Tribal Church

I got a call from the women’s shelter that I teach art classes at. Someone died. A forty-five-year-old resident, who was moving into her own place next week. It’s so tragic.

She didn’t have a church, but the residents and staff want something to have some time and space to remember her. So, I’ll be leading something with a handful of women at the shelter. But it’s not a religious service….

I’m wondering, does anyone have some good resources–poetry, readings, etc. that might be good for such a time as this?

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My father and I enter a huge concrete block building with no windows, the carpet is brown and there are people everywhere, it seems like seven hundred of them. My dad does not use a cane yet, but he needs to, so he holds me on the back of my neck to steady him, and I act as a kind of human crutch. I am about nine-years-old, so I guess I am just the right size for it. I walk slowly, feeling him lean on my back, trying to keep the same pace.

The service begins with praise music, and a man named Jimmy plays the piano, belting out the choruses into a microphone, while everyone else claps and sways; they close their eyes and lift up their hands. There are no hymnals, the words are written with markers on overhead projectors and displayed on the two screens in the front of the auditorium. The choruses are easy to pick up, and they stick in my head. The children are all running around: racing back and forth to the water fountain in the corner of the room, and I am shocked because I have never been able to do that in the Baptist church where I was a member.

Jimmy’s music turns from playing a song to playing chords, and the notes wave over the congregation as he says, “I sense that there is someone in this church who came for healing.” That’s an obvious statement, as we’re at a healing service. My father has a neurological condition that grows worse over time. He never had much control over his lower body and he moved his feet by swinging his arms and chest. Eventually he will move to a cane, to a walker, to a wheelchair, and he’ll fight each progression, with a hearty insistence that it’s not going to happen. But his body never cooperates with his strong will.

As a daughter, watching my father debilitate is difficult. It’s hard for all of us, I suppose, to watch our parents age, to see them weaken, to observe that great patriarchal force diminish, becoming incapacitated.

Dad doesn’t have much use for doctors or physical therapists. Every time he goes, he ends up with a different diagnosis: everything from polio to Multiple Sclerosis to a simple vitamin B deficiency. Even though he doesn’t seek medical help often, the hope for a cure absolutely drives him; he’s always looking for a miracle.

And that’s why we’re here, at the service. Jimmy continues, “She has just been diagnosed with cancer and God wants to touch her tonight,” and I can see a woman across the auditorium, her face changes, she’s shocked as tears well up into her eyes. She makes her way down the aisle so that she can be prayed for, and people surround her, pleading with God that her cancer might go away. The sick woman stands in the middle of this, she becomes overwhelmed by it all, and she faints. She’s been “slain in the Spirit.”

A couple of ushers have these modesty cloths ready, and they move in quickly to put it over her knees, so that her dress does not ride up while she’s out. Jimmy pronounces, with his fingers still dancing over the piano, “Sister, your cancer is gone. God has healed you. It is gone,” and the crowd erupts in applause and shouting, everyone is so excited because they are sure that the next X-ray will show a shrinking lump.

Jimmy had more words for the people in the crowd: there was someone with one leg longer than the other, and another person with asthma, and another with allergies. One by one they came up for prayer. Then, the first woman wakes up and she is telling everyone how she was diagnosed with lung cancer, and how she did not want to come to the service, but she came anyways, and now she is healed. The people yell out with loud “Hallelujahs” and “Thank you, Jesus.”

This testimony seems to fuel the fire and more people make it to the steps so that they can receive healing. The service seems to continue for hours, but Jimmy never says anything about my dad, and I wonder why. I stand there, a fervent and very religious little girl, and I pray, as hard as I can, that my dad will be healed. I pray that his feet will become straight and that his back will no longer be crooked, and I believe with my whole being that it will happen. I can see miracles all around, and I just know that if I have enough faith, mountains will be moved and my dad will be healed.

But then the songs and prayers end, and we walk out, with my father’s hand bearing down on the back of my neck, just like when we walked in the meeting. My heart’s crushed, just like the last time we went to one of these. I wonder if God can’t hear me. I think maybe I am doing something wrong, and I imagine my prayers bouncing off the ceiling and never reaching the ears of the divine. I can’t understand why God passes out the miracles to everyone but my dad. I can’t figure out why my father would end up after each service, with the same halting steps that he had before.

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The good folk at the Presbymergent site are looking for a logo. Or, for those who don’t like any hint of branding or labels, it’s a temporary artistic expression of who we are. We will use it to loosely identify ourselves, but it could change at any moment.

One of the over-arching images of the emerging church is that you don’t look to the outer branches of the trees to survey the health of an ecosystem, you look at the new growth on the ground floor (Brian McLaren). The wonderful thing about mainline emerging movement is that we have that canopy of cover that protects the new growth (Diana Butler Bass). That was the vision I was trying to get across–the emergence of new growth from the forest ground. You can click on them to make them larger.

We’re still submerged here.

We’re growing up here.

These still need to be cleaned up, which I’ll take the time to do if anyone’s interested in them. So, what do you think? Which one do you like better? Even if you have nothing to do with Presby- or -mergent, I’d love to hear your opinions.

Ryan Pappan’s got some cool designs in the works. Here’s a link to his.

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I was in my twenties when I arrived on the scene in one of my congregations. I made a commitment to have office hours. Not that I planned to be tied to my desk, it’s just that as a pastor, I always think it’s good when our members know that you’re going to show up at the job. So, I’m at the office, but my husband and I are trading off one car, so he has it most of the time. There’s no secretary. The parking lot’s empty. Plus, it’s secluded, behind the church building, and surrounded by marsh.

It doesn’t take long before I see a car pull up. No one gets out. Another car pulls up. The first guy gets out, leans into the other car’s open window. Bags and money are exchanged.

“Oh great,” I mumble to myself as I watch this unfold from my desk.

Then, high school students begin gathering there. And on Sunday mornings, I find empties and condoms around the church. Then I discover the remains of an attempted bonfire on the protected marshland no more than a foot away from the building.

I went to the session about it. They all knew what was going on. It had been going on for decades. And there was a lot of history…. The response was mostly, “Kids will be kids,” and one or two, “We’ve got to do something about this.” I was definitely on the “We’ve got to do something about this” side of things.

I asked the police to begin patrolling the area on their rounds. There was a bust. Then, I drove up the next Sunday morning with the five-foot words scrawled in spray paint on the side of one of the church buildings: F-CK YOU B-TCH!

I sighed. A lovely “welcome to the neighborhood” for the new pastor. I took a picture of it, grabbed a bucket and some bleach, and began scrubbing.

After these incidents, a scary homeless guy forced his entry into my office. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling safe in my church.

Switch scenes.

I’m at the denominational, annually required, Safe Church Seminar (a.k.a. sexual harassment meeting). We’re watching this movie (Think high school. Think drunk-driving awareness flick.) It’s about Pastor X, who has a beautiful wife and kids. And a side affair with the secretary. And the flower committee chair. And a half-a-dozen other women in the congregation. We’re watching car wreck after car wreck. We’re groaning at every new revelation. The presenters turn on the lights and tell us that it’s a true story. None of us are surprised.

We break into groups of six to discuss the movie. My group is made up of five men including my esteemed colleague, Carl Dudley (who doesn’t know who I am, but I’ve read most of his books).

I say, “We need to rethink this training. I’m not in a powerful/predator position. And there’s nothing in this training that applies to my situation.”

Carl disagrees. He says that if you’re a pastor, you’re always in the power position.

So, my question is, who’s right?

Oh, and a prologue on the safety situation. This is how we solved it.
(1) We organized a bevy of volunteer secretaries, so I was never in the office alone.
(2) We couldn’t afford an alarm system, so we got one of those medic-alert buttons.
(3) I called the cops on the drug dealers.
(4) I began introducing myself to each and every high school student who drove into the lot: “Hi, my name’s Carol. What’s you’re name?” (It was usually John Smith or Richard Cranium.) “It’s so good to meet you, John and Richard. Do you go to X high school? I love that place. I go to every school play there. I love the students there. Listen, you can hang out here. That’s fine. But, would you do me a favor? Would you please make sure that no one drinks here? I mean, since I’m the pastor here, and you’re here, I feel really responsible for you. And it would break my heart into a million pieces if I found out that someone left this parking lot drunk and got in an accident. Would you please do that for me?”

They would promise and soon after the introductions began the party spot closed down.

photo’s by old boy with camera

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Here’s a great email from Jed Koball, an Interim AP at Larchmont Avenue Presbyterian:

I’m writing with an inquiry of sorts. First, I want to state clearly that there is no particular incident or situation of concern that has prompted this inquiry — only my own wild imagination and perhaps paranoia. My inquiry is with regard to ethical standards/codes of conduct that are (or are not) being taught/advised to ministers, churchworkers, seminarians, etc. with regard to one’s behavior and interaction with minors in the virtual world.

As you’re probably aware, facebook is all the rage among teens and twenty somethings. And, within the past six months it has become a growing medium for youth workers in the church to interact and communicate with the youth. There are hundreds and hundreds of Presbyterian ministers with facebook pages. Here at LAC, we have clearly identified facebook as the best method to communicate and relay information to youth…and with that, to interact on some level…i.e. wish them well on midterms…happy birthday, etc.

My approach to any encounter with youth in the “virtual world” has been to follow the same code of conduct and ethics for how I have been taught to interact with youth in the “real world”. Basically, I keep it as public as possible. Where I would do everything possible to prevent myself being in a place alone with a youth, I now do everything possible to prevent myself from “interacting” with a youth “alone” in the virtual world. To that end, on facebook, I will make comments to a youth on their “Wall” where anyone can see it. If I send a message, I send it to a group and never to an individual. Thus, any communication I have is seen by others. And all communication that I send or receive from youth, I do not delete.

Still, I’m finding there is some gray area in this unchartered water of facebook. One such example (outside of interacting with youth on facebook) is observing youth on facebook: I am now privy to lots of “inappropriate behavior” as pictures are posted by youth on their facebook pages. I see pictures of underage people drinking, and now I wonder what responsibility I have to say something. To date, all of those pictures have been of college kids, and so I have done nothing and can’t imagine that I ever would do something. But, if I were to see pictures of a 16 year old completely wasted, I’m not sure how I might react. Or, if I were to see pictures or read comments about illicit drug use, I’m not sure what I’d do either. I feel like I’ve gained access to something that I’m not entirely sure how to handle…as if pandora’s box is slowly being opened.

In the end though, I believe facebook is a cutting edge medium for SUPPORTING community — (not REPLACING community) — however, I see potential for trouble ahead if some ethical guidelines are not encouraged somewhere and somehow — especially as this younger generation who is being raised with facebook eventually grows into leadership roles in the church. Maybe I’m jumping the gun. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Mostly, I feel like I’m navigating new territory with an old map…and, I’m wondering if there might be a need to begin drawing a new map.

I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on this.

Please discuss.

photo’s by laughing squid

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One of the many beautiful benefits of being a minister is that when I got pregnant, I had fabulous baby showers. My husband, Brian, and I were both serving churches in South Louisiana, and each congregation gave us the most caring, thoughtful gifts. There were hand-made quilts, crocheted infant sweaters, breast-feeding blankets, and tiny pillows. It overwhelmed me to think of what each person put into those presents, and I was extremely grateful.

You know, you register for baby showers now; it’s just like registering for a wedding. I didn’t realize that until the women in the church asked me where I was registered. When I stared at them blankly, they shooed me out the door that very afternoon so that I could drive thirty miles into the “big city” of Lafayette and put some things on a list. Brian went with me. We wandered the aisle of Toys “R” Us and became amazed at the amount of things that could be bought. There is a product for every conceivable need that a mother or a new baby could have.

We decided to stick with the basic linens and clothing. We picked out animal prints: tiny leopard skin bath towels with hoods sewn into the corners, cheetah flannel sheets, onesies with cow spots. We didn’t know if our child was going to be a girl or a boy, and we did not want to do any gender stereo-typing with our infant, so we thought animal prints would be a fun alternative to all the pastel pinks and blues.

Of course, the women of the church completely ignored our registry list, and we ended up with a sea of pastel yellows and greens. Then, we got a lot of things that people assume that pastors want for their children: there were things with Noah’s ark on them. They were beautiful nightlights, towels and blankets. They had elephants and donkeys peering over the deck, and giraffe necks extending well above the top of the boat.

The problem was–as grateful as I was for the gifts, as meaningful as they were because of the lovely people who took the time and energy to buy them–I was not so sure about them. The animals are precious, that’s for certain. And the rainbow extending beyond the clouds, it’s a wonderful promise. But I just didn’t think it was the right story for my little girl. I mean it is an account about a boat, about salvation, but it’s also about water, and I can’t ever forget about the animals and people drowning in that water. I hesitated to wrap my tiny pink girl in that great heavy myth.

And yet, that’s what we do. Our children run to Sunday school, and they hear the stories there. They make crafts, sing songs, and join in Christmas pageants. They learn to tell these parables because these sayings inform our lives. We may not agree with them all, they may defy human logic, and we may (like the great reformer Martin Luther) want to rip some of them right out of our Bibles.

We know that they are not accurate historic accounts. Rather, they’re much more that that. They’re well-used and worn words that were handed down from one generation to the next. They were written on scrolls, copied, edited, translated and printed. And now, thousands of years later, they have crept into the fabric of our lives and they pulse through the veins of our culture. They give us meaning in life and comfort in death. They make a way where there was none. As Carl Jung says, they are the “medicine of immortality.”

The themes of scripture are reflected in our music, our literature, our traditions–in so many facets of our society. From Tony Kushner’s Angels in America to Andy Warhol’s Last Supper to Jonathan Larson’s Rent to Matt Groening’s Simpsons, we understand our culture through these stories of our ancestors.

And they’re powerful. When we celebrate Christmas with the birth of Jesus, when we remember the resurrection with Easter, when we proclaim the attributes of love at a wedding, when we speak of life at a funeral and death at a baptism: these words begin to pulse through our veins, they seep into our dreams, and they inform our intuitions. Carl Jung explains these themes as archetypes, as unconscious images that influence our behavior and become a part of our instincts.

Hearing about the great shepherd has the power to comfort us and learning the words of Jesus causes us to uphold the oppressed and seek justice and mercy in our society. They give significance to our dreams, and meaning to our visions. They give us hope when we are desperate; they mold us into compassionate people and strengthen us in our work.

photo’s by schmish

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There are things we just don’t learn in seminary. Which is okay, in my opinion. You just have to learn them from other church leaders. It’s on-the-job training. Here are some of my quandaries:

How does one cultivate loyalty, responsibility, and ownership for a role, without nurturing controlling, possessive, turf issues?

Should the pastor always encourage term limits on positions? I mean, what if a job is really, really hard and there’s someone who’s really, really good at it? Can we let that deeper calling flourish without squelching opportunities for others? Is there a way to do it without creating some ingrown monster who hasn’t breathed any outside air for 20 years?

If we create jobs without term limits, then how do we let the people who aren’t so great at the job go?

How do you fire a volunteer?

How do you pry the matriarch/patriarch from her/his turf?

What’s more important in leading a congregation, efficiency or tolerance?

What’s more important in leading a worship service, openness and flexibility or professionalism?

What does one do about an elderly treasurer, whom everyone loves, who can no longer do his job?

Would you rather be a good administrator or a visionary leader? Is there such a way to be both?

Is there a way to accept everyone, even the people who are mean?

How can you tell if you’re spending a lot of extra time with a person to get him/her through a temporary crisis, or if you’re helping to create a permanent dependent relationship?

Also on the pastoral care front, without all of the ordinary boundaries of a counselor (mandatory appointment times, payment, no contact outside of the office, etc.), how does one make sure that transference or sexual attraction doesn’t occur?

How does a majority white congregation have discussions about diversity, without making people of color feel like they’re tokens? Should I begin with banning the use of terms like “people of color”?

We don’t have as much problem with ethnic diversity as political and theological diversity. Which leads me to wonder, is there a way to have political and theological diversity, without watering down our message? Is it okay that some people just don’t feel comfortable in our pews?

When should a pastor pursue an angry member, and when should she just let that member go? I mean have you seen this happen? The frustrated and often destructive member finally leaves the congregation. The pastor begs for him or her to come back (in the Christian hope of reconciliation), and then the person comes back like a tornado with a second wind. They have even more catastrophic power than before. Is there ever a time when the pastor ought to just wave goodbye?

Do you know what works? How do you answer these questions?

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“Young people today, they just pick and choose what they want to believe.”

I hear this often. It’s usually said with a scowl, shaking head, and eyes looking toward heaven. It’s assumed that everyone in my generation has a faith based solely on me, me, me. There’s nothing communal about it. It defies all logic, and there’s no respect for what’s come before us.

And it surprises me. Honestly. Every time I hear it. Maybe it just shows that I’m part of my generation’s milieu. When I hear this frustration, I smile, nod. Then I stare and blink, kind of hard, because I’m thinking, Wow. This is a shift. I want to ask, So, you just believe stuff because everyone before you did? You don’t try to make your faith sensible in your own time, place, and experience? Have you ever thought that it may not be supreme relativism that’s driving us, but an enduring honesty? That we just don’t want to parrot something that feels like a lie?

Robert Wuthnow wrestles with younger generations’ religious beliefs in his book After the Baby Boomers. It’s a valuable resource, an academic reference that I’m sure I’ll keep using. Wuthnow presents what the young adults say about orthodox beliefs, according to Gallup and Harris Polls. And he wrestles with the results, which are a confusing mix of orthodoxy and heterodoxy. Carefully looking at different scenarios to explain the complicated beliefs of a generation, Wuthnow points out James Davidson Hunter’s work on cognitive bargaining:

Religious beliefs at the popular level are never quite as systematic or consistent as they are in the minds of theologians…Religious beliefs nowadays, [Davison] argues, are negotiable. Nobody is burned at the stake for denying some particular creedal proposition. Everybody has the authority to make up their own minds. That is how we understand belief–something that is personal, idiosyncratic, and always somewhat tentative (93).

Wuthnow’s example of cognitive bargaining is the orthodox belief that it’s necessary to be a Christian in order to go to heaven. It logically follows that everyone who’s not a Christian is not going to heaven. Since many young adults believe the first to be true, and cannot believe the second, then we come up with other conclusions, like God will find other ways to save non-Christians. This is cognitive bargaining. (I would ask, “Is it logical that a loving God, who created humans for God’s good pleasure, would send billions of people to hell because they were born in the wrong place or into the wrong family?”)

And I would add, isn’t this great? This means that young adults come to religious belief (and to church), not based on societal expectations or because this is what they ought to be doing, but because it’s an authentic expression of who they are. Remember Attack on Christendom? When Kierkegaard was so irritated that everyone was going to church, not because of what they believed, but because it was the state religion, the societal expectation. We don’t have that anymore.

I disagree regarding communal beliefs. I still think that they’re also incredibly important. Our generation is also longing, deeply for tradition. It’s just that we don’t swallow everything, hook, line, and sinker.

So what does this look like in our churches? Well, at Western, we don’t have an Affirmation of Faith in worship, because it’s a huge obstacle for someone who’s struggle on their spiritual journey to have to stand up in a congregation of 200 and say, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth….” Those are just really big words that can mean a whole lot of things in our culture.

Over the years, if you looked into my head, while saying these twelve introductory words, this is what you’d find:

Am I declaring that God is a man? Is Mary Daly right? If God is Man, does it follow that Man is God? What does “Almighty” mean? Does that mean that God is all-powerful? Does that negate our free will? If God’s all-powerful and all-loving, why does evil exist? What about natural disasters? Why does AIDS exist? Why are there so many other terrible diseases? Wouldn’t an all-powerful and all-loving Father do something to help his children? When I say this, am I saying that I believe in creationism? Does this negate evolution? Do I have to believe in a literal seven days? What about the dinosaurs? And heaven? Am I declaring belief in pearly gates and streets of gold, with Saint Peter and a roll book?

I’m not saying that we should can the creeds. They’re extremely important. I’m just saying that we can take seriously that we live in a world where church and orthodox belief are not a given. People may not be ready to stand up and declare everything on their first visit.

So, what does this look like in your congregation?

photo by John Baird

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We celebrated The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr’s weekend in the most excellent way. We went to Sweet Honey in the Rock’s Annual Children’s Concert at the People’s Congregational United Church. One of the members of our congregation gave my daughter the tickets, and wrote that she could take her parents, too. If she wanted.

Oh. I cannot even put into words just how much I love this group. And the concert put it over the top. Their voices soared, with passion and harmony. They are amazing women. The concert reminded me of the beauty and the strength that a voice can have–and how there’s even more power with different voices ascending together.

It’s interesting. One of the main reasons I went to Western was to see how the HOS does it, exactly. John Wimberly went to Western when it was a handful of struggling people. The Presbytery wanted to close the church. He’s been there for twenty-five years, and it’s grown, more than doubling its membership in a time when mainlines are declining all over the place. The church made the shift too. That painful, difficult transition that congregations have such a hard time making. I mean, it went from being heavily reliant on the work, leadership, and contributions of generous builders to becoming a congregation where the membership is 45% under the age of 45.

Even though most of the prestigious progressive congregations in our denomination have wooed him over the years, Wimberly stuck around. I wondered why he didn’t get bored, but he’s a big believer that a church and a pastor need a project. Something bigger than the congregation to focus on, to put energy into. On a personal level, he’s gotten a Ph.D. in Theology and an MBA. And while he’s been at Western, they’ve begun Miriam’s Kitchen, a feeding and social services program; Project Create, a program that teaches art to children in transitional housing; and HIPS (Helping Individual Prostitutes Survive), a program dedicated to educate, empower, and support sex workers.

I came here because wanted to learn how he organizes. And I’ve gotten to do just that. I began when there were murmurings about a clinic in Ethiopia, and I’ve watched him assemble a team of people who can make it happen. I’ve seen how people are drawn to the church, mysteriously, like magnets, because they know that their particular skill, or connections, or insight can help with the project. I’ve also heard how he can persuade officials in our country and others, helping them to see the possibilities. I’ve watched him respectfully listen to the resistance, and then turn a personal dream into collective vision.

He says that he can walk into a room full of people and… he didn’t finish the sentence. But if I had to finish it, I would say that he knows how to organize the people in it. Like a good office manager who knows exactly where to put the stray paper, the HOS can intuitively figure out how energy can be funneled into helping the poor, uplifting the marginalized, caring for the needy. To create a movement out of nothing.

After my work here, I wasn’t surprised at what happened in Iowa–how Barack Obama won the primary, defying expectations. He is, after all, a community organizer. A rare breed.

And after working at Western for a couple of years, I’m not sure I’ll be able to develop that skill. I know that I don’t have it intuitively. My vision’s big, but I’m usually working on the usher teams or the Sunday school curriculum. Small stuff.

Although, I’ve been able to develop my voice here, in a new way. After standing in a pulpit every week for six years, when I became an AP, I learned to put that creative energy into a different form. And, Western’s allowed me much, much more freedom in what I can write. So, I guess that’s where I am. Just struggling to find my own gifts, my range. Figuring out where I stand in this larger chorus. And hoping, praying I can be used, in some way.

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Recently, the chair of a search committee presented his candidate before the governing body with the words, “We really did have a real search.”

I rolled my eyes. Yeah right. We all knew the truth. It was just another sham.

Have you ever fallen prey to the fraudulent pastoral search? Do you know what I’m talking about? Between me and my husband, we’ve been caught up in it… well, I hate to say just how many times.

You see, in our denomination, to ensure fairness, there’s a process. A good process, where people are reviewed, interviewed, and selected. The pool of pastors needs to be wide-ranging: male, female, differing ethnicities, etc.

But sometimes… well, sometimes everyone knows that the church is really going to hire the non-ordained interim, or the pastor’s seminary buddy, or that particular someone that the job description has been written for. Everyone knows it–except for the other candidates.

We have this process, and so we set up a committee that half-heartedly meets. The members ask around for good candidates, and the pool begins to come together. Then the phony interviews begin.

Now, is there anything wrong with knowing that you’ve got the right person for the job, before the search begins? No. I don’t think so.

The thing that I hate about it is, it was many years ago, but I’ve been caught swimming in that pool of candidates too many times. I’m at my church, minding my own business, not planning on any sort of a move, when I get a call from out-of-nowhere, asking me to apply for an exceptional position. And so I go into that excruciating discernment process with my family. I begin to pray, asking God if I could get some divine light on the messy decision.

When I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do, then, I figure that I’ll put together my resume. I become open to uprooting my family and moving. And after a couple of weeks of gathering all the data, sweating over essay questions, cajoling references, buying that really expensive resume paper, and putting together a decent sermon tape, I hold my breath. I hope. I imagine, a little.

I prepare for phone interviews. After they go really well, I look at houses on Realtor.com (after all, they contacted me). I begin to check cost of living calculators and I let myself dream (just a little bit). I hold off my vacation time, because I’m not sure if I’ll need it for a visit. I let the summer slip away, without taking time off.

Then, those quick couple of months go by, and I don’t hear anything. And when I begin to ask around, I find out that they hired X–the person they had in their back pocket all along. In fact, they hired him, like, a month ago.

Finally. I figure it out. I got all caught up in a big, fat sham.

Six months after the hire, I get an embarrassed, apologetic “Dear John” letter. (”All of the candidates were exceptional…. We had a really hard time making a decision…. God bless you on your search….”) Usually, I’m very grown up about it. I ceremoniously burn the letter, but I don’t even make any voodoo dolls. I might, perhaps, mutter an imprecatory prayer upon the committee. One from the Psalms, of course.

But… the more I think about it, in these cases, this system that’s supposed to establish fairness, really isn’t.

So what are we to do? I wish that all candidates had one of those highlighters–you know, one of those markers that they use at the mall to determine if a twenty is real or not–that we could use on the inquiry letters to find out if they’re counterfeit. Is there any way to let the churches who have pre-determined their pastor, just hire that person?

Would deleting the frauds dismantle the “fairness” of the system? Has there ever been a time when a committee hired the outsider instead of going with the predestined pastor? Should I (as a young experienced woman) just be thankful that there’s a system in place–one that at least protects my right to get in on the phone interview? Or, should we ditch the fraud altogether and only hold the real searches?

photo’s by brianblackden

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