Hello, Goodbye: What I'll Miss

"For better and worse," an Evangelical Lutheran Church in America staffer told a crowd of newly-called pastor-developers and their spouses, including my wife, Ann, and me, "your congregations will reflect your personalities, your strengths, and your weaknesses."

We sat in a large hospital-affiliated meeting facility in Omaha in July, 1990. We were part of a group recruited by our denomination's Division for Outreach to start new congregations across the country. In August, my family and I would move from our rural parish in northwestern Ohio and head for the Cincinnati suburbs where we would develop a new church. Spouses were invited to this gathering so that they would better understand the peculiar pressures, demands, and joys associated with starting new churches from scratch.

When I think about what I'll miss as we leave the congregation we started, Friendship Lutheran Church, Amelia, Ohio and prepare to begin life at Saint Matthew Lutheran Church in Logan, Ohio, apart from the people here, the thing that comes to mind is that denominational staffer's words.

To a remarkable extent, Friendship does reflect me and my personality. One part of me, the one infected with the common human ailment of sin and arrogance, will miss that most about Friendship.

Like me, the people of Friendship and the church culture we've evolved over time, has little patience for baloney. We've been relaxed in our reverence for God. We've never been wed to rigid ways of doing things. We've always thought it was more important to be Lutheran Christians in our theology than in our sociology, to be Christians by conviction and by relationship with God, rather than by culture or by religion. (For more on just what Lutheran theology is, take a look at this introductory post by a British Lutheran blogger.)

And, as was true of Martin Luther himself, who was always looking for ways to make Jesus Christ accessible to people, in part by translating the Christian faith into everyday language, we've sought to lower the barriers between today's people and Christ through a less intimidating worship style.1

Friendship has largely become the church I'd always dreamed it would be. That's very comfortable for me. (In a later post, I'll discuss the ways in which it hasn't become the church of my dreams and why that's okay.) And while I'm not among those Christians who think that believers should court discomfort, I do think that we are called "die to the self"--to allow Christ to break us free of the tyrannies and idolatries of selfish desires and from our love of ease--so that our new selves, our God-made, God-oriented selves can rise.2

Christ doesn't call us to lives of comfortable repose. In The Cost of Discipleship, Lutheran theologian and martyr to Nazism Dietrich Bonhoeffer put things bluntly, "When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die."

In some cases, following Christ may entail, as it did for Bonhoeffer, actual physical death. But for all Christians, pastors included, it must entail a willingness to sacrifice one's arrogance, the hubris of our pretended self-sufficiency.

In my case, there has been a subtle arrogance associated with seeing the development of a church which, "for better and worse..." reflects my personality, my strengths, and my weaknesses.

Putting such arrogance to death isn't to be compared the martyrdom of a Bonhoeffer, the sacrifices of a Mother Teresa, or the risks taken by a Martin Luther, of course. It's easy for others to excuse the subtle pride I take in the development of Friendship. The congregation's continued existence seems to vindicate my vision, my style, my personality. I sometimes see the fact that Friendship is still around although some in my denomination thought a Lutheran congregation couldn't get off the ground in our community and others dismissed our thematic worship, blending the old with the new in a less formal (but still liturgical) style, as a personal triumph. And if I'm not careful, I sometimes start to believe it when people tell me, "Look at what you've done." As time passes, I may not recognize those statements for what they are: well-meaning, ego-appealing fibs.

In allowing myself to believe such lies, however briefly, I overlook what Jesus tells us: "I will build My Church." Jesus may use sinners like me to build His Church, but He's the One Who does the building nonetheless.

We should never forget that Jesus tells us, "Apart from Me, You can do nothing." And that elsewhere, He says, "With God all things are possible." (I note that He doesn't say, "With Mark all things are possible.")

The development and continued existence of Friendship is not a testament to my cleverness, ability, or personal charisma, but to the enormity of God's grace. God was willing to use a sinner like me to build this amazing church in the Amelia area. I forget that at my own eternal peril. "Pride goes before destruction" is more than a familiar, gauzy phrase from the Old Testament. It's an observable truth. Those who arrogantly think that they're "all that" are inevitably cruising toward the destructive consequences of their self-worship, which may come at the end of our earthly lives, when God allows those who walk away from God to live eternally with the consequences of their choice. Or, if we're fortunate, we'll fail, crash, and burn in this life, brought up short by the reality of our sin and our need of God and driven to God's grace and mercy for the new life He gives to all who follow Christ.

Self-worship is surely as much a violation of the First Commandment's proscription against having other gods as would happen if we bowed down to a carved image, a dollar bill, a tinhorn dictator, or a family member.

Being hung up on ourselves as the object of our affections also clearly violates Jesus' "Great Commandment," in which He calls us to love God and love our neighbor as we love ourselves. There's no real room for God or others in the kingdom of me.

The comfort that I feel as pastor of Friendship is a wonderful thing. In their acceptance of me, in spite of my imperfections, the people of Friendship exhibit the grace and the goodness of God.

But I've increasingly felt that the comfort I feel here could represent a long-term threat to my effectiveness as a pastor, my Christian witness, my life with God, and my spiritual vitality.

I'm convinced that Friendship's way of being church is valid and pleasing to God. I also believe that I now need to pastor in a congregation that doesn't so directly reflect my personality.

I'm excited about going to serve a church that was founded in 1852, that is strong in traditions, while being committed to adding new traditions designed to share the Good News of Jesus with others. Ann and I feel genuinely called by God to go to Saint Matthew.

But before I could be open to that call, I first had to sense God calling me away from the comfort of Friendship. It was apparently okay for me to experience that comfort for what turned out to be a long season of my life. But no longer. Now is the time for me to experience a different kind of comfort, the comfort of being part of a ministry which I can't delude myself into believing is of my making. As I go to Saint Matthew, I'm sure that Jesus will once more teach me that He will build His Church.

In July, in a sermon, I recounted something that writer William Hulme witnessed: A mother bird seemingly chastising and cheerleading her baby to fly away from its comfortable "perch" on the ground. I talked about how Hulme says that human parents must do the same thing with their kids. In recent months, I feel that that's exactly what God the Father has been doing with me. If I'd stayed much longer, Friendship might have become, for me, the kingdom of me. Neither God or, in my most lucid moments, I want that.

I will miss the comfortable-ness of being pastor of Friendship. I will miss the wonderful people of whose lives I've been privileged to be a part for much of the past seventeen years. But for God, for me, and for the people of Friendship, God has begun to show me, I dared not stay another moment.

1. While not everyone has agreed with my assessment, I believe that we've been able to do all of this through the years and still maintain our awe of God. A few years ago, a Roman Catholic priest of my acquaintance walked into our plain, multipurpose sanctuary and spent what seemed like five minutes taking it all in silently. I wondered what he was thinking. "What an inviting space!" he finally declared. "I can really feel the presence of God here." A deeply devoted Lutheran layperson has told me that when she worships at Friendship, "I can see Jesus!"

2. Humorist Garrison Keillor says, "When you're Lutheran and from the Midwest, it's always Lent." There's just enough truth in that observation to make a Lutheran laugh...and wince. While we reject the theology of wallowing, the notion that Christ died to make us miserable, we do embrace the theology of the Cross, believing that as we daily follow Christ, we must submit to the crucifixion of our sinful selves so that we can rise to newness of life.





[The pictures to the right were taken by Friendship member Truman Clough during worship on a snowy and somewhat foreboding Sunday in March, 2006. In the top picture, you see Holy Communion being shared. The bottom two pictures show us as we shared God's peace.]