Early this summer, I listened an NPR radio interview with Dame Stephanie Shirley, a pioneer in British software development.  Dame Shirley is now in her 70’s, no longer involved in the company, and is using her considerable talent and wealth to do philanthropic work. She was one of the first in the software business whose model was based on selling software; at that point, companies gave the software away with the purchase of the hardware. She also was one of the first to give women a family friendly place to work, allowing them to work at home if they wanted.
She spoke of a time when she was going through her own personal and family crisis: the business was consuming her and her two boys were going through puberty. When she realized that she was at the very edge of holding things together, she decided to take a three-month sabbatical. Everyone predicted the worst: friends and colleagues inside the company and out, not to mention so-called industry experts, all were convinced that everything would fall apart in her absence. Instead, the company thrived. She talked at some length about how her job was not to create a company or a philanthropic foundations dependent on her, but to grow organizations that do good work and make a difference in the world.
That same weekend, I attended the Eagle River (Wisconsin) Congregational Church. I could tell when I walked in the door that this was going to be good. By appearance alone, nothing stood out. It was a typical brick building from the early 20th century, a fairly typical sanctuary with old pews facing forward, the typical UCC chancel with sparse, simple furnishings. What was different was intangible; there was a vitality and life to the room. People were talking, the congregation was streaming in, and there was a palpable sense that people wanted to be there.
Just before the service, one of the ushers made a quick round of the entire sanctuary greeting folks, calling them by name, welcoming one back who apparently had been traveling and was attending that morning with her granddaughter. A deacon made announcements, and then that same welcoming usher stepped to the podium. “You might wonder why I’m here now and not Mary Ann. . .” he began. Mary Ann, it became clear, was the pastor; he went on to tell how Mary Ann would not be there. She had become ill during the week and though she was improving, was still not feeling well enough to lead worship. So, the lay folks stepped in and led, including reading the sermon that the pastor had written (quite a good sermon, by the way, and delivered quite effectively) and a children’s sermon that closely related to the themes of the sermon and lessons. Later in the service, new members were received, and all of it without the resident pastor present. It’s not just that the lay members limped along in leading the service. They seemed to embrace the task enthusiastically, as if it were their community and this was their work.
I don’t know Pastor Mary Ann Biggs, and she doesn’t know me from Adam (although I did stop in later that week and tell her about my experience). But good for you, Mary Ann Biggs. You and the people of Eagle River Congregational Church are doing good work. You have created genuine community and together you are leading a congregation in multiplying gifts and making sure that good, vital, life-giving ministry is happening.
It’s purely coincidental that I encountered both the interview and the worship service on same day. As different as they are, they are yet related. Both leaders have created vibrant, energetic organizations in which they as leader are important, yet which are not dependent on the leader to thrive.
That’s what good leaders do. They help create organizations where those within the organization people take responsibility and are accountable for the organization’s thriving. Pastoral leaders at their best help create congregational cultures where the members take responsibility and are accountable for the work that God has called the congregation to do, and even more so, move out from the congregation where they are empowered to do the work that God has called them to do in the world.
Our culture is infatuated with leadership. Just look at all the books available to help us become better leaders. Too much leadership theory apparently thinks that if the leader gets more competent, then the organization will do better. But that hasn’t really worked very well for us.
I don’t intend here to make this a long explication of leadership, but this much is true about being a leader. Good leadership is not programmatic nor is it reducible to universal principles. It’s organic, contextual, and above all, relational. Leaders have to engage people on more than the technical, informational level. They have to care about the people around them, discovering in conversation what people care about and are concerned about. Leaders build webs of relationship within their organization and the community around them and nurture and mentor others to do the same.
See, as these two women who lead very different organizations have demonstrated, good relational leadership empowers people, and where people are empowered, good things happen.

I’m not very good at waiting. I don’t like it.

When my wife and I are going going out for dinner, if there’s a line for a table, we’ll find a different restaurant. I start getting crabby if I’m officiating at a wedding and it doesn’t begin at the appointed hour.  I go to some trouble to find the best time to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles so I don’t have to wait in line.

I don’t like waiting.

And then I come across passages like these:

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
    and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
    more than watchmen wait for the morning,
    more than watchmen wait for the morning.  (Psalm 130:5-6, ESV)

or

they who wait for the Lord
    shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary
    they shall walk and not faint.  (Isaiah 40:31)

For nearly three months, I’ve been on sabbatical, and while I haven’t really had to wait much — thank God! — I have had more slow time than normal. My rhythms have become different. And I think I just might be coming to a different perspective about this waiting thing.

When there is no down time, the progression of events is from one thing to the next. I do this one thing — write an essay, for instance. And then I do the next thing. Let’s say it’s going out for dinner. And if there is time between those two things that I did not account for, it feels like an unneeded obstacle between the two things. An irritation. An annoyance. A waste of time when I should be doing something else.

Though I admit I’m not very good at this, I am working at seeing the interludes between things as ways to slow down, opportunities to rest my mind, nuggets of time to pay attention to relationships, unexpected occasions to find some joy (rather than frustration!) in the moment.

And I’ve also been thinking about whether there’s something more theological here as well, something more related to the life of the Spirit. In a culture that has little time for waiting, we (read: I) want everything now. Instant gratification is the way of the world, at least the North American world.

Yet waiting and faith seem to be somehow closely related. By faith we wait for the fulfillment of promises that we have not yet seen. By faith, we know that God is at work in the world and that God’s vision for the kingdom has not yet come to fruition. As the community of the graced, who have been given faith, we do not yet have it all, we do not yet see it all, we do not yet know it all, we are not able yet to hold on to it all. We live by faith. It’s part of our condition that we live with longing for what we know is possible, what we know is coming, and what we do not yet hold in our hands. There is no instant gratification when it comes to the purposes of God. We pray for peace, and we wait for peace. We pray for healing, and we wait for healing. We pray for the redemption of all creation, and we wait for the redemption of all creation.

I don’t mean to suggest that waiting is the same thing as passivity, that we just wait for our lives to pass by in a kind of unholy determinism. We work, it’s true. For most of us, the work part is not the problem. We do know how to work. What I need to be reminded of is that while I work, there are things that are are not up to me, that are up to the breath of the Spirit at work in the world. We do live by faith. Which just may be another way of saying, we wait. On the Lord.

How about this: a secular novel from post WWII Germany that does a pretty good job of articulating the vocation of Christians living under the Theology of the Cross?

Hans Fallada wrote Every Man Dies Alone in 1947 on the basis of a commission from a friend working with the Russians in post-war Germany. He wrote it in 24 days (My reaction as an author,? That’s just not fair!), and later wrote to a family member that this was the book he would be remembered for.

It languished in relative obscurity until the past few years, when the English translation has experienced a revival of sorts here in the US.

And well-deserved, I might add. Every Man Dies Alone is a powerful story of what it was like for the common citizen of Berlin at the height of Nazi power in Europe. It is the story of incredible brutality. We know well the brutality against the Jews. We hear less about the brutality against hundreds of thousands of ordinary German citizens. It is the story of fear and how a brutal regime succeeded in creating a climate where everyone lived in fear of retaliation and of being turned in to the regime by a neighbor for some trumped up charge.

And it is also the story of common, ordinary people taking up resistance to evil in a fashion that to the logical mind makes absolutely no difference.

The story is based on the true account of a couple in Berlin who wrote postcards critical of the Nazi regime and placed them randomly around Berlin. In the novel, the couple plays a cat and mouse game with the SS and succeeds for a frustratingly long time before finally getting caught and enduring the consequences of their so-called treason.

What they do — and you catch glimpses of the resistance of others are doing throughout the novel — seems do be innocuous and of no consequence. But in resisting the forces of evil, they are doing what they can, and in the meantime, they preserve their dignity and humanity, even as they seek to lift of the dignity and the humanity of those around them, all in the face of unspeakable brutality and evil. Even some of those who are the perpetrators of the brutality, the pawns of the evil system and the evil structure occasionally catch glimpses of the good that is being done, even if it seems to have no effect.

And isn’t this what we are called to do as God’s people? According to Luther’s Theology of the Cross, we live in the world for the sake of being part of the work that God is doing in the world. God is always working against the evil structures and systems of the world. While it often looks like evil is winning (see the Psalms for poetic articulation of the seeming victory of evil), in faith, we trust that God is at work in the contrary dismantling evil and working towards that redemptive kingdom of peace and justice. Each of us is called, in our own stations of life, to do what we can to work towards those ends. And even when what we do seems small and insignificant, we trust that what is done for the sake of God’s big work is not done in vain.

Fallada’s novel is powerful. It is well-written. It is moving. And it is, in spite of the fact that it makes no pretensions of being a religions novel, a powerful illustration of the calling of God’s people to go about our work for God’s sake.

P. S. — I have been tempted to tell you to read the translator’s Afterword before reading the novel. But I resist. He gives too much of the story away. But don’t skip it. The biographical information about the author and his comments about the story will enrich your appreciation of this fine novel.

Below is the written copy of a sermon I preached at the ordination service for Nate Sutton on Saturday, June 29 at Augustana Chapel on the campus of Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago.  Nate was the 2011-2012 intern at Faith.  He has been called to serve as Associate Pastor at Sharon Lutheran Church in Grand Forks, North Dakota.  Receiving such gifted young leaders into the church’s ministry is a sign of God’s rich and gracious provision for the church and her mission. It was an honor to be a part of the celebration.  The sermon is based on the gospel lesson for the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, John 21:15-19

Today is the day of the ordination of Nate Sutton and the Feast Day of Saints Peter and Paul. They share this feast day because tradition holds they were both martyred in Rome on this day c. 64 c.e., although the time and place of their deaths and burials is an unsettled question. In many ways, Peter and Paul could not have been more different. However, one similarity is that at their call, they are both given a new name. Peter is the name given to Simon, and Paul was formerly Saul. So, in keeping with tradition, I’d like to propose that on this day, Nate, we change your name to Mary, thus giving us the rare opportunity to celebrate the Feast of Peter, Paul, and Mary.

Seriously, there is so much I want to tell you today, Nate. I want to tell you what it will be like, what to do, what not to do, what to look for and what to look out for. As your internship supervisor I had a whole year to do that and yet it wasnt enough! However, you have not asked me for advice; you have asked me to preach. So, a sermon on this gospel lesson will have to suffice.

You heard the story of one of the several post-resurrection appearances in John’s gospel. We got just a snippet, the tail end of a longer story where Jesus meets his disciples as they are back at work. He leads them to a miraculous, overwhelming catch of fish, and then fixes a campfire breakfast for them on the beach. After breakfast Jesus addresses Peter directly and individually, though not necessarily privately. Three times he asks him two versions of the same question , “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” and then, simply, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Each time, Peter answers, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you,” the last time becoming impatient, even indignant, “Yes, yes, you know that I do, what do you want me to say?”

Of course, you students of Greek, will know that actually Jesus doesn’t ask exactly the same question. The first two times, he asks, “Do you love me, agapeo, unconditionally, purely, with the same love that the Father loves me and with the love that I love you?” Peter’s answer doesn’t exactly match: “Yes, Lord, I love you, phileo, a brotherly love, a mutual affection, deep, close friendship.” Only the last time do their verbs match when Jesus asks, Peter, not do you agapeo me, but do you phileo me.

“Do you love me, Nate?” “Do you love me Betty and Carl and Michelle and Robert and Amy?” No matter how we answer that, we know that our love for God is always conditioned by our condition — our brokenness, our fallenness, our ego, our need for attention, in short, our sin. Even what we do in Jesus’ name, for the sake of ministry, in answer of the call is tinged by the same fallenness. Sometimes I wonder why I do this work of being a pastor. Is it because of what I get out of it or because of the call of God? Why do I stand in the pulpit and preach, because I like being the center of attention or because there’s a fire burning in my bones?

Our love for God is always colored by our sin and brokenness. Peter’s love for Jesus was obviously imperfect, imperfect to the point of denial. Perhaps Peter was unwilling to go beyond committing to a brotherly love, knowing better than anyone what had transpired in the past several days.

Yet the call comes. The gracious call of our baptism, and now for you, Nate, the church’s gracious call setting you aside for ordained ministry. Jesus’ call through the church does not demand a perfect love on your part. It does not demand that you have fully purified your motives. It does not demand that you have attained a certain measure of love that sets you apart. It comes. By grace. It comes from God who has loved you, agapeo, unconditionally, decidedly, persistently, eternally. And in that love, you will do the work of ministry.

Speaking of the work of ministry. In each question and answer exchange, Jesus gives a charge. That charge comes in three different forms: feed my lambs, tend my sheep, and feed my sheep.

Ministry is feeding. It is sharing the Word; it is teaching and forming faith; it is administering the life-giving sacraments; it is visiting the sick and the imprisoned; it is comforting the bereaved and troubled.

Ministry is tending. Tending evokes some of the more tension-filled parts of ministry that may not be as pleasant, but are nevertheless necessary. Speaking to the context of the congregation of God’s people to whom you have been called of how brokenness and self-centeredness plays out. Saying that hard word about complicity in oppression about keeping the poor at arms’ length. Pointing out how we have turned our backs on the Crucified One for the sake of the gods of the economy.

Ministry is relating. You know this, Nate. You have learned and practiced and committed yourself to this way of doing ministry. Ministry is not just knowing the names of the sheep, but knowing their story. Sitting down with them and asking the pointed questions, knowing what they are concerned about and what they are energized about so that the work of ministry is done by a true community and not by a collection of individuals. And it is relational ministry with those who may not even be acknowledged members of the flock, but are, nonetheless, sheep whom the shepherd loves.

After this exchange between Jesus and Peter, the text takes a decidedly negative turn. Jesus predicts a life of suffering and a difficult death. Jesus does not candy-coat his call to Peter.

I’ve wondered what to think about that and what to say about that on this occasion of your ordination. Of course, it was an option just to ignore it. After all, we rarely preach on every section of every text in every sermon. Yet, there is something important here.

In calling Peter, Jesus established the expectation that there would be suffering. According to church tradition, Peter met a cruel and violent death by crucifixion. Though it’s unlikely that your ministry will follow that precise pattern, I can virtually guarantee that there will be times of pain and discouragement, times when you feel abandoned by God and by the church. You have been nurtured in Mother Church, and today the whole church is shining its lovely and encouraging face on you; but it will not always be like that. Mother Church can be nurturing and loving, and she can also be harsh and cruel.

Strangely enough I say, embrace those times. Contrary to what the world says, embrace those times of suffering and discouragement and failure and pain. The world says that we should avoid suffering at all cost. But suffering is an inevitable part of life. In suffering and pain and discouragement, we learn the most valuable lessons. As you know, Nate, there are parts of my ministry that have been very painful. I would not wish those things on you or anyone. Yet as I reflect on my own journey, those have been times of deep growth — in faith, in my vocation as pastor, and in my connection to community. Why should I be surprised? It’s biblical. It’s the pattern that has been set. We follow a crucified savior. Not only in the lesson we read today that comes from the end of Paul’s life, but permeating his entire epistolary corpus is this theme that God’s grace worked through Paul’s own suffering. In suffering, our wisdom is refined, our skills are honed, and most importantly, we come to realize that the sufficiency for ministry is from God and not from us. We do, after all, have this treasure in jars of clay.

Nate, you are an extraordinarily gifted young man. Bishop, you will discover what a gem your synod has received, Dave and Ardis and all of your fellow members from Sharon Church in Grand Forks, you will quickly discover what a blessing this young pastor will be to you and your community. I have every expectation that you will become an exceptional leader in the church. But the ministry that you do will not be rooted in your gifts. It will be rooted in the love of the savior that calls you in spite of your imperfect love and imperfect motives. It will be rooted in the promises of God for the people you serve and for all of creation. It will be rooted in the death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ and of God’s intention for the Spirit to be moving in the church and in the world. It will be rooted in the foolish proclamation of the Word and of God’s foolish intention to work God’s grace through water and wine and bread. Your gifts will merely — and I use that word very intentionally — merely the vessels through which God’s work gets done. In short, your call and ministry flow from grace.

After this, Jesus said to him, “Follow me.”

I was elated yesterday when I heard the news reports that the U.S. Supreme Court had struck down the Defense of Marriage Act, arguing that it unduly discriminates against legally married same sex couples. But my elation so quickly was tempered when the same program reported that after hearing the news, Mike Huckabee tweeted, “Jesus wept.” I can’t write my first response here. It was full of bile and name-calling. I’ve found that such and emotional reaction isn’t very helpful for me or anyone else.

Mike Huckabee is the master of the cleverly worded sound bite. So, to take this relatively famous and well-known passage, lift it from it’s biblical context, and insert it into another completely different context would, of course, speak to his constituency.  But it’s patently dishonest and uses Jesus’ own words in a way that I think would make Jesus weep.

When Jesus wept at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, I think he was weeping not primarily  over the death of his friend. After all, momentarily he would call forth the corpse from the tomb. I think he was weeping at the cumulative brokenness of the human condition, a brokenness that eventually ends in death for all of us; I think he was weeping at the separation that our brokenness causes between us, a separation over which we grieve not only at death, but all along the journey of life. Because of our separation and brokenness, we experience untold suffering, individually and communally. I can imagine Jesus already outside Lazarus’s tomb weeping over the weight of human sin and all of the injustices we inflict on one another.

So, to say that Jesus wept at the Supreme Court’s decision yesterday rings hollow. In my own understanding of the Christian faith, it’s wrong. In fact, if Jesus was weeping, he would have been weeping at the brokenness that results from laws that stand in the way of allowing loving, committed couples from enjoying the same societal benefits of marriage that heterosexual couples have always enjoyed. And if Jesus was shedding any tears yesterday, I think they would have been tears of joy that finally, the law has fallen down on the side of equality, love, justice, and commitment.

Recently I listened to an interview on NPR with country music superstar, Tim McGraw. As another new album comes out, the interviewer prodded McGraw to reflect on his career. When asked what it was like to be at the top of his game, McGraw reflected, “I feel like I’m just learning how to be good.”

His response had the ring of authenticity in my ears. There was an honest recognition of his talent and success, and the truth that he’s looking into an unknown future and still trying to figure it out.

In the past couple of months, I’ve had occasion to step back and reflect on where I am in my own vocation as pastor. Part of it was preparing for the sabbatical that I just began. Where I am? What do I need right now? If I’m going to continue doing this until I retire, what will give me energy and motivation and that fire in my belly to keep going for another 15 or so years?

On the one hand, I have some sense that this vocation has been a good use of my gifts. In general, I think I do this work pretty well. I think I started out with some natural ability. But as in most vocations, natural ability can only get you so far. My natural curiosity and love of learning has helped me get better; I’ve learned both from experience and from books, workshops, seminars, and the like. Some things I do very well; some things I’m just not that good at. Part of my effectiveness, I think, has been to acknowledge that, find ways to do more of the things I’m good at, and find others who are good at the things I’m not.

It also has to do with watching my son, Chris, at the very beginning of his pastoral vocation. He just graduated from the seminary and is awaiting his first call. We’ve had many conversations about his own preparation and how it was different from mine, and about his own sense of call and the kind of work he feels called to do and the things he thinks he’s good at. I don’t know how objective I am, but I think his training was much more sharply focused on the blend of callings in the pastoral ministry:  local theologian, equipper for mission, and seelsorger (one who cares for souls). I think his training was much more realistic about the church that he will be serving and its place in the world.

I’ve often quipped with Chris that I wish I knew when I was starting out what I know now. I would have been pretty good.  But that’s the way it is. You don’t start out knowing everything. You learn as you go. What you’re good at, what you’re not. It was even a pretty significant learning for me to be able to admit publicly that there were some things I’m not very good at. You learn as you go how to integrate the learning from books and conversation and observation and messing up and continuing education into the actual practice of pastoral ministry with the people in the place you are called to serve.

If I can echo the words of Tim McGraw and say that I’m good at this work, I feel that,  like him, I’m only beginning to learn how to be good at it. And I’m afraid that moment when I feel like I’m the best that I could be it will be the time to call it quits and walk away.

But I’m not there yet. I’ve got too much yet to learn.