as real as a worn-out body or brain.
My first visits took me to the hospital. I didn’t know how these folks were doing, so my half-hour included prayer for them and thoughts about them. by the grace of God, both were doing really well. In fact, the first one was doing better than he had for a long, long time. His relaxed smile and clear speach filled the room with hope. Though completely out of context, his wife shared the story of how they met some sixty years ago. My visit was about twenty minutes and my prayer was filled with gratitude.
One floor away, another was recovering from successful surgery, and was looking forward to going home in the next day or so. He and his wife also spoke of their sixty years together and an upcoming cruise they had to put off for a few months. This conversation also lasted about twenty minutes, concluding with a thank-filled prayer.
From here, it was on to a nursing home. I stopped at the front desk to get the room, but when I walked into a large common area, I spotted them as she finished up her lunch and he sat there chatting with her. In the course of the conversation, I learned that he had been working on long term care arrangement for his wife, who really wanted to go home. I could see the pain on his face as he hinted at what was to come. When she finished eating, we went to her room and I read scripture, gave them communion, and also prayed, thanking God for the good care she was receiving there.
My final visit yesterday was at a another nursing home, but she wasn’t in her room. I couldn’t find her in any of the common rooms, so I just left a flower arrangement from church in her room. I would have to try another time on another day.
I had one visit today at a member’s home. He slept through most of it while she and I caught up on all kinds of events in their lives and mine. She spoke of many challenges and a few glimmers of hope. He woke towards the end of my visit so I could also give them communion.
So what did I actually do? I sat and listened. I read a few verses and prayed a few prayers. No big deal. Or is it. Caring for souls is no small task. In my role as pastor I get invited into the lives of families who are dealing with significant changes and challenges. When they share some of their burdens with me, I help them shoulder some of the load. They will not have to carry them alone. I freely share with them the hope I have received from God, too. I may not have all the answers, but I give them what I have.
I guess over the years I’ve learned what helps me rest and recover from such days. I find that gardening or working in the yard, cooking a meal or playing with the grandkids recharges me. These simple tasks and precious lives reconnect me with the one who takes all my burdens and gives me all that he has.
Waite for it... 