The Board of Redemption

I returned last week from a three-day board meeting at my Alma mater seminary in Berkeley, California. This is my third year on the board. I'm the youngest board member by at least 10 years, minus the representative from the seminary's student association. Many of the other board members have children my age and have impressive backgrounds in finance, law or experience on corporate boards. I'm a parish pastor, in fact, the only ordained person serving a congregation, though others are in specialized calls or serving as bishops.

Sometimes I feel a little inadequate, to say the least. Sitting on this board has been a stretch for me as I wrap my mind around board governance, financial documents and uncertain futures for small schools of theological education. I've learned what a board does and doesn't do and I'm getting better at asking good questions.

Board fellowship is also part of the gig; we're supposed to bond. We spend time at social hour before dinner, take meals together and stay in the same hotel. I'm slowly getting to know board members, hearing their stories, sharing some of mine and making connections with people who are amazing church men and women but who did not, at first, feel like my peers.

The longer I serve on this board, though, the more comfortable and connected I feel. I hope to make a positive impact. I'm getting there and I try to contribute as best I can.

What the other board members may not know, though, is that sitting on this board may be giving me more than I can ever offer to them. For me, it's as much a board of redemption as a board of directors.

I came to this seminary on the Master of Divinity track in the fall of 2001. I left behind my family and friends in Iowa and took a chance on moving far away. My college boyfriend was moving to California, too, and I'd hoped we'd share a great adventure, get married and live happily ever after. About 10 days after I arrived in Berkeley, planes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City. The turmoil in our nation mirrored the turmoil in my own heart as I tried to adjust to my new surroundings.

It was hard. Being in seminary is unsettling and my adjustment was particularly tough. I was desperately homesick for family and friends back home and I struggled to connect with other students. I felt like I was too conservative for Berkeley and I couldn't find the right place to share my troubles.

The seminary had problems, too. Though I didn't know for sure what was happening at the board level, rumors swirled that the board wanted to sell our property and move the school. My fellow students and I wondered if the place would still be around to grant us a diploma. We knew money was tight and staff and faculty were overworked. We all were there despite the fact that scholarships were few and cost of living was high. I was sinking deeply into debt. When I went to the financial aid office each year to sign loan papers, I couldn't even look at the total I owed. I relied too much on credit cards, debt that would haunt me for years to come.

There were other problems at the seminary. One professor was gravely ill and it negatively affected our learning. I tried to confide in a member of the campus pastoral care team about my doubts about the seminary and she responded by venting about her own unhappiness there. Thankfully, both professor and staff member are long gone from the school. There were other staff and faculty transitions, too. Meanwhile, I sent off an application to another seminary so I could transfer.

Then, my boyfriend broke up with me, casting me into despair. A few months later, the seminary president, beloved by us all, died suddenly of a blood clot in the lungs. There was so much sorrow; I felt inconsolable. It seemed like absolutely everything was falling apart. My time in seminary was easily the spiritually lowest part of my life.

Though I had been accepted at another seminary, for some reason, I decided to stay. Perhaps the effort to leave was too much to bear in my miserable state. I decided to go on internship and was assigned to Alaska. The rest, of course, is history. I had a great internship, fell in love with Alaska, returned there for first call and met and married the real love of my life, Erik.

About three years ago, the president of the seminary called to ask if I'd consider being on the board. They needed someone from Alaska and I think they needed an ordained person. I hesitated, then had a long talk with a clergywoman from California who was going off the board. I told her some of my experiences and fears. She told me things were different. The seminary had undergone major changes with the new president. The seminary budget was in the black. Staff and faculty changes were positive and functional. The mood around campus was positive and hopeful.

So though I wanted to say no, I said yes. I nearly wept after the first board meeting. Or maybe I did. It was so functional! Things had changed in the four short years since I left. Things were very good. The spirit of forward-thinking and optimism was unmistakable. While I knew the place well, in some ways I didn't even recognize it.

For the second time in my life, I made a commitment to the seminary and I'm slowly growing into my new role. Now, things are in flux again, as our seminary considers a merger with a Lutheran undergraduate school in Southern California. The seminary would still be in Berkeley, but some things would, of course, change.

But I think some things will stay the same. There will always be challenges of living in a small Christian community, full of Christians who sometimes miss the mark. But the more time I spend here, the more I think that the heart of the seminary will always remain. It's a seminary of the west. It's a seminary in a secular world that still proclaims the heart of the gospel. It's a seminary that is still preparing leaders who can be creative and collaborative enough to face the changes in our church and world.

So, I'm sticking with my seminary. I'm sticking with a place that reminds me that God can bring new life from any situation. I'm sticking with the board, my board of redemption.

Ministry in the Shadow of the Budget

When I think about money, especially when there's not enough of it, there's a particular feeling of dread that settles into the pit of my stomach. I don't just feel it in my heart, I experience it in my body. It's powerful, visceral and real.

I grew up feeling that way, overhearing conversations between my parents on the farm as they wondered aloud if there would be enough money for food and utilities. We had no health care, as children, because we couldn't afford it. My mom paid $50 a year so we could have the required annual sports physicals. Otherwise, she told us to be very careful. There was no money for other doctor visits or emergencies.

As a young adult, I worried about money, too. I wasn't paid well as a journalist in Iowa and then I accrued plenty of debt in seminary. I took the call at Central only after I figured out that the salary met synod guidelines and I could afford rent, car payments and student loan payments with that paycheck. It was still tight, though, and it's been tight ever since. Getting married helped considerably (thank you Erik) but that feeling of dread in my belly comes back from time to time.

It's back now, not in my personal financial life, but in my professional financial life as pastor at Central Lutheran Church. There's not enough money in the budget and there hasn't been for a long time. Meanwhile, Pastor Glenn, Luis, the rest of the staff and I do ministry in the shadow of the budget, a dark and scary place.

Central members may know the situation and others can read about it on the church web site where church council meeting minutes are posted. The problem is that there isn't enough revenue to support four full-time staff (two pastors, youth workers and office manager), plus all the other part-time staff. In addition, Central has made a pledge to offer a portion of all revenues as benevolences: gifts to the synod, Lutheran Social Services, Habitat for Humanity, Alaska Children's Services and many others. When giving goes down, our benevolences go down too, since they are a percentage of all giving. Over the years we've had to reduce that percentage, much to the disapproval of many members who like us to pass our money along.

Why has giving gone down? Lots of reasons. The economic downturn meant that people simply had less to give. Some left the church over church wide decisions in 2009 regarding gay and lesbian clergy. Some members who were big givers have died or moved away. Worship attendance is generally lower than it was several years ago. Even though many new members have joined the church in the past several years, it takes time for people to give at the levels of long-time members. Some may not wish to give or may not be able to do so.

Whatever the reason, the reality has hit us. In January, while I was on sabbatical, the church council reduced the pastors' salaries to 90% each and the youth worker to 75%. This has potential consequences for ministry. If staff work less, what doesn't get done? What can be done more efficiently? How can volunteers help? What church programs or offerings should go away? What do I cut out of my full schedule? Where do I not show up? Who do I not take time for? These are tough questions.

At the April church council meeting, we determined that the cuts made in January to staff salaries probably are not enough. Our treasurer asked which bills she should pay first in case there isn't enough cash flow. It's not a theoretical question. The council struggled to give her an answer.

Of course it is not up to me alone to fix this problem, though I desperately wish I could. That old feeling is back in the pit of my stomach, the one I get when there's not enough money. It's back and it's been there for days, even as I try to figure out how to bask in the after-glow of a restful sabbatical. My stomach aches again and I wonder how to make it go away.

Meanwhile, there's ministry to be done. Just because the budget is tight, we staff members at the church can't sit in sackcloth and ash to mourn. There's too much to be done. People still die (two people in our church died in the last two weeks) and people still need to be visited at home and in the hospital. There are still folks struggling with their faith or life circumstances, folks who need a listening ear. There are confirmation lessons to prepare, sermons to write, worship to plan, synod assembly to attend and Bible studies to prepare and study. Ministry goes on and on and on, even in the shadow of the budget.

But that dread still remains. I'm trying to figure out how to live in peace with it. I'm trying to use my solid foundation of Lutheran theology that urges us to hold two opposing things in tension. You know, like how we are both saint and sinner. In the same way, we are both doing amazing ministry at Central and, at the same time, struggling desperately to stay afloat. I worry each day that our little squabbles over hymns or worship styles is simply re-arranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Where does God call us in troubled times? How does God speak to us when we are afraid?

I'm sorry to say that your pastor doesn't have the right or perfect answer. But I do have the power of prayer. While I've been in Berkeley these past few days for a seminary board meeting, I've been praying mightily for some guidance and direction for our shared ministry at Central. Please join me in praying for our congregation and tough decisions that lie ahead if our financial situation remains the same or worsens.

I would not say that the dread in my belly went away while I was in Berkeley these past few days, but I did find consolation in conversations with my fellow board members. I am reminded that the church across the country is struggling with decisions about budgets, staff and facilities. I am also reminded that the church exists not for itself but to proclaim the message of a loving Savior. That's more important than anything else. And no matter what our churches do, the Word of God remains and God's love is steadfast. The shadow of the budget does not and cannot quench the Spirit of the living God.

So thanks for your prayers and your support of Central Lutheran Church. At the same time that I (still) feel the dread in my belly over the money, I feel the love of God and the strength of our community as a joy in my heart. We move forward into the unknown future, where God already is, Lord of all.

UnChristian

I'll be clear upfront: this is a book review of a small volume called "UnChristian," by David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons. My old pal and bishop, Michael Keys, commended this book to me a couple years ago. It's written by folks at the Barna research institute about the common stereotypes that young Americans have toward Christianity and why it matters.

But this isn't just a book review, because these ideas really do matter. I finished this book on sabbatical and thought about the themes a lot. If you're reading this and consider yourself a Christian, I ask you to pay attention.

Kinnaman and Lyons surveyed thousands of young adults (aged 18-41) as well as older adults to find out perceptions of Christians from outsiders (those who don't consider themselves Christian). The results aren't pretty. Overall, the younger the persons, the worse the stereotypes. Here were the top winners: anti homosexual, judgmental and hypocritical. The "big three" were followed up by: old-fashioned, too political, out of touch with reality, insensitive to others, boring, not accepting of other faiths and confusing.

Well, shoot. That's not exactly what I woke up this morning aiming toward.

The book then takes a chapter each on the following: hypocritical, too focused on converts, anti homosexual, sheltered, too political and judgmental. The authors discuss why this stereotype might exist and how Christians perpetuate it and then how Christians can respond. Good premise, good wake up call.

Time for a confession: I almost threw this book down in disgust and didn't finish it. While I agree with Kinnaman's research and conclusions, he's a different kind of Christian than me. He's self-described as born again and evangelical. And my biggest problem is that he thinks being gay/lesbian is a sin. That's not consistent with my reading of the gospels. So I nearly ditched the book. In fact, as I was reading it, I smugly congratulated myself (and Central) for being such a welcoming, open and loving place. Surely these stereotypes of judgmental, hypocritical and sheltered couldn't be attributed to us?

Well, they probably could be. The book reminded me that a healthy dose of humility is always in order when trying to live a Christ-like life. We may do well, but we could do better. We may talk a good game, for example, about loving others and reaching out, but do we really do it? The book featured on only Kinnaman's research but also essays from other faith leaders. Again, I didn't agree with all of their theology, but here's a great excerpt on being welcoming.

"One of our weaknesses is that we're far more concerned with being right than being righteous. We become like the Pharisees whenever we focus on issues rather than people...Do you want to remove the unhealthy judgmentalism you have in regard to the poor? Make sure you have poor people who you love and welcome in your life. Do you want to remove the unhealthy judgmentalism you have in regard to homosexuals? Make sure you have gay and lesbian friends whom you love and welcome into your life. Do you want to remove the unhealthy judgmentalism you have in regard to our government? Make sure you have people involved in politics whom you love and welcome into your life." Margaret Feinberg, author

Some of the research made me think it's a good time for Lutheran theology to speak to a new generation. Kinnaman bemoans that the younger generation is increasingly resistant to black-and-white views of the world. They prefer context, ambiguity and tension. That's exactly what Lutherans believe! That's how we deal with scripture and the complex issues in the life of faith! We're poised to articulate faith in a way that may very well be just what people need to hear! How well are we (Lutherans) doing, then?

Kinnaman closes his book with how Christians should be thought of in our world. I can't argue with his conclusions. He writes that Christians must really see and hear people. Christians must be defined by service and sacrifice, humility and grace. He writes that we must be open to criticism and be willing to get to know people just for who they are, not as a soul we'd like to convert. He says we have to talk about Scripture in ways that don't make assumptions that our audience knows anything about them. We have to communicate the gospel with a "gravity and buoyancy" that catches the attention of a skeptical and often disinterested audience. How are we doing, then?

Finally, some good questions from Kinnaman: "What if millions of us are living for ourselves, even while we are going through the motions of religion? What if we seek comfort for ourselves rather than giving comfort to other people? What if our spiritual efforts are focused on maintaining equilibrium rather than addressing the significant spiritual needs of others?"

I'd like to hear from other Christians out there. What do people say that we are? Are they right? How can we respond?

Re-entry

When a NASA shuttle orbiter (may they rest in peace) returned to Earth, it blazed through the stratosphere at about 17,000 miles per hour. When the orbiter was about ready to land, the pilot deployed the landing gear and a parachute was deployed from the back to help it slow down safely.

My re-entry into work at Central felt a little like the blaze through the atmosphere with not enough parachutes and landing gear.

I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel ready to come back to Central. Sure I missed people but I felt unprepared for the fast pace of my work and the rush of Holy Week. I did things during that last week that I thought would make me feel ready. I prayed. I blogged. I reviewed what I learned and how I might have grown. I did yoga. I spent time with my husband.

It didn't seem to matter. I didn't quite feel ready but April 1 came anyway, and I plunged back in, ready or not. It was such a rush. My mutual ministry committee had graciously put up welcome back signs and people wore leis and name-tag signs welcoming me back. There were little sheep on the signs which said things like, "Aloha Pastor Lisa" and "Welcome back Shepherd Lisa!" I was given a corsage and a bouquet of flowers. There was a reception with goodies. People said kind words, offered me handshakes and hugs. It was fun and it was humbling.

It was Palm Sunday and we waved palm branches and raised hosannas. I celebrated communion at the second service, delighted that I remembered the words. I checked my email later and had trouble remembering how to get into Outlook Express.

I was tired that afternoon, overwhelmed by re-entry and the outpouring of love. I napped a bit, then Erik and I went to the Seder Meal at church that night.

A few hours later, I was overwhelmed by a chest cold, rattling cough, fever, body aches and headache. I spent the next couple of days in bed with what apparently was the flu. Erik got it a couple of days later and we're slowly recovering. We both still cough a lot and have very low energy. I've only been back to the office since Thursday. I spent both Thursday and Friday alternating working and napping. Today I finally did a very slow 4-mile run.

In retrospect (perfect vision!) I see that the emotional transition of sabbatical to work was probably a bit much for the rigors of Holy Week. I feel disoriented and out of the loop, and that was before I got sick. I also feel torn as people ask me to re-engage in various ministries, projects and upcoming plans. How much shall I say "yes" to? Should I start staying "no" more? Will this sabbatical change anything? Everything?

I'm writing this reflection on Holy Saturday and it's almost time to head over to church for the Easter Vigil service. I like the service, especially the part where we tell the stories from the Old Testament, using skits and funny readings. It's a fitting reminder, I think, of the journeys of God's people. Those stories are our stories, too, of course, stories of struggle, surprise, tragedy and great joy. Even though the main point of Easter is the risen Christ, it's good to stay with the journey a little longer. It reminds us that we're all a work in progress.