Interviews

I am spending the bulk of this week in Columbia, MO, in Board of Ordained Ministry meetings. I’ve been on both sides of the interview table for ordination. Twenty five years ago, the only question I remember being asked- repeatedly- was how I could be both married and an itinerant minister. (I’m pretty sure they didn’t ask the guys that question.) My interview team was made up of three people, and it was the only team that had a woman on it. I am certain that they must have asked me questions about theology and the like, but I don’t recall them. Remembering how nervously incoherent that I was at the time, I am amazed that anyone thought it worth their while to ordain me.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I’ve been sitting on the interviewer side of the table for over a dozen years. There are a lot of nervous people that come to sit in front of my team. I understand, I really do. I try to smile and joke and do whatever I can to help them give their best interview possible. I remember what it is like to be scared when it feels like so much is on the line, like career and God and stuff. Sometimes the interviews are fun and easy, akin to colleagues sitting around and talking good theology. We plumb the depths of some issues together, and we all walk away a little more enlightened than when we began. I’ve got an interesting real-life church situation that relates to my assigned interview topic of sacramental theology that I’ve been sharing with some of the candidates. It helps tease out some of their beliefs about baptism, while I’m also getting some good insights about what to do about my own situation.

Not every interview is a walk in the park. Sometimes the advance written work is lacking, and sometimes the conversation takes an unfortunate turn. When that happens, it is painful for all of us in the room. There is never any joy in an answer that is “no” or “not yet,” even when it is the right thing to do. We all know how much time and money and work and prayer it takes to get to these interviews in the first place. We know what is on the line, since we have been there ourselves. Thankfully, those hard moments are the exception, but they do exist.

So, I’m spending much of this week in interviews. Like everyone else, I have other demands on my time. In fact, I’ll need to leave early for a funeral. Although I have other places I could be, it feels important to be here this week. I’ll smile at the candidates, try to ease their nerves, ask tough questions when needed- but, I will never ever ask a candidate if they believe that they can be both happily married and in itinerant ministry. I don’t have to ask, because I know the answer for that myself.

Parking

Some of us at church have been having a discussion lately on one of those good-to-have problems. Participation in our choirs, band, and bell choirs is such that the small parking lot by the choir room and office is getting filled up on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. At times, some of our disabled folks are having trouble finding a place to park.

The other day, in an effort to encourage others to (as my associate pastor says) “Park far and sit close,” I announced that the pastors will park in the farthest-away spots on Sunday mornings. I’m inviting the choir and band members to join me. I’ll be past the recycling bins beyond the gymnasium. It will be an inconvenient hike to my office, but I don’t want to ask others to do something that I’m not willing to do myself.

And then I began to feel a little sorry for myself. After all, I’m often lugging a briefcase and computer, along with various other Sunday morning items. And it truly is a hike from where my car will be to where my office is; several miles and uphill both ways, the more I thought about it. The other day, I was walking into the hospital for some visits and wondering to myself how long I would have to keep up this self-imposed parking exile.

Grace happened in one of those getting-your-attention-moments. I discovered that both of the people whom I was visiting were going to be discharged from the hospital soon; discharged into hospice care. Their earthly life is coming to an end, and they will be receiving palliative comfort care in these final days. Both of them are beautiful people who have had long lives, and so these moments are tinged with both joy and sorrow.

As I walked (walked!) out of the hospital that day, my perspective had changed dramatically. What a blessing it is to be able to hike across a parking lot and through a building. How small of me to be thinking about my own inconvenience. I know it sounds cheesy and preacher-y, but what I heard in my head that day was this: If Christ could die for me so that I could face life and death with hope, then the least that I can do is walk across the parking lot for someone else.

So, this Sunday and the next and for all of the ones after that, I’ll be getting to church first on Sundays so that I can snag the farthest away spot. It’s the least I can do . . .

Running

I am not a runner. I used to be one. In high school, I was on the track team. I enjoyed the exercise, and it got me out of the agony of high school p.e. class. Granted, most of my high school track meet memories are of a tinny voice over the loudspeaker announcing, “There are still a few runners finishing the race, so please stay off the track.” Fast, I was not. But I was a runner back then.

I have a cousin who is a runner, even though she is a smidge older than me. She is a runner and a breast cancer survivor, and I admire her greatly for both of those things.

I am not a runner. However, Andy and I joined a gym awhile back. It felt like a guilty pleasure, yet another advantage of the empty nest. Instead of going to evening school programs, we now have time to take care of ourselves. At the gym, I have gotten into the habit of using the treadmill while watching television. A few weeks ago, I decided to try running for a few of minutes here and there during my workout. And then one night, I decided to try to do something I haven’t done for 35 years. I ran a mile nonstop. I’ve even done it a few times since, and I feel oddly proud of myself. But, I am still not a runner.

If I were a runner, I would feel committed to putting in ever-increasing mileage. As it is, inertia (or common sense) might kick in any day, and I will be back to walking my treadmill workout. That will be fine. As long as I’m not a runner, I can stop at any time, with no harm and no foul. No, I am not a runner, but I am someone who’s running right now.

I think that is why it is so important for me to bear the name “Christian.” It infers a state of my being, not something that I can stop doing if I get bored. Inertia or preoccupation might mean that there are times when I’m not acting like much of a Christian, but it still is who I am in spite of myself. Bearing that name keeps me striving to behave like one. Spending my life training and working to get better at being a Christian sounds exactly like what I want to do. It’s not all about my action, of course. When the day comes that I’m not able to hold up my faith, my faith will hold me. Until then, I want to keep working at it.

No, I’m no runner. But I am doing my darnedest to be something much better.

Perfectly homemade

I decided to make cookies this morning. Fancy, lovely, Valentine’s Day cookies. For these fancy cookies, I started with a chocolately dough for rolled cookies. I used ruffled-edge heart cookie cutters to make a sandwich-style cookie. The top layer had a heart cut-out, with a dollop of raspberry jam nestled within. The chocolate-raspberry heart cookies were finished with a sprinkling of pink and red sugar. I planned to give these cookies my children at college, my parents, and perhaps my office staff. I envisioned being asked where I had purchased these amazing cookies, and I even practiced my modest reply, “Oh, well, I made these myself.”

The gulf between plans and reality once again loomed large. I followed the instructions to the letter. I rolled out the dough between wax paper, to avoid getting white flour on the deep chocolate cookies. I even baked the cookies on parchment paper- parchment paper! And yet the cookies squished and broke and did all of those things that my cookies tend to do. There were more sprinkles on the floor than on the cookies. After spending all morning on this affair, I ended up with exactly 18 cookies to show for my labor. And- they do not match the picture in my head or in the book. They are not perfect, but they are perfectly homemade. No one will doubt that I made them myself.

I heard a theologian speak last week. That person commented, “I almost wish that Jesus had never said that.” The quote being referred to was, “Be perfect, even as God in heaven is perfect.” The theologian went on to talk about how that insatiable quest for perfection can lead to countless problems. After all, if we will not accept anything less than perfection, then we will find much about ourselves or anyone else unacceptable. I am as prone to fall into that trap as anyone. None of us likes to be imperfect, and we especially don’t like for other people to know that we are imperfect. And yet . . .

Knowing that God made us and remembering that God loves us gives us great freedom within our imperfections. We don’t have to pretend to be something that we are not, because being God’s child is all we need to be. We keep trying, naturally, for the best. In the meantime, however, we celebrate that we are perfectly homemade- by God.