It has been a great year thus far, a stressful year (every hair cut witnesses gray hairs), and a fast year. I am at least 10lbs heavier than when I arrived (like the Mike Myer's SNL character Middle-Aged-Man, 'I'm Workin' On It!') And I have at least enough material for three novels - yes, from just one year.
We have adjusted to Central Standard Time, vistas with no hills, valleys or granite outcroppings, french bread made by German bakers, chicory coffee, seafood, beignets (I can even spell that right on the first try), drive thru daiquiri shops, no open container laws, beer and wine at little league games, street cars, house rattling thunder storms, lighting that stays in the air long enough for you to snap a picture, lizards, spontaneous gatherings of friends, parades, marching clubs and dinner parties, Pimm's cups, people saying alright when i say hello to them, lack of New England apples, okra, jambalaya, gumbo - in all varieties, boudain - where have you been all my life?, people not planning, roast beef poboys, to name just a few.
But the hardest adjustment has been the reading the people at church while delivering a sermon. One would think people are people and how people interact with a sermon in Lincoln, RI or Athens, WV or St. Albans, WV or Scott Depot, WV or Rochester, NY would be universally, somewhat, the same. But they aint.
Everytime I think oh brother I really blew that the sermon. Or man hopefully they'll give me a mulligan. Or I hope the adage you're only as good as your last sermon is not true. This has happened a couple of times here recently but afterwards I find that what I was feeling was completely wrong. I have pondered this for some time: is the culture really that different? do they just not get me? do they not know what to do with me? is my style that different? Then this evening I came to the probably conclusion: I'm just not used to a church actually listening. This is not to say that every other place I preached in didn't listen or pay attention. Sure there were folk who would rake me over the coals or offer the best words of encouragement, or simply made me feel amazing with their compliments. But there is a level of difference when vast majority of folk actually listening.
On the one hand it would be great if they didn't listen that much (more room for half-hearted sermons, indeed). But on the other hand I am thrilled and intimidated that they listen. It makes the writing process much more enjoyable. What other art form has this kind of weekly feedback and interaction? What kind of artist has the confidence knowing that if he or she pours their heart, soul and mind into a piece of art a group of people will take their creation seriously? The job may be counter intuitive, but it is a fascinating job.
One year down, and many more to go...
26 July 2010
13 July 2010
A Biblical Mandate
We read in Genesis that one of Adam's duties was to name everything. Rather than a duty God did not have time for it appears God was anxious to see what Adam would come up with, So God formed from the soil every living-thing of the field and every fowl of heavens and brought each to the human, to see what he would call it; and whatever the human called it as a living being, that became its name. Everett Fox translation. You may recall season 10 The Simpsons where Homer (Adam) and Marge (Eve) disagree over the naming of a rodent. Marge: groundhog; Homer: "landmonster."
I suppose I have taken the biblical mandate of naming a little too far. I name rooms, nooks, even chairs at the rental chateau. At Lime Rock Baptist I had a contest to name the bell for the outdoor chapel. I even made up a holiday "The First Ever 28 days after WV Day Party" in an attempt to name the day.
This brings me to my current abode T-F and Sundays. There are multiple rooms and only a handful have proper names: The Harris Room and the Lee Reading Room. But I really think the offices, hallways, gates, trees, library, & etc. need names. I already have ideas for some it is just a matter of presenting them in the right way. I am also in the process of naming the small strips of grass as the North and South Lawns. My reasoning is that this place is too historic not to have formal and proper names. Furthermore, naming keeps memories alive and creates opportunities to tell the stories of this church and God's presence in them.
Any suggestions?
I suppose I have taken the biblical mandate of naming a little too far. I name rooms, nooks, even chairs at the rental chateau. At Lime Rock Baptist I had a contest to name the bell for the outdoor chapel. I even made up a holiday "The First Ever 28 days after WV Day Party" in an attempt to name the day.
This brings me to my current abode T-F and Sundays. There are multiple rooms and only a handful have proper names: The Harris Room and the Lee Reading Room. But I really think the offices, hallways, gates, trees, library, & etc. need names. I already have ideas for some it is just a matter of presenting them in the right way. I am also in the process of naming the small strips of grass as the North and South Lawns. My reasoning is that this place is too historic not to have formal and proper names. Furthermore, naming keeps memories alive and creates opportunities to tell the stories of this church and God's presence in them.
Any suggestions?
11 July 2010
Publish or Preach: The Teaching Ministry of Werner Lemke, an appreciation
I received word a couple weeks ago, via facebook that Werner Lemke had died of a heart attack while visiting family. Dr. Lemke was a giant of a man both physically and in a spiritual sense. From the first moment I talked with him I knew I was in the presence of an individual with the gift: the consummate professional, the apex of scholarship, the gentlest of human beings. He scared the hell out of me - in a good way.
CRDS was a loose ship when I arrived, except in Dr. Lemke's class. If class started at 10:00am, it started at 10:00am! If the assignment called for 100 pages of reading, you found a way to read 100 pages. The impetus was not fear but respect. You knew the man had poured his heart and soul into the lesson and he deserved the same from his students. If you opened up just a bit he filled it to the brim and then some. I can produce sermon after sermon on the book of Jeremiah from his Jeremiah class. He didnt beat it in or drill it in, he simply loved it in. He was an amazing teacher.
Then there was his briefcase. It looked like something from 1920s Egypt, it was huge and looked like it had been through war and back (given his life experiences it may have well been). It was cavernous and held a small library, papers, lectures, sermons, pens, and at least four sandwiches (this is all speculation but I bet I'm not too far off). I have looked in vain for a duplicate, perhaps it is fitting that there is only one in existence.
In class one day I asked why he stayed at CRDS all of these years. He replied that he had many opportunities to leave but his calling was to teach. The other opportunities carried a simple expectation: publish or preach. He chose neither, he chose to teach. Thank you Dr. Lemke for teaching. You were a great man and will be remembered always as so.
CRDS was a loose ship when I arrived, except in Dr. Lemke's class. If class started at 10:00am, it started at 10:00am! If the assignment called for 100 pages of reading, you found a way to read 100 pages. The impetus was not fear but respect. You knew the man had poured his heart and soul into the lesson and he deserved the same from his students. If you opened up just a bit he filled it to the brim and then some. I can produce sermon after sermon on the book of Jeremiah from his Jeremiah class. He didnt beat it in or drill it in, he simply loved it in. He was an amazing teacher.
Then there was his briefcase. It looked like something from 1920s Egypt, it was huge and looked like it had been through war and back (given his life experiences it may have well been). It was cavernous and held a small library, papers, lectures, sermons, pens, and at least four sandwiches (this is all speculation but I bet I'm not too far off). I have looked in vain for a duplicate, perhaps it is fitting that there is only one in existence.
In class one day I asked why he stayed at CRDS all of these years. He replied that he had many opportunities to leave but his calling was to teach. The other opportunities carried a simple expectation: publish or preach. He chose neither, he chose to teach. Thank you Dr. Lemke for teaching. You were a great man and will be remembered always as so.
07 July 2010
The Final Out
Last night sometime around 7:00 I turned in my coaching bag, thus ending my time as a baseball coach. I decided to wait until now to share some stories from my experience.
1. I now have enough material for a book full of short stories!
2. I now know what it means to be god - not because I call the shots: who plays first and who doesn't, batting order, & etc - because I know the true meaning of frustration. Every game I seek to line the boys up and get them in a ready baseball position. But as soon as I get them lined up they break out: one kid starts digging a hole, one kid starts hugging second base, one kid is watching the train, and one kid is picking their nose. In this way I feel like God - a higher power who does their best to get people in a ready position for human flourishing but they reject it and do their own thing. I have three godly options: yell at the kids (the easy route) or leave them on their own and let them get hit by the ball or go over and get them in place again.
3. If you can get a kid to hit a ball or put them in position to catch a ball it can make their day.
4. Kids are more fascinated with watching the ball they just hit then making it safe to first base.
5. Finally, at the end of the day the only thing that really matters is the team drink. In my day we called it "Around the World" here they call it "Swamp Water."
Yet all of these experiences are almost trumped by the most bizarre occurrence that can only be described as one of those "only in New Orleans types" Beer and Wine for sale at the concession stand.
1. I now have enough material for a book full of short stories!
2. I now know what it means to be god - not because I call the shots: who plays first and who doesn't, batting order, & etc - because I know the true meaning of frustration. Every game I seek to line the boys up and get them in a ready baseball position. But as soon as I get them lined up they break out: one kid starts digging a hole, one kid starts hugging second base, one kid is watching the train, and one kid is picking their nose. In this way I feel like God - a higher power who does their best to get people in a ready position for human flourishing but they reject it and do their own thing. I have three godly options: yell at the kids (the easy route) or leave them on their own and let them get hit by the ball or go over and get them in place again.
3. If you can get a kid to hit a ball or put them in position to catch a ball it can make their day.
4. Kids are more fascinated with watching the ball they just hit then making it safe to first base.
5. Finally, at the end of the day the only thing that really matters is the team drink. In my day we called it "Around the World" here they call it "Swamp Water."
Yet all of these experiences are almost trumped by the most bizarre occurrence that can only be described as one of those "only in New Orleans types" Beer and Wine for sale at the concession stand.
23 June 2010
Editing
On Monday the NY Times ran a nice piece on the archives of John Updike. I was eager to read the piece, thinking it would provide an insight into how Updike edited his material. Although the author did reveal a bit, he was not nearly expansive enough - for my tastes at least.
Editing seems to be a lost art. I find at least two grammatical errors in the Times each day - this is saying something from a writer who averages three errors a paragraph. Contextual note: i have yet to find any error in the Times Picayune, they have excellent copy editors. I would love to have a personal editor for my sermons. (I have a personal goal that I know I have made it as a pastor when three things happen: there are enough men in the congregation to field a winning softball team, I have the summers off, and have a personal secretary). On good weeks the sermon process goes likes this: last sentence written first (I once heard Robert Caro on Charlie Rose say he could not write his biographies of LBJ until he had written the last sentence. I tried it and man is that an excellent practice), outline, first draft (freehand), reading of first draft, second draft (typed and preached), final copy, and copies printed for worship (about 12 people read along during the sermon). I have a colleague who goes into the sanctuary early Saturday morning and preaches his sermon to finalize his sentence rhythm; I like the idea but no way I am going to give up my Saturday morning...yet. But that it is a perfect week. Most weeks that does not happen. When it does not happen I feel underwhelmed by my delivery and final product.
I look back on former years and think how many times delivered first draft sermons to congregations. And folk wonder why churches are not growing! I honestly believe there will be a revitalization in classical Protestantism but it will only come by way of well written, and yes edited, sermons.
Updike article.
Editing seems to be a lost art. I find at least two grammatical errors in the Times each day - this is saying something from a writer who averages three errors a paragraph. Contextual note: i have yet to find any error in the Times Picayune, they have excellent copy editors. I would love to have a personal editor for my sermons. (I have a personal goal that I know I have made it as a pastor when three things happen: there are enough men in the congregation to field a winning softball team, I have the summers off, and have a personal secretary). On good weeks the sermon process goes likes this: last sentence written first (I once heard Robert Caro on Charlie Rose say he could not write his biographies of LBJ until he had written the last sentence. I tried it and man is that an excellent practice), outline, first draft (freehand), reading of first draft, second draft (typed and preached), final copy, and copies printed for worship (about 12 people read along during the sermon). I have a colleague who goes into the sanctuary early Saturday morning and preaches his sermon to finalize his sentence rhythm; I like the idea but no way I am going to give up my Saturday morning...yet. But that it is a perfect week. Most weeks that does not happen. When it does not happen I feel underwhelmed by my delivery and final product.
I look back on former years and think how many times delivered first draft sermons to congregations. And folk wonder why churches are not growing! I honestly believe there will be a revitalization in classical Protestantism but it will only come by way of well written, and yes edited, sermons.
Updike article.
14 June 2010
The Senging Preacher
Yesterday at the beginning of my sermon I pulled out of my homiletical bag of tricks a few sung verses of a classic Tanya Tucker song (I am convinced that sermons can be greatly aided with a healthy serving of country music songs). The "trick" caused a few chuckles and some mild amusement in the congregation. But for me it set off the possibility of being labeled a "senging preacher." If that indeed does happen I would like to labeled appropriately. Thus my three definitions of preachers who sing.
1. First, there is the singing preacher. These are folk who are gifted singers but who spent too much time listening to sermons and not delivering them, spent too much time having folk look at the preacher more than them; usually are better singers than the preachers are preachers. One day they hear the call to preach and incorporate their singing into their preaching.
2. Next there are the preachers who would love to sing and think that if they incorporate singing into their preaching folk will appreciate them more.
3. Then there are the preachers who sing sappy hymns to, usually at the end of the sermon, to emote religious sentimentality with the hope of "winning one for the Lord." Why the odd spelling? It was the way my in-laws referred to them as. Think ginseng when you pronounce it. For the record, I enjoy listening to these types they are genuinely more entertaining than I will ever be and usually have a devoted following.
4. Furthermore, there are the preachers who can barely carry a tune in a bucket, enjoy music, and simply sing in their sermons for amusement with the hope of relaxing people enough to hear the word of the Lord. That's me.
1. First, there is the singing preacher. These are folk who are gifted singers but who spent too much time listening to sermons and not delivering them, spent too much time having folk look at the preacher more than them; usually are better singers than the preachers are preachers. One day they hear the call to preach and incorporate their singing into their preaching.
2. Next there are the preachers who would love to sing and think that if they incorporate singing into their preaching folk will appreciate them more.
3. Then there are the preachers who sing sappy hymns to, usually at the end of the sermon, to emote religious sentimentality with the hope of "winning one for the Lord." Why the odd spelling? It was the way my in-laws referred to them as. Think ginseng when you pronounce it. For the record, I enjoy listening to these types they are genuinely more entertaining than I will ever be and usually have a devoted following.
4. Furthermore, there are the preachers who can barely carry a tune in a bucket, enjoy music, and simply sing in their sermons for amusement with the hope of relaxing people enough to hear the word of the Lord. That's me.
12 June 2010
Dollars to Donuts
Other than the people (of course) probably the thing I miss the most about New England is the donut shops. They were everywhere. In the town I lived in then there were approximately 10 donut shops. New Orleans is a great food city but it aint a donut city. I have found a couple of okay donut shops but how I long for an old fashioned.
I woke up this morning, got the girls situated (#1 had a friend over), grabbed my sermon, and went off to the coffee shop. I sat down to go over my sermon only discover I had brought Justice Souter's Harvard Commencement Speech rather than my sermon. So I took a sip of french roast and drove over my new favorite donut shop.
This is the oddest donut shop I have ever been to. The donuts are okay, the kids are not crazy about them but the place is so bizarre I keep going back; for the record the VOR will no longer go there, but that is another story. How is it bizarre? The window faces the rising sun! It is a donut shop - a morning food! So every time you go in the woman behind the counter is always squinting and seems grumpy (I have yet to fully ascertain if she is a full-time grumpy or just grumpy due to the headache from squinting for hours). Next the place is barely 15ft sq but there is always two or three people working. (Last time the woman behind the counter shouted my order of two chocolate milks to the man at the cooler, which is right behind her). Next, they placed a table right in the middle of the room so to place an order you have to squeeze by the table and dont even think about bending over to look at the donut selection - there is no room to. Finally, "they" the workers and now the owner(s) are not ambivalent about their lack of sales. The other day I was told how the Lord sent them a table full of women for breakfast who "made their morning." They people are also completely disinterested in your donut order, they do not want you to mix and match, even though they have a selection of 10 different varieties. Oh yeah, and don't even think of just walking in and ordering a dozen or god forbid two dozen donuts; trust me you will hear about it, thus the VOR's reason for not going back.
Today I noticed a two paragraph narrative/statement explaining how the establishment would no longer be selling breakfast due to the rising cost of food and the low breakfast sales. The last sentence was in red, bold and in all caps informing the reader that being a donut shop they would continue to sale HOT GLAZED DONUTS. Whether or not they will they continue to sell cream filled, chocolate topped, powered sugar donuts is anybodies guess. Whereas the days of the hot breakfast bar are waning I stared at the selection of eggs, grits, biscuits, and sausage patties. The gentleman behind the hot breakfast area asked if he could help me. Innocently I asked for a sausage biscuit. Sure thing he said and then asked, 'do you want butter on your biscuit too?' What kind of question is that? of course i want butter on it. The gentleman informed the woman behind the donut counter (roughly a distance of two and one half feet) what I ordered. My order set off a chain of events that I have yet to decipher. It began with hushed tones, then a slight raise of voices about 60lbs of sausage, a trip to the freezer whence a box of patties was produced, followed by laughter, and the announcement to me that they would no longer be selling breakfast.
I woke up this morning, got the girls situated (#1 had a friend over), grabbed my sermon, and went off to the coffee shop. I sat down to go over my sermon only discover I had brought Justice Souter's Harvard Commencement Speech rather than my sermon. So I took a sip of french roast and drove over my new favorite donut shop.
This is the oddest donut shop I have ever been to. The donuts are okay, the kids are not crazy about them but the place is so bizarre I keep going back; for the record the VOR will no longer go there, but that is another story. How is it bizarre? The window faces the rising sun! It is a donut shop - a morning food! So every time you go in the woman behind the counter is always squinting and seems grumpy (I have yet to fully ascertain if she is a full-time grumpy or just grumpy due to the headache from squinting for hours). Next the place is barely 15ft sq but there is always two or three people working. (Last time the woman behind the counter shouted my order of two chocolate milks to the man at the cooler, which is right behind her). Next, they placed a table right in the middle of the room so to place an order you have to squeeze by the table and dont even think about bending over to look at the donut selection - there is no room to. Finally, "they" the workers and now the owner(s) are not ambivalent about their lack of sales. The other day I was told how the Lord sent them a table full of women for breakfast who "made their morning." They people are also completely disinterested in your donut order, they do not want you to mix and match, even though they have a selection of 10 different varieties. Oh yeah, and don't even think of just walking in and ordering a dozen or god forbid two dozen donuts; trust me you will hear about it, thus the VOR's reason for not going back.
Today I noticed a two paragraph narrative/statement explaining how the establishment would no longer be selling breakfast due to the rising cost of food and the low breakfast sales. The last sentence was in red, bold and in all caps informing the reader that being a donut shop they would continue to sale HOT GLAZED DONUTS. Whether or not they will they continue to sell cream filled, chocolate topped, powered sugar donuts is anybodies guess. Whereas the days of the hot breakfast bar are waning I stared at the selection of eggs, grits, biscuits, and sausage patties. The gentleman behind the hot breakfast area asked if he could help me. Innocently I asked for a sausage biscuit. Sure thing he said and then asked, 'do you want butter on your biscuit too?' What kind of question is that? of course i want butter on it. The gentleman informed the woman behind the donut counter (roughly a distance of two and one half feet) what I ordered. My order set off a chain of events that I have yet to decipher. It began with hushed tones, then a slight raise of voices about 60lbs of sausage, a trip to the freezer whence a box of patties was produced, followed by laughter, and the announcement to me that they would no longer be selling breakfast.
30 May 2010
Day IIII: the colorful city
I spent the morning of the fourth day at the odgen museum of southern art. From the get-go I realized two things: the difference use of color in southern art and that the narratives of the pieces were the narratives of poor people. I was introduced to artists I had never heard of and subjects I had not thought of before. I realized how word-centered my sermons and thinking had become. What pictures have I created? When I looked at the vibrant kids art I realized how little I develop a sermon with the energy of kids in mind.
After three hours I hopped back into the semi-mature German engineered sedan and headed up the avenue to the Loyola University Library to begin processing all of the artifacts, notes, and ideas I had accumulated.
After three hours I hopped back into the semi-mature German engineered sedan and headed up the avenue to the Loyola University Library to begin processing all of the artifacts, notes, and ideas I had accumulated.
27 May 2010
Outdoor Baptisms
The other day on facebook a reporter asked if anyone had any stories about outdoor baptisms. Boy did I, so I wrote the reporter a few of them and viola they ended up in an article!
Go here for the article.
Go here for the article.
26 May 2010
Day III: The Joy of Being a Liturgical Free Agent
I optioned to spend day iii of my bespoke continuing education program at the library of the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. B/C the church I serve had a historic relationship with the seminary I receive borrowing privileges at this institution (I do not, however receive a card - instead I tell them my name and they allow me to check out 5 books at a time).
I took my file folder box, sermon idea box, and my brief case into the reading room, found a big table, and spread my stuff out. It is a good place to study (nothing will ever take the place of the reading room at CRCDS). It was quiet for the most part, except when a dude came in to talk to the dude in some office. I heard fantastic (not really) tales of what is really going on with the BP spill. Other times folk would walk by, see my big pile of stuff, and make quizical remarks like "that guy has a lot of work to do" or "man look at that" and other well thought out responses. But the afternoon got kicking when a mob of golf shirts and khaki panted men along with short shorted cowgirl boot wearing females swarmed into the reading room sometime after lunch. They came in, commandeered most of the tables, took volumes of reference books and started, get this...researching. I tried like the dickens to figure out what they were up to but was unable. Although i may be nosy, i'm more of the disinterested nosy type.
Every time I go to the library I am more impressed with the collection and the friendliness of the staff.
My biggest surprise, however, came at the flow of ideas that emerged from dedicated and undistracted time. Ideas were gushing out so fast it was all I could do to write them down fast enough. I had mapped out on Monday my sermon ideas for the Fall, but it became apparent by 10:00am on Wednesday that my initial idea would not do. (How many times have I preached a first draft sermon or wasted time researching a first draft idea?) Instead of following the lectionary in the Fall I elected to develop a series of sermons based on the parables in Luke. This is where being a Baptist comes in handy; no one can send in a unit of liturgical cops over to rough me up and make me follow the lectionary. I am liturgical free agent and can move around, or not all, in the lectionary as I please.
With my texts and Sundays in hand I set about locating appropriate parable resources. But something happened by the time I got back to the table with my stack of books. Was the parables i chose and the order I chose them the best possible idea? I allowed my thoughts to percolate some more before arriving at an unsatisfactory answer. So I went back to work on the texts. Came up with a better order (third draft).
I took my file folder box, sermon idea box, and my brief case into the reading room, found a big table, and spread my stuff out. It is a good place to study (nothing will ever take the place of the reading room at CRCDS). It was quiet for the most part, except when a dude came in to talk to the dude in some office. I heard fantastic (not really) tales of what is really going on with the BP spill. Other times folk would walk by, see my big pile of stuff, and make quizical remarks like "that guy has a lot of work to do" or "man look at that" and other well thought out responses. But the afternoon got kicking when a mob of golf shirts and khaki panted men along with short shorted cowgirl boot wearing females swarmed into the reading room sometime after lunch. They came in, commandeered most of the tables, took volumes of reference books and started, get this...researching. I tried like the dickens to figure out what they were up to but was unable. Although i may be nosy, i'm more of the disinterested nosy type.
Every time I go to the library I am more impressed with the collection and the friendliness of the staff.
My biggest surprise, however, came at the flow of ideas that emerged from dedicated and undistracted time. Ideas were gushing out so fast it was all I could do to write them down fast enough. I had mapped out on Monday my sermon ideas for the Fall, but it became apparent by 10:00am on Wednesday that my initial idea would not do. (How many times have I preached a first draft sermon or wasted time researching a first draft idea?) Instead of following the lectionary in the Fall I elected to develop a series of sermons based on the parables in Luke. This is where being a Baptist comes in handy; no one can send in a unit of liturgical cops over to rough me up and make me follow the lectionary. I am liturgical free agent and can move around, or not all, in the lectionary as I please.
With my texts and Sundays in hand I set about locating appropriate parable resources. But something happened by the time I got back to the table with my stack of books. Was the parables i chose and the order I chose them the best possible idea? I allowed my thoughts to percolate some more before arriving at an unsatisfactory answer. So I went back to work on the texts. Came up with a better order (third draft).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)