On the Holy Practice of Listening

This past Sunday I took advantage of an early return from our vacation to Wisconsin to attend worship at St. Petri as just "a guy in the pews." Some of you probably knew this already, but it can be very difficult for a ministry professional to find a time and place where they can be in worship without being "on the job" and therefore able to just participate without feeling the need to tend to every last detail. It was a wonderful experience, particularly given that our preacher delivered an excellent sermon (well done, Anita!). I walked away feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, which is my hope every time I enter a house of worship, whether I'm preaching, leading, or sitting in the pews as simply one of the gathered faithful.

One reason the sermon was excellent is that Anita paid attention to the world and incorporated it into what she felt the text was saying to us. The massacre of 9 brothers and sisters in Christ in Charleston, South Carolina, was not something any responsible preacher of the gospel could ignore or downplay this week. For those of you who couldn't be there, Anita joined the proclamation of the psalmist, "The LORD is my rock and my salvation; whom shall I fear?" with Jesus' promises to always be with us to remind us that trust is developed over time and, particularly, in adverse circumstances where that trust is put to the test. Now is such a time for American Christians. Do we trust that God will help us see a way forward, together, to re-commit ourselves to overcoming the racism inherent in so many of our communities, or do we believe that if we are simply nice to each other we can go back to ignoring this problem that simply will not go away?

In a sense, I'm thankful we were on vacation in Wisconsin when the news of Charleston broke, because I was already actively trying to stay off technology and enjoy some recreational time with our family. It is, after all, impossible to check Facebook when you're shooting down a waterslide with your brother-in-law and nephew, or careening around a go-cart track with your niece screaming in delight and terror next to you. Even gathered around the campfire at night, we spent more time talking and less time clicking our news feeds.

However, I was online enough to know that there were many voices raised with many opinions about what Charleston means, and what we ought to do or not do about it. Some voices raised compelling arguments. Some voices were annoying. Some were so ready to confess sins of which they were obviously not guilty that I couldn't believe they didn't see that stridency often morphs into disingenuousness with very little effort. We pastors were told what to preach by people who didn't know us or the pulpits we occupy, and what we were told to preach was Law so strict and convicting most pew sitters would have shut their ears only seconds into the sermons we were ordered to give. All this made me incredibly grateful that I knew Anita would prepare an excellent sermon focused on our community here at St. Petri, which would address what we needed to hear without being captive to the many voices clamoring for words that would be foreign to our particular community.

Let me be absolutely clear: I am in no way saying that preachers shouldn't have addressed racism in their sermons on Sunday. What I am saying is this: before we speak, before we proclaim, before we prescribe, the first and holiest practice we must observe is listening. We are called to listen to the voices of anguish from Charleston, to be sure, but also listen to the bewildered voices of people who know something isn't right but also aren't sure exactly how to address the problem.

Something incredibly and painfully ironic happened as I "listened" online these last few days. I grew angry at the voices who insisted that I was a racist because my skin is white. I grew angry at the voices who insisted my church is racist, both here in our local congregation and as a denomination. I grew angry because I felt like I was on trial for crimes I hadn't committed just because my skin was the same as the young man who pulled the trigger, and it was in that anger that I saw the painful irony of my experience: that in being judged by my skin I was finally hearing the voices which have cried for freedom and justice for centuries because they have also been judged by the color of their skin.

No person of any skin color should be made to stand in for anyone other than themselves, for each of us has a particular story which no one else may claim as their own. Racism is a sin which will not be overcome by voices pronouncing guilt and judgment, though we will continue to need voices which can and should call out for justice and peace. First, we are called to the holy practice of listening to one another, and a specific kind of listening: listening to understand, to experience, and to affirm, without defensiveness or stridency or judgment. We are called to listen, brothers and sisters, to each individual as they tell their story, to listen for the voice of God present in all of us, and only in doing this do we have any hope of being healed of our own sins so that we might help others heal as well.

Can we listen? Will we listen? That remains to be seen. It is easy to prescribe what must be done, particularly from a distance. The hard work of listening locally, of thinking critically about our place, our work, our people, is a far more difficult and far more necessary thing. How can I listen here and now to the real people I meet every day, and how can we, together, work to judge everyone as Dr. King dreamed - not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character? This is the work to which we are called, and this is the way we can actively fight racism right here, right now.

It's Not Work, Even When It's Work

I wrote this blog a while ago but held off on publishing out of respect for some grieving families.  I'm writing here about meaning and what this daily work as a pastor is like for us.  In the midst of life-altering experiences for families, pastors who minister to them are still dealing with deadlines, office issues, the annoyances that come with every job on the planet.  I didn't deal well with one such day a while back.  Here's the story.

Today was not the best day.  It started with an early morning call from the chaplain at our local nursing home, letting me know that one of our church members had just passed away.  As I was at the church assembling funeral planning materials before meeting with the family, I received another call from another family, letting me know that another member who had been in hospice care had passed away while I was in the office.

Hey there, old friend.

Ten years ago, I wanted my campus pastor, Larry Meyer, to preach at my ordination service.  Unfortunately (for me), he had a prior commitment to his nephew to preach at his wedding.  At the time it was just a disappointment (again, for me - family trumps ministry every time and twice on Sundays).  Within a year and a half, though, Larry was gone.  Turns out that I never got to hear Larry preach again.

Until now.

This is the wedding message Larry gave at his nephew's wedding.  That nephew digitized the message and sent it to Larry's daughter Rachel, who is getting married this weekend (congrats, Rach!).  She shared it with the internet and gave me permission to share it here.  It's short - to the point - much like many of the others Larry gave (including the message Larry gave when he married my ex and me).  But tonight is the first time I've heard my old friend preach since at least 1999, possibly earlier.  And it's so fucking good to hear that voice again.  

Miss you, my friend.  Oh, how I wish we could share a beer & catch up.

Speaker for the Dead

I had one of those odd pastoral experiences yesterday - a funeral for someone I never met.

After Five Years

Five years ago today, Pastor Larry Meyer succumbed to the cancer that had been killing him for nearly three years. How in the world has it already been five years? I can still remember getting the call from my friend Matt that morning, standing in the kitchen and bursting into tears, hugging Beloved and wishing, more than anything, I had been able to come see him one last time. There is a wound in this that just won't heal; five years later we are still missing him very, very much.

Anyone who's been following this blog knows the impact Larry had on my life. I don't mean to canonize the man: for one thing, he would have hated the idea himself, and for another, our shared Lutheran theology would have insisted that God makes saints in baptism. Larry had his flaws, but for most people those flaws were overwhelmed by his kindness, passion and zest for life.

After five years, I have yet to find a colleague whose judgment and advice I trust as deeply as Larry's. I could have really used his advice in The Unbloggableness. But we soldier on, don't we?

Today I lift prayers for C, his wife, his incredible children Rebekka, Rachel, Mariah and Mikah, and everyone who knew Larry and continues to mourn his death. Someday, Larry, we'll see you again. May the time between then and now be filled with laughter and joy.

I thought that perhaps it might be fitting to post five things I loved about Larry, in honor of the day. If you knew him, you could play along on Facebook at his memorial group or on your own blog - drop a link here if you wish.

1. The blue VW van. No, this isn't it, but it's pretty close. So much of who Larry was found its way into that van for me: quirky, fun, comfortable, utilitarian, and most of all, unique. He did most of the work on it himself, and that puppy ran like a charm while I was a student at LCM Nebraska. I remember riding to Synod Theological Conference with him the year I worked with him, how cool it was to sit right over the wheels and feel like you were riding the road instead of driving on it. Someday I will own a VW van like this, and every time I slide behind the wheel, hit the clutch and pop it into first, I'll think of Larry.

2. "WHATWHATWHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?" Larry's exclamation when something threw him for a loop. Said all at once like that, at the top of his formidable lungs. Usually when you heard it you were guaranteed at least ten minutes of his undivided attention, because he wanted to know just what the hell you were talking about.

3. Fireplace Position. One of Larry's flaws was his hatred of cold weather. He was an absolute sissy about winter, probably because even at his heaviest his body fat percentage remained somewhere in the low teens (the man had the metabolism of a hummingbird). On particularly cold winter days, he'd get the fire going in the fireplace at the Student Center, throw on his Nebraska jacket or the maroon blazer he kept in his office, and stand right next to the fireplace with a cup of coffee, shivering, until the fire got blazing.

4. The Forehand Smash Triple Bounce Return. Larry was a ping-pong ninja (HT: Matt Schur). His best move came when you hung a return to his forehand side. After the renovation of the Student Center basement, Larry could blast that hanger down for a point, bounce it off the wall, your side, his side, and catch it in his hand. And if that smash happened to be the seventh straight point to start a game, his grin was almost maniacal, because that meant he'd skunked you - it was game to Larry, and ping pong was the only thing in which the man was absolutely merciless.

5. Chicken Gizzards, Peel-and-eat Shrimp, Braunschweiger, and Canadian Bacon-Sauerkraut Pizza. The man was a fool for weird foods. I picked up lunch at HyVee once, and on a whim I bought some gizzards for him. When I gave them to him, I honestly thought he was going to kiss me. Every Board meeting started with pizza from Fat Pat's, and one rite of passage for every Board member was to eat a slice of the Canadian Bacon-Sauerkraut Pizza. My brother and sister-in-law hated the stuff. Me? I'll be ordering some for supper tonight, and eating it with relish.

Larry, we miss you so damn much. Tonight, after I wolf down that great pizza, and the girls have been tucked into bed, I'm going to sit out on the patio, smoke a pipe and drink a beer, and think of you. I can't wait to laugh with you again.

Grace & peace,

Scott