Jesus Christ

Three Little Words

/ Bo / 1 Comment

“C’mon, do it.”

Nothing good ever follows so potent a turn of phrase. No gold medals were ever won on “C’mon, do it.” No job promotions were ever bestowed following a “C’mon, do it.” No Michelin stars awarded because somebody egged on Alain Ducasse with a “C’mon, do it.”

There I sat in the vice principal’s office, a quivering baby bird fallen from the nest. Face contorted in anguish, rivulets of tears running south, knuckles pale and clutching the arms of the office chair dragged in front of the big man’s desk. All because of those three magic words: “C’mon, do it.” Compelling in the moment, sure, but absolutely absurd to offer as an explanation for my behavior. And that’s what he wanted, this brooding authority figure who towered over me like a thunderhead. 

What could I say?

The lever of the fire alarm hung limp and ineffectual, as ripe for plucking as the fruit of Eden’s trees. It was broken – it had to be. All the boys in seventh grade suspected it was. They would flick it as they passed from the showers to the lockers, watch it bounce uselessly in its place. 

God, that changing room was a Darwinian jungle! Within its chaotic confines, the meek dressed hurriedly, awkwardly, while the gleefully pubescent stalked the corridors bare-chested, whipping towels and blasting farts to establish dominance. That fire alarm was merely a trinket, just a thing on the tiled wall for us to consider and inspect and dare one another to pull even though we all knew it was disconnected. All the other levers of all the other fire alarms throughout the school building looked a lot newer than the one in the locker room. Covered in protective glass, they were the kind with the little metal mallet that you had to lift and then swing downward forcefully to break the glass “in case of emergency,” at which point you would take hold of the exposed lever and pull. These levers, I will add, did not hang limp from the mechanism like the one in the locker room. No, they were ideally fixed in place. Clearly, these were the functioning alarms, placed in obvious and obviously strategic places and regularly inspected by professionals, ready to alert every soul in the building to any given crisis. 

“It doesn’t work.”

“I bet it does.”

“Nuh uh. It’s disconnected.”

“Why don’t you pull it then? All the way down. See what happens.”

“Nothing’ll happen. It’s broken.”

“It’s probably been here since the fifties.”

“The school ain’t that old, dumbass!” 

“I’ll pull it.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I pulled it the other day.”

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

“Nuh uh, you liar.”

“Yeah huh! You didn’t see, but I did.”

It could go on like this for ten minutes straight, every day the same stupid insistences and know-it-all claims interspersed between the mocking and the jeering and the snickering and the flatulating. Over the course of that school year, just about every kid – big and small, mean or mild – was dared to give the allegedly broken lever a tell-tale tug, and yet no one was ever willing to do more than flick it or jiggle it or lift it slightly and let it fall back to its inoperative state. 

No one, that is, until yours truly.

“Hey, Vern!”

Because I went by my real name back then, that’s usually how most of the boys addressed me, each one doing his most obnoxious Ernest P. Worrell accent, thick as used motor oil. And no matter how many times the sneering salutation came, I found it impossible to ignore.

“Hey, Vern.”

I’d look up.

“You suck at basketball.” 

Muffled, derisive chortling.

“Hey, Vern.”

I’d turn around in my school bus seat.

“Where’d you buy those faggoty-ass shoes?”

Snorts, sniggers, and conspicuously averted eyes.

“Hey, Vern.”

In the cafeteria cue, peering down the tray line.

“Who taught you how to tight-roll your jeans?” 

Cackles and high fives all around.

Small mercies, this wasn’t an everyday occurrence for me. A plethora of ugly ducklings waddled the halls of Dahlstrom Middle School, which meant most of the time it was possible to blend in to the crowd like Schwarzenegger slathering himself in mud. When changing, my usual modus operandi was to dress quickly, quietly, and efficiently – if that meant forgoing deodorant or even a shower, so be it. Most of the time, I could get in and out without attracting attention. But not this day. 

“Hey Vern.”

I turned. One of the towel-snappers was chuckling and glancing sidelong at the other alphas. 

“Dare you to pull the alarm.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Then pull it.”

“Yeah, Vern, pull it.”

“C’mon, do it.”

Of course, I could have refused. I could have brushed off the dare. But all of us lowly locker room lambs knew from experience that choosing to ignore the howls of the wolves in our midst was tantamount to rolling over and exposing our soft bellies to their glistening fangs. In this particular version of Truth or Dare, the only hope of avoiding further ridicule was to choose Dare, though even then the chances were slim. But, at the very least, you had to show these bullies you were willing to play in their reindeer games. Go through the motions, show them you could be cool, even if such a designation was solely theirs to bestow. The whole thing was a pathetic and hopeless undertaking, like investing in cryptocurrency or making a New Year’s resolution to join Gold’s Gym. Your coolness was never really within reach.  

“Whatsa matter?”

“You scared?”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Then just pull it!”

I reached up and gave the flaccid lever a meager jab. It bounced impotently in its place. That was, of course, not enough. 

“C’mon, do it.”

It was broken, I told myself. It had to be. No working fire alarm would look like this, would be left so temptingly exposed in a middle school boys’ locker room. I wrapped two fingers around the T-shaped lever, felt the feeble lightness of the plastic. It was absurd to believe so flimsy a thing could hold any legitimate influence over a 25,000-square foot academic complex. Absurd to expect anything would happen. 

And nothing did. At least, not at first. 

No clanging bell. No bleating siren. The locker room fell into a brief, anticipatory silence. Finally, someone had the(recently descended) balls to give that useless lever a demonstrative pull. 

“See,” I said, relief flooding across my reddened face. “It’s broken.”

A number of grumbles arose from wolves and lambs alike. So, the mystery had finally been solved, the unknowable equation proven. It was slowly dawning on everybody that I’d just unwittingly put an end to every seventh-grade boy’s favorite 6th Period conspiracy theory. It’s a wonder they didn’t all flog me with their towels in punishment. In that disillusioning silence, the dare dissolved. There was nothing left to do but shake our heads, shoulder our backpacks, and slam our locker doors shut. We shoved our bodies against the crash bar of the exterior door that opened onto the school courtyard and headed out into the afternoon sun…

…only to behold dozens of lines of students exiting the classroom wings of the complex in a safe and orderly fashion. Teachers stood like shepherds overseeing their fleeing flocks, shushing the gigglers and keeping careful count to ensure none had been separated from the herd. Most assumed it was a drill, though the confusion on certain administrators faces spoke volumes.

So, the legends were true. 

The lever wasn’t broken. The alarm worked after all. 

*

“I want to know why you did what you did,” the vice principal insisted as I sat weeping in shame. “I want you to explain to me why you thought that was an intelligent thing to do.”

Intelligent? What a ridiculous notion! Intelligence had nothing to do with it. I was twelve years old. Pulling that lever was all hormones and impulse, a misfiring of my fight or flight response. No, even that wasn’t true. It had been a compulsory act. A kind of offer that, if you knew what was good for you, you couldn’t refuse. 

At the same time, I was thankful his voice, while deep and stern, didn’t rise much in volume, nor did it grow overly heated. This was a welcome contrast from the P.E. coach who, only a few seconds after the crime was committed, had blustered into the locker room, crimson-faced and seething. Apparently, a gaggle of informants had squealed on me. I suspect, had there not been other boys present, that the coach might have strung me up in the gym by the climbing ropes and beat me with an aluminum bat.

I kept my head down in the vice principal’s presence, quietly sputtering the words, “I don’t know.” My shoulders quaked and my lips trembled. This was the only utterance I could offer in such a penitent state – my own three words, though there wasn’t a hint of magic in them. Only bewilderment and miserable resignation. Tears dripped from my chin and soaked the fabric of the office chair. “I don’t know,” I whispered again.

But I knew. 

They’d dared me to, had set before me a choice that hadn’t seemed like a choice at all. Perhaps I could have demurred, could have turned my back, but there would have come with it a cascade of social consequences. No longer would I have been able to blend in most days. The goading would have multiplied. I would have been pilloried – presented daily before my peers to receive all manner of taunts, jeers, and pile-ons. How could I explain such a dilemma to this peeved and wearied administrator standing over me? What would it take to make him understand that my crime wasn’t carefully considered at all? Show me the seventh grader who has time for such nonsense?! 

No, what I’d done was similar to the thing knees do when the pediatrician taps them with his mallet. 

“C’mon, do it.”

Tap. Reflex. Tap. Reflex.

Thirty-two years have come and gone since that humiliating day, and I’m honestly uncertain whether my circumstances would have been any better if I’d somehow, and for the first time, been able to locate my backbone and stand my ground against those magic words. Sure, I’d have avoided a week of shameful in-school detention. I’d have escaped the scornful, how-could-you glances of my teachers, genuinely surprised by my recklessness. And, yes, I would have been spared a lengthy and particularly fidgety “conversation” with my parents. 

But what would’ve become of me? Could I even have survived the remainder of middle school? In what world does the lamb stand up to the wolves and live to tell the tale?

Pulling that cursed alarm is the closest I’ve ever come to experiencing the peculiar, mystical relationship between fate and free will. In a certain light, it was a lesson in comprehending the doctrine of predestination. As Frederick Buechner puts it, “The fact that I know you so well that I know what you’re going to do before you do it doesn’t mean you aren’t free to do whatever you damn well please.” Exactly, Fred. 

Choice. Does such a thing even exist? Perhaps I was always meant to capitulate to the pressure. Maybe that alarm was my destiny. I was chosen, by the omniscient mind of the Creator, for such a time as 6th Period P.E. For one brief moment in my twelfth year of life, I was appointed the Great Disruptor. The Despicable Delinquent. Look on my Cowardice, ye Mighty, and despair!

All things considered, it is a thorny endeavor to speak of choices to the young and hormonal. A middle schooler’s gauges are frequently going haywire, bouncing his impressionable mind like a pinball between impulse and intimidation, pressurization and provocation. I remember in my church’s youth group an oft-repeated Bible verse was the second half of 2nd Corinthians 10:5: “…and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.” The directive, as we understood it, was to not merely think WWJD? before we acted, but rather to filter everything – every question, every instruction, every challenge – through a well-oiled mental machine that would root out and expel all impurities. Any lustful urge. Any vindictive thought. Any rude retort. All of these would be sieved, and only perfectly distilled words and actions would remain.

No doubt, this is a wonderful ideal to espouse. However, it’s incredibly difficult to practice out in the real world, particularly in the presence of ravenous wolves. It’s like using a Revolutionary War musket to fend off Seal Team 6. You might have an initial blast of confidence, but by the time you reload they’re all over you.

Which brings me back to the concept of choice. Wisdom comes less from discipline than from experience, even the regrettable ones. Twelve years olds are not known for their wisdom, but neither should they be condemned for failing to use it. We grow, we learn, we put away most of our childish hang-ups. That, at least, is something to appreciate. 

Even if I’m still unsure whether my middle school days would have been better had I resisted those three little words, I’m at least confident that I’ve matured enough over thirty-two years to say that middle-aged me would be up to the task. Today, I’m sure I could easily ignore the taunts and dares of those alphas, pick up my backpack, and walk out the door. 

Pretty sure. 

Let’s say, like, ninety percent.

From One Pastor to Another…

/ Bo / 1 Comment

Dear Pastor,

I’m thinking about you today. I want you to know that I’m hopeful for you, concerned about you, nervous for you, appreciative of you, and fearful for you. Most of all, though, I want you to know how much I admire you. It hasn’t been easy, has it?

I write to you out of my own experiences, but truly it is you I hold in my mind. I know our circumstances aren’t identical, of course, but the equivalencies persist. Whether you serve a small church like I do, or a large church, or something in between, none of us found ourselves exempt from this struggle.

The Teacher says “There is nothing new under the sun” (Ecc. 1:9), which in one respect is true. But, still, no one we know has gone through this before. No professors, no mentors, no older pastors we look up to and occasionally call for advice. Sure, there have always been hard seasons. As we’ve told many a church member over the last few months, every generation goes through trying times, frightful times, life-altering-and-redefining times. There’s wisdom to be gleaned, for sure, and  we have squeezed every last drop from that sponge. Yet the unprecedented nature of these times remains; we’re still waking up each morning under a dark-cloud reminder that the old rhythms have withered and ministry has become far more improvised than we would prefer.

I admire you for sticking with it. If I’m being honest (and what’s the point of writing to you if I’m not), at times I’ve wondered whether I could stick with it. I’m trying, and I know you are, too. Some days are better than others. I place my faith in the truth that God is faithful. But those who claim this faith is easy are most certainly false prophets.

Going Online

First, there’s the struggle of “doing church online.” Just the phrase itself is rife with problems, both grammatical and ecclesiological.

I don’t know about you, but I was already frustrated with social media before this crisis. The fellowship it offers isn’t genuine. The connections and dialogue made available within its parameters are only phantoms, bearing no real substance. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tik Tok… they serve a purpose, sure, but you and I both know they cannot sustain the deep needs of the human heart. After all, what does it profit a man to get a hundred Likes for posting a politically snarky meme, yet forfeit his soul?

When we try to use social media to foster genuine fellowship, it’s like trying to slake our thirst with a spoonful of salt. Now, however, we have little choice. We face a circumstantial compromise – for a season we must figure out how to conduct the genuine fellowship we once knew within the dimly lit halls of the social media complex, while all around us flutter a thousand and one black-winged temptations, the unspiritual disciplines of conspiracy theories and clickbait, the rotten fruits of screen addiction and instant gratification. It is not the catacombs of old, by any means, but ours is a harrowing time nonetheless.

I’ve gotta ask, how have you been delivering your sermons? I’ve been preparing them as best I can, though my preferred weekly schedule was quickly tossed in the garbage. But then I’ve had to set up cameras to film them myself, then download to my laptop, then teach myself how to use video-editing software… Preaching the sermon used to be the finish line of a weekly marathon filled with reading, prayer, reflection, research and writing. Once you finally preached it, though, at least you were finished. There wasn’t another four more hours of footage adornment and audio adjustment on the back end to make up for the handicap of it not being delivered in-person.

Meanwhile, you ache for your worship pastor, who is simultaneously engaged in his own struggle to lift congregants’ spirits and inspire them to raise their voices in their own living rooms, all while deprived of his full band or vocal team. Your Children’s Pastor is wracking his brain to somehow convert all his high-energy, hands-on activities to a video stream. And your Student Pastor, whose heart continues to fall as with every passing week fewer and fewer teenagers exhibit the patience necessary to gather online for Bible study because, for crying out loud, they’ve already spent hours on Zoom trying to complete their schoolwork. You want to encourage them, but what is there to say? This is not the way the church should function, and the proof is in the pudding.

I admire you, because despite these setbacks and the completely unexpected load of extra work, you’ve plunged forward into this unsettling new world. “To the work! To the work! In the strength of the Lord,” as the old hymn declares, “and a robe and crown shall our labor reward.” You’ve kept your eyes on the horizon, though it’s been hard, especially when you see the number of views or shares decrease (the cyberspace equivalent of a shrinking attendance), or when your deacons report that some church members don’t have a good enough Internet connection to even access what your team has labored over, or when you speak with church members who remind you that no amount of online content or phone calls or even cards in the mail (old school!) can combat the cruel loneliness that comes with protecting ourselves from the pandemic.

So Many People, So Little Time

Pastoral care was difficult even before Covid-19. When you become a pastor, you quickly understand the apostles’ decision in Acts 6 to establish and specify helpers. It’s hard to balance all our other expectations – directing the vision, collaborating with staff, planning worship, and preparing multiple sermons and Bible lessons, and interceding for the congregation and the community – with the personal attention people expect from their spiritual leaders. You try your best to get out of the office, to make phone calls at appropriate hours, but you quickly find the hourglass has once again run dry. There’s always tomorrow, sure, though tomorrow brings its own fresh set of challenges. What a blessing it is when your people call or visit you, because sometimes you need it more than they do.

Is it me, or has this working-from-home thing only made the sand drain away faster? All this extra work, all the challenges of trying to deal with ministerial issues and maintain congregational projects without being able to meet with all the players in person… It’s maddening how much more time-consuming that has become. Sure, I marvel at some of the technology we’ve been able to employ to keep things running these last few months, but I also know that the only Zoom meetings that run shorter than normal meetings are the ones in which people get so annoyed with the connectivity bugs that they give up and sign-off early. It may help us sustain productivity, but I haven’t experienced any advancements in efficiency, have you?

You want to go visit people. You really do. Here and there, you make a socially-distanced drive-by. You even take your family along, because you’re keenly aware you’re not spending enough time with them these days either. But even if some of your congregants wouldn’t mind having you in their home, you recognize the risk of that, and one thing you must do as a pastor-shepherd is protect the flock, even if that means protecting them from you. In between all your projects, you make phone calls or write notes. And you pray. Oh, how you pray!

At the end of each day, you feel like Oskar Schindler at the end of Spielberg’s film, insisting you could have done more, couldn’t you? You fall asleep thinking this, only to dream of CDC guidelines and controversial recommendations. You awake with a mounting burden of ignorance, of not knowing for sure how your congregants are doing.

You Shall Know the Truth

Top all this off with the struggle you’re now experiencing to determine whether reopening/regathering/resuming (call it what you will) is the right call, and, if so, what precautionary steps should be taken to protect the people even when it’s become virtually impossible in our country for people to agree on which precautionary measures are sound and which are bogus. Sure, you consult the CDC and the WHO, among others, because certainly it is for such a time as this that they were commissioned, but then you discover some folks are skeptical of these organizations. A few even consider them part of a massive hidden agenda to keep us all desperate and fearful. So it is, to your utter exasperation, that determining a set of health guidelines is to flirt with controversy, and the last thing you want to do is stir the already roiling pot of controversy. You want controversy and partisanship and all those awful, divisive poisons as far from your community as possible, but lately there seems no way around them. The truth feels elusive, camouflaged, and so you spend your days researching even more – health reports and medical journals and watching online seminars with epidemiologists – which only adds to your fitful sleep and the weird dreams you’re having at night.

All you want is to regather your church, to call them back from this forced hibernation, to provide space to connect with God and one another, to experience anew the sacred relationship between worship and fellowship. With the mounting unrest in our society, and anguished voices crying out louder and louder each day, never has it been more important to gather in the Name of the One who makes all things new.

You know people are trusting you and – if you have one – your staff to make the right decisions, but man! It’s so easy to second-guess and third-guess decisions right now. If you don’t have a staff to collaborate with, I pray an extra gift of wisdom and discernment for you. I can’t imagine doing this all alone.

Of course, you’re not alone. None of us are. That’s what I have to keep reminding myself. This stay-at-home stuff would have us believe we’re doing this solo, but then we talk to those church members who are doing everything they can to support us and each other. Those deacons who are faithfully calling the people. Those prayer warriors who have not missed one day interceding for us all. We are not alone. Our churches will always be more than me and you, and thank God for that! They are strong not because we are strong, but because the Savior is strong. “His power is made perfect in our weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9).

So, I admire you for keeping the faith. Now we know a little more about what Paul means when he says, “I have fought the good fight” (2 Tim. 4:7) – there are days when this is indeed a fight. We are contending not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities that would use our doubts, our shortcomings, and our character flaws to quell the Spirit’s fire and deal a mortal blow to our faith. Thank goodness we need not fight this battle alone.

Hang in there, Pastor. The struggle is real, but so is Jesus. This too shall pass, but even if it doesn’t, salvation remains. Remember the God of the ages is with you. He blesses, he keeps, he makes his face shine bright to those who seek him.

Grace in omnibus.