Pastor I need to talk

People come in my office and sit down to talk. It’s part of the pastor gig. It’s just what happens. My secretary says, “So and so is here to talk to you.” And then someone one walks in, sits down, and starts to talk.

It doesn’t matter what I am doing at the time; trying to craft together words that I can speak the next Sunday explaining the whole of theology in twelve minutes, struggling to find a way to assure a woman that she is worthy and loved despite having been abused by a friend, or, once agian, lost in prayer. I stop, grind the gears of my mental transmission, and grab for the road map that will help me navigate the circuitous path of thought the person starts going down.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually don’t mind the interruptions. This is what I do. What I am called to do. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of new thoughts or behaviours that just might have been initiated by something I said in a class or sermon. Sometimes I get to hear exciting news. Sometimes I am permitted to simply be a listening ear, a tool used to pry into the atmosphere words that must be spoken so they can by heard by the speakers own ears. There isn’t a lot that I do in a day that absolutely cannot take a few minutes longer to complete. If a few minutes of time helps someone, I am happy for them to be used.

There are days like today when I become so very jealous of the people who come into my office. Days like today I want to be able to walk in, sit down, and start to talk. I want to be one more person who can come in and talk to Pastor. That’s one of the loneliest things about being a pastor. Who is my pastor?

Actually, I am blessed. I serve in a denomination with a developed hierarchy. When the wheels absolutely come off the cart I can talk to the Bishop. And I am doubly blessed. My Bishop has a pastoral nature and loving concern for professional church workers in our area. I have friends whose Bishop doesn't know they exist and doesn't care to know. Other friends serve in denominations that don’t have any hierarchy to go to for support. I hurt for them. It must be so very lonely.

I feel a certain amount of guilt in taking my Bishop’s time. He has a large number of congregations to care for and even more workers and he has his own office and its work to oversee. When there have been major crises or when I need to make certain things are being done in proper order under our denominational guidelines I have talked to him. [I have never actually plopped down in his office. His office is one city and mine in another.] He always returns my voice messages and e mails. But there is something about the physicality of sitting down and looking across a desk that I miss.

As professional church workers we are told over and over in seminars, workshops and conferences to find another pastor or worker to talk to. Someone who can be our pastor. But I don’t know any pastor who isn’t just as busy as I am. I can’t bring myself to usurp time they are so desperate to give to their own flock. Like so many great ideas offered in seminars, workshops, and conferences this one too goes the way of, “Yeah, well it works great on paper.”

For some reason I feel better having written this. In some ways I have come in, sat down, and started talking…if only to myself. Maybe I’m a better pastor than I think myself to be. Tomorrow there will still be a gaping hole in the worship centre wall. The rotting support beam will still not be replaced. I will still be worried that worker here at the church will return from vacation and have decided that they are unable to continue working here. Somehow though, it’s okay. I think I will open my office door again, take the phone off do not disturb and go ask my secretary if anyone is wanting to see me.

And they will come in, sit down, and start to talk.

Ashes ashes we all fall down

Maybe it is because I grew up in one of those non-creedal, non-liturgical denominations and I was always secretly jealous of my Roman Catholic friend who would come to school with a bold black cross drawn across his forehead. Somehow, I just knew there was some secret mystery being kept from me by my parents, the preacher, and all other significant authority figures.

Perhaps, if I could come to school emblazoned with ashes everything in life would be revealed. The shroud hiding God from my pre-adolescent gnosis would be torn away and finally I could be certain of the love preached at me three, four, five times a week. Maybe nothing more would happen than the mark would slowly fade away in the youthful play of elementary students, just as my friend’s cross would disappear bit at a time.

It didn’t matter. I wanted one of those dark crosses pressed into my skin.

Freed from the weight of burdensome piety I found my way to a creedal, liturgical group of believers and for several years have stood in tearful silence as an oily blackness was smeared above my eyes. Jarred into reality hearing the promise that I am and will return to dust. The secrets of life have not been shown to me. Love is more real but still obscured by my own inability to grasp. Even so, I move away from the reality of my own frailty, refreshed and strengthened by a smudge of ashes and one short sentence.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Once more I will wear a dark cross visible to others, and beyond my own sight. This year I will not be surprised when the layperson who is assisting, turns and walks back to their seat, oblivious they have forgotten to impose ashes upon their pastor. As I have before, I will dip my thumb into a dark pile of soot, scribe the Greek letter Chi upon myself and speak those words of mortal finality. And I will once again be freed…for a moment at least.

Turning to the altar I will set down the small cup of ashes, wash my fingers with a damp towel and turn to face the people I have been called to love, guide, protect, teach, bless, encourage. My arms will raise up, the sleeves of my gown sliding gently toward my elbows as three fingers instinctively come together to tell again the story of a three person God who lives as one. My lungs will expand as I draw a breath preparing to speak to those I love that, "as a called and ordained servant of the Word, I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

Then again as it does every year the mallet of pain will pound into my chest forcing out the blessed oxygen that sustains life. I will gasp as if even the smallest bit of energy has been released from every cell in my body. Looking back at me will be eyes longing to hear they are loved, cared about, forgiven; and between each pair will be a black abscess telling me these children of mine whom I love, will each in their own time and way, die.

My throat will thicken, my eyes burn with the salinity of forced back tears, my body will shiver with the involuntary terror of such loss. For a moment of eternity I will stand frozen, unable to perform the ritual.Then with a forced swallow, air will again flow into my lungs. I will lift my head and the words will come strong and confident promising my children they have again be set free to live.