Minimum wage in a Maximum world

Somewhere recently, I read the suggestion that pastors should take time off and work at a minimum wage job.  I don’t know if the author of the article was being snarky about pastors in ivory towers or whether it was a suggestion to get in the thick of things to identify with people working for minimum wage.  I did not spend time reading the article.  After all, I’ve been there.  I have worked for nearly minimum wage.  I know what it is like.  Trust me; it’s not a good place to be.

I love doing intentional interim ministry but there is a major downside to being an interim.  Once a new pastor is called and the interim is completed, there is no guarantee that there will be another position waiting for me.  Interim positions are dependent upon clergy mobility.  In recent economic times clergy mobility has slowed considerably. But that is another story.

Three years ago I found myself in one of those furlough times.  There was no sign of something coming on the horizon. I applied to various businesses.  I sent out résumés and cover letters. I tried networking.  I even considered leaving the ministry for secular employment if I would be hired.

It was a tough time.  Peggy was in her last year of teaching full-time.  We had two kids in college.  We had a mortgage, car payments and standard maintenance expenses on our home.

Finally, I was interviewed at The Home Depot and immediately hired as a cashier.  I had retail experience from my college and seminary years.  What impressed The Home Depot assistant manager was my telling how working at JCPenney during the Cold War I sold a U.S. Air Force parka to a violinist from the Warsaw Symphony touring the United State by speaking German to the bass fiddle player accompanying him. He may have been KGB.

On The Home Depot flow chart cashiers are the bottom feeders of the store.  For over a year my hourly wage was 50¢ more than minimum wage.  After 13 months it was bumped up another 50¢.  They didn’t give me all that many hours—less than 20 hours a week.  The head cashier was not very patient with newcomers to the registers.  Cashiers take crap from customers because of the action or inaction of associates in other departments. Some customers are just plain sour. We were motivated by candy bars to get credit card applications so that managers got their chunk of profit-sharing. When there are not many customers in the store the shift is long and tedious.  Cashiers must stay within 10 feet of their register at all times.  (Sometimes I would go 15 feet, envelope-pusher that I am.)

By that time we were really feeling the pinch at home.  Savings were dwindling.  Our frills were eliminated. Things taken for granted like life insurance premiums had to be suspended.

Eventually, I got another interim position but it was a rural, two-point parish that provided a low salary and no housing allowance.  I needed to keep working at The Home Depot.  By springtime, I was experienced cashier and the revolving door of cashiers made me among the “senior cashiers.”  

I often worked at the register in the garden center.  As a gardener myself, I was in my element.  But I soon discovered I knew more than the staff from the garden department.  I was a damn cheap garden consultant as I stood by my register on chilly spring mornings and in the heat of summer.

The interim came to a natural conclusion and I was on furlough once again.  The Home Depot was able to give me nearly full-time hours.  But still, it was a crunch.  I reached 59 ½ and I could draw on my pension principle without penalty.  Standing on a concrete floor for a full shift was exhausting. I would come home with my knees aching. I’m sure that contributed to my current physical state. What really hurt was to have a synod assistant come through my register, give me big smile and say, “hang in there.”  I wanted a job damn it! You bet I was angry at the church; certainly the administration.

As one might guess with minimum wage jobs, it is a revolving door of employees.  But I also got to know a wide range of people.  These were not the same folks that I had coffee with during my seminary years.  These were not the same folks I would see at church because because church surely was not on their agenda.  These are not the same folks I would see in my white bread neighborhood.

I acquired a wealth of new friends.  I think of the young, black woman who was pregnant and couldn't keep working at THD because the scheduler could never accommodate her need to ride the bus to work.  There’s another young woman who watched her beloved pet ferret die because she couldn't afford to take him to the vet.  I have friends who drove many miles to get to work spending a big percentage of their paycheck on gas. I have friends who have had multiple, multiple marriages. I have friends who wanted to find other employment but the schedule was so helter-skelter they could never plan time for an interview.  I have a friend who is politically opposite from me who must keep schlepping shopping carts despite the diagnosis of Parkinson’s. I have friends who wanted to work full-time and qualify for benefits but were told, “It’s not in the budget.”  I worked side-by-side with LGBT individuals and with rednecks.  I heard some pretty tough language. I worked with people with limited intelligence and I worked with people who left successful professions to escape the rat race.  I have friends who have floated from retail job to retail job just barely making ends meet.  But, they are my homies who I cherish and with whom I share the common bond of the orange apron. When I return to the store I feel like Norm in an episode of Cheers. 

I hear of protests in the state surrounding minimum wage and I want to go join them.  I know what these men and women are experiencing.  I've been there.  But yet, I had the good fortune to fall back on some things.  We had excellent health insurance.  We had another income in the house.  These people do not have that luxury I had.  They are a step away from being homeless.  They can never afford a flu shot.  They may have never seen a dentist in their life. So they come to work sick.  They come to work with their kids being watch by whomever.  They come to work weighed down with worry not by the future but by what might happen tomorrow.

Oh for that day when all who work will be earning a living wage.  Oh for a day when the minimum wage removes men and women people from the captivity of worry and fear of daily existence.  Oh for a day when there are no longer those people who accuse those minimum wage employees of greed and sloth.  May those people be forced to wear a cap and ask their former colleagues and associates, “Do you want fries with that?”

Get a Leg Up on Your Legacy

Some months ago, I had an aged uncle pass away. Quite frankly, my uncle had been a curmudgeon.  He was a product of his society:  racist, sexist and opinionated.  There were just so many topics from which we had to steer clear.   My aunt died before him and sadly she had been the one to keep him grounded.

He died leaving a good-sized estate.  His will included a specific amount that their congregation would receive.  My aunt and uncle had been members of that congregation for their 70 years of marriage.  They attended worship every Sunday even when my aunt’s dementia was well advanced. They had many friends from that congregation. I was saddened and offended that they set aside a paltry 0.4% of their estate for their congregation.  I am sure the congregation will receive their bequest with gratitude and thanks.  It is a congregation of kind and gracious people.  But as an outsider looking in, I was hurt by his stinginess at his life’s end with a 0.4% bequest.  I now am suspicious that in life, his annual contributions were seen as a crass tax deduction more than an offering of gratitude to God. I am hurt that the man who I thought was thoughtful and benevolent left his memory to be tight-fisted and manipulative.

This is not my idea of healthy stewardship.  So let me shift to something a bit more positive and up-building.

Estate planners and professional stewardship consultants speak about leaving a “legacy.”  My first thought was that “legacy” sounds presumptuous and snooty.  I thought of statues and monuments, bronze plaques and lead inlays in stained-glass windows.  But, I was wrong.  A legacy simply is an inheritance and a remembrance.  A legacy is a thought-filled end of life gift intended to do good for individuals and institutions.

My first word to those who are superstitious and creeped out by discussions of wills and estate planning is this:  Suck it up, Buttercup! Let’s be adults and deal with the realities of life.  Put it in writing! You’ve got some dough stashed away under the mattress or in a cookie jar so, put it to work.  Find a trusted consultant who will make those moth-infested dollars grow.  Next, deal with the fact that you are not immortal.  Determine how your estate is going to be distributed at the time of your death.

Let me make a personal announcement:  Oh, Emily and Jonathan, you ain’t getting the whole enchilada!  As Peggy and I have attempted to be tithers in this earthly life, so, too, in death we intend to set aside 10% of our estate to be divided between our congregation and Wartburg Theological Seminary.  (If I pre-decease Peggy she may also bequeath a percentage to the Chippendale Dancers Training Facility.)  In other words, we want a percentage of our legacy to be used for goodwill. We may need to tweak things so that it is used for programmatic causes rather than utility bills

When the time comes, there may not be a whole lot left.  Regardless, we will have made a statement of faith.  We will have impressed upon our children and (if there be) grandchildren what has been important for us.

Imagine the impact if every household in a congregation had a will with 10% set aside for the work of the congregation.  Think of the leadership that the youth could follow.  Imagine the teaching tools that could be purchased for Sunday schools. Consider the possibilities of nursing care coming from the church to the community.

In life and in death there is no reason to be a tightwad.  I’ve never seen a U-haul trailer behind a hearse.

These Heels are Killing Me

We just elected a new bishop in our South-Central Synod of Wisconsin (ELCA).  Pastor Mary Stumme Froiland will do a fine job and I look forward to her ministry with interims.  Along with the excitement and suspense of the election process, the assembly was also privileged to hear Bishop Jessica Crist of the Montana Synod speaking on the role of leadership.  Bishop Crist raised a theme that especially struck me:  leadership is accompaniment.   Leadership is neither pushing nor pulling but walking alongside.  These words are especially true as I see things from the perspective of interim ministry.

For nearly 25 years I accompanied vocal students for solo and ensemble contests. A piano accompanist is much different than a piano soloist.  As an accompanist for high school vocalists, I especially understand what it means to be walking alongside that petrified mezzo soprano.  The accompanist usually has to ride the “soft pedal” through most of a kid’s solo because adolescents don’t have much volume.  (It’s not “cool” to breathe from the diaphragm when one is 15.)  The piano accompanist might be able to pull the soloist if he or she is dragging the tempo.  The pianist might be able to push the soloist by exaggerating the phrasing, etc.  But, for the sake of the soloist’s success before a judge, the accompanist walks alongside the vocalist.  Thank you, Bishop Crist.  I think I am starting to get it.

Of course, there are the biblical references of accompaniment as leadership. 

·         On the Road to Emmaus, Jesus accompanied those befuddled disciples about what must happen to the Son of God—being neither doctrinaire nor apologetic but walking alongside. 

·         Ruth decided to accompany Naomi even though Ruth came from a different country and upon the death of her husband, had no other reason to be with Naomi.  But, as widows they had an unspoken bond that accompanied them for the support they could provide each other side by side.

·         Young Mary traveled to visit her cousin Elizabeth who was also pregnant.  The two expectant women accompanied one another for the support they could provide each other because they were on the same page.

The wonderful ministry of hospice care also is an example of accompaniment.  Hospice care is not the same as acute care.  There are no therapies.  There are no target dates for discharge. Rehabilitation is not in the care plan of the patient.  Hospice care is accompanying the patient towards the reality of death while providing comfort and relief.

I think about all the other possible venues where leadership could be improved by a sense of accompaniment.  The austere workplace does not foster accompaniment.  Micro-managing certainly is not an example of walking alongside.  Leadership by Accompaniment is embracing the same goals and ideals and traveling together on the same path.  Successful accompaniment leadership requires parties to be able to accommodate and to roll with the punches as needed.

Leadership by Accompaniment becomes a necessary tool for interim ministry.  It is walking alongside a congregation while slightly nudging them and redirecting them to leave old things behind to behold a new thing.

It has been said that John the Baptist is the unofficial patron saint of interim ministry to whom it was said, “Are you the one or shall we look for another?”  I think we might lift up Ginger Rogers as the patron saint of Leadership by Accompaniment for it was said of St. Ginger she did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and in high heels.

Maybe It's Not Quite Nordstroms

Taking out the two Shockapoos in the morning gets to be an ordeal.  No amount of coaxing and prodding and treats will hurry along the reason for being outside. They take their good-natured time.  But I take advantage of that time waiting for each of them to complete their business and I imagine what it might be like if they were human.  SoNya and MeeAh are getting older, 13 and 11 respectively, and I liken the morning experience to taking aging aunties on a little adventure.

SoNya and MeeAh are aunties who may be from the countryside but they are both very proper and appreciate the finer things.  Their nephew and his wife dote on the two ladies who now live together.  Nephew and wife have offered to take the aunties on a day trip to the city to do shopping at the magical and wondrous department store. At noon they would have a fancy lunch in the Terrace Room with a panorama of the city. 

Auntie SoNya and Auntie MeeAh spent their first hour and a half perusing the various departments of the story.  They admired the pretty dishes in housewares.  They sat on the sofas in the furniture department. They spritzed numerous samples of cologne on each other at the fragrance counter. Then, they were most delighted to see the latest styles and colors in women’s wear.  SoNya and MeeAh may live at the end of a long road, a bit far from town, but, it does not stop their desire for fashion and class.  Nephew and his wife stood back smiling at the chatter going on between the sisters.  Oh, there were a few snarls between the two but, they are sisters after all.  The snarls are short-lived and turn into chuckles.

After the window shopping portion of the city expedition, Nephew and his wife suggest they think about lunch.  Before lunch, why not make a visit to the restroom? The aunties agreed it would be a wise choice.  Nephew’s wife accompanied the sisters to a restroom they called “opulent.”  There in the restroom we see the real parallel to their canine complements.

SoNya and MeeAh entered the lounge and breathed in a pleasant scent.  They both sniffed the air and wondered what type of potpourri they had in the bowls.  They sought out the source of the grassy aroma, took a deeper whiff and smiled with pleasure.  SoNya said to her sister, “MeeAh, look at the color on these two walls. What would that look like in our bathroom?”

“It’s too garish.  But I do like the artwork on the wall.  I love the look of trees in a bathroom,” replied MeeAh.  “It’s just so natural.”

Nephew’s wife could hardly keep from laughing at the two.  “MeeAh? What do you think of those window treatments?”

“They are just stunning. The pattern is just marvelous.”

“MeeAh, look over there.  There’s even a computer monitor.  Just a second.  I want to check my p-mail.”  With that SoNya became engrossed with an abundance of messages.  MeeAh busied herself primping in the mirror and checking her nails.

Age has had a way of affecting the two sisters.  They are observant and very verbal but memory has a way of fading.  To Nephew’s wife SoNya asked, “now what are we doing in this department?”

Without judgment and sounding like the department store hostess she said, “This is the ladies’ room, Aunties.  Maybe you would like to go into the stall and try to piddle.”

“Oh, that would be delightful.  Then, after lunch I saw some pantsuits-or whatever they call them now.  I would like to try them on.”

So, I return from my musings and try to shepherd our two doggies to their special corner of the yard.  Instead of carrying a stylish shopping bag with a chic logo, I walk behind SoNya, the dowager queen, and MeeAh, the pretender to the throne, with a black plastic bag that says, dogpoopbags.com.

Why I Will Never Be A Bishop

The South-Central Synod of Wisconsin where I am rostered will be having an election for bishop at the end of this month.  I do not need to go into details for the reason the election will be in September.  When I was in seminary, my New Testament professor, Peter Kjeseth, dubbed me “Bishop Schaub.”  I went through the remainder of seminary known as "Bishop."  Some classmates thought that was proleptic.  After 35 years of ministry I know that I will never be a bishop.  Here are a few reasons why.

• I don’t play the game.  Meaning, I am not one to schmooze the pastors I do not know very well.  I was in my first congregation for 9 years and my second congregation for 17 years.  I wasn’t in circulation from one side of the synod to the other.  Having had four interim positions outside of the synod also reduced my visibility.  In other words, I am not one of the shakers and movers of the synod.  That may be a good thing.  If I were political, it would be a bad thing.
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• I say what I think.  I never learned that skill to keep my thoughts to myself and to carry on a conversation without saying what I really felt.  I just think that is being deceptive.  If I were a bishop and thought a congregation was being mean and stupid, I probably would blurt it out.  If a pastor was a dumb twit and told the pastor what I thought, the man or woman would probably end up in therapy.
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• I don’t like to over-think things.  Sure, I will analyze and synthesize but, golly gee-whiz, some people just exhaust me with all the woulda, coulda, shoulda’s about issues.  When those conversations begin, that is when I go get coffee.
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• I am too big and fat to comfortably sit in an airplane and bishops have to do a lot of flying.
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• Other than doing a cannonball during pool time at the Council of Bishops, I am not one for making a big splash.  I am probably a little too low-key to be a bishop.  Among the bishops of the ELCA I know that there are many who are faithful and humble.  I can also guess there are some big egos.
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• Bishops end up with churchwide responsibilities that take them away from home several nights a month. I would prefer to be a bishop to take care of things in the synod.  The presiding bishop might not like it if I told her, “Sorry, I can’t attend February’s committee meeting in Arizona.  I have to say grace at St. John’s-Leland chili supper.”
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• Synod office is too close to Culver’s.  I would be tempted to do quality control on their Flavors of the Day.
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• If I were bishop after a week of talking down irate members angry at their pastor, conservative crack-pots declaring we Lutherans are apostates because of our social stance, and taking personal blame for budget short-falls, I would want to take off for the weekend.  Not gonna happen.

If any of my readers are voting members of the synod assembly let me ask that they do not write down my name on that first ballot. Let me be a steady-Eddie interim pastor someplace not too far from home so I can sleep in my own bed.

I Remember When He Was Just A Punk Pastor

I will celebrate the 35^th Anniversary of Ordination on August 27.  In the scheme of things, thirty-five years is not that long although my kids might think I am ancient.  I think of it as just a couple days ago that my pals, my professor and my pastor laid hands upon my head as the long-standing ritual of ordination and being set apart by the people of God for Word and Sacrament ministry.  Not to be irreverent but it seems right after the laying on of hands that my hair started showing silver sparkles.

After 35 years, it becomes a natural pause to reflect on changes that I have seen in ministry.  Some changes have been practical and other changes are theoretical or attitudinal.

·         In 1978, I was my own secretary.  Weekly bulletins and newsletters were produced by typing a stencil with a typewriter.  If I wanted to put an illustration in the newsletter, I would carefully cut out the space with an x-acto knife, cut out the illustration from the subscriptions illustrations, and then, cement it into the stencil so well that ink would not bleed into it.  After that, I would place it on the drum of the hand-crank Gestetner mimeograph and crank out 100 bulletins.  My right bicep became 10% larger than my left.

·         Sound systems are much more sophisticated.  In my first parish a microphone was hardly necessary but, in order to be like the folks in town, a sound system was purchased. It had a lovelier mike with a great big, long cord tethering me to the chancel.  It was a while before wireless microphones had the bugs works out well enough to be viable for churches.

·         Language has evolved over the course of 35 years.  Teaching about the First Article of the Creed in confirmation class I described God as being “awesome.”  Young Gordon raised his hand and asked what “awesome” meant because he had never heard the word before.

·         Pastoral ministry has changed in a way that currently affects me.  Interim ministry was unknown 35 years ago and then the Southern Wisconsin District of the ALC (the predecessor of the ELCA) called an individual who was among the first trained interims.  Back in the olden days of the 1970’s vacancies were much shorter and there was little visioning done by the call committees.  A pastor would be recommended to a congregation and maybe there would be a face-to-face interview.  Sadly, that pastor who followed a long pastorate or a conflicted pastorate often became a de facto interim whose call to such a congregation would be short lived.  Interim ministry has become the norm when there is a vacancy which eases the transition from one settled pastor to the next.

·         Pastoral care is different.  Back when I was a baby pastor people would be admitted to the hospital for a couple days for “tests.”  Folks would be admitted the night before a procedure or surgery would be scheduled.  That practice didn’t last too long after I was ordained.  Now, a patient is given his bottle of rocket fuel to drink at home the night before his colonoscopy.  Now, a surgical patient is told to arrive long before dawn to get prepped for surgery regardless how inconvenient that may be.

I continue to surprise myself with the changes that I see over the course of time.  Some changes are for the greater good of the Church.  Some changes are because of trends.  Some changes are simply for the sake of change.  You know what?  We live through it and, in the words of Scarlett O’Hara, “tomorrow is another day.”

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,

Bears all our years away;

They fly forgotten, as a dream

dies at the op’ning day.

(O God, Our Help in Ages Past, ELW No. 632, vs. 5.)

What's The Good Word?

I still like listening to stories.  One of the positive aspects of my countless miles of commuting is listening to audio books.  I can’t even keep track of how many books I have listened over the last twelve months. The list includes murder mysteries, intrigue, autobiographies, fiction and non-fiction.  I love those sonorous voices cast to read these stories and the way they interpret dialog. Coming to the end of a novel is like saying good-bye to a friend. It is even more so when there is a voice attached to the story.

Mrs. Geezer, as some may know, is an elementary librarian.  Reading stories to children in primary grades requires a special knack.  She would never admit to being an actress but to capture the attention of 5 to 8-year olds requires a bit of theatrics.  Such a model helps a young reader become expressive in reading aloud rather than sounding robotic.  When I was in first grade Mrs. Bauman told my mother that I was an expressive reader—a portent of things to come, perhaps.

Words are precious.  I love how wordsmiths extract the richness of words for others to share.  When one can create a phrase that becomes memorable, it is priceless.  Likewise, when we are bombarded by words they become cheap and empty.  Maybe it is because I am an “I” on the Myers-Briggs scale, but I get uncomfortable around yakkers—those people who should wear a large button that says, “Help, I’m talking and I can’t shut up!”

This is why the reading of scripture within public worship is important to me.  It is also important that lay people read the lessons.  It is vital that we demonstrate each week that “liturgy” literally is “the work of the people.” Reading from the Old Testament and from the Epistles certainly is work.  It is not like reading the front page of the newspaper.  It requires thought and it requires practice.  Before Sunday worship the reader should know who is speaking in the lesson.  Is it Isaiah speaking for himself or is it Isaiah’s prophecy from God?  What’s going on in the Apostle Paul’s life that he should speak this way?  I want to be like a temperamental movie director shouting at the starlet, “What’s your motivation?  What’s your motivation?”  But, I want to keep my job.

I wish we could make the time we spend reading the Word in worship to be a special event and an encounter with the living God.  In my current site the reader comes to the reading desk and reads from a disposable piece of paper. (What does that tell us about the Word of God?)  The lesson is printed in the worship folder as another source.  Then, the text is also projected onto a screen next to the reader all in block print, not allowing for Hebrew poetry.  One can guess where the eyes of worshipers are focused—everything but the reader. We have just endured a volley of words that were supposed to be godly.  When the reader finishes the lesson and announces, “The Word of the Lord,” maybe the congregation’s response should be, “In a way.”

In my ideal setting I would have the All-Star team of readers from my 35 year of ministry. They would know if the speaker was Aaron or Zerubbabel.  They would have a sense of context behind the lesson.  They would have a sense of drama.  Instead of more projected print competing with the reader, there would be artwork projected illustrating the reading from artists of yore and from what the 2^nd grade class drew when they studied the lesson.  The Word of God would be given honor and be surrounded in beauty and holiness.

But this earthly kingdom is not ideal.  We are in the church militant and await the church triumphant.  There will be those readers who tell us that Jesus is for both the Jews and the Genitals.  They will list those present at Pentecost as visitors from Rome, both Jews and prostitutes.  They will offer a reading from the Epistle to the Collisions or Paul’s letter to the Philippines.  We will chuckle but in faith we will turn our ears to the truth that is given to the people of God.  Amid all the challenges to our treasure chest of words that become malapropos and verbal flubs we remember Isaiah’s prophecy from God, “My word does not return to me empty.”

Freeze, Mister! You're busted.

I wonder what would happen if somebody died and made me a member of the Fashion Police.  I do not imagine myself as a male fashionista  (or would it be, “fashionisto?).  Once I saw a guy on Main Street wearing black wing tips, black socks, plaid shorts and a multi-colored tank top and I thought to myself, “I want to be that guy.”  I do have a pretty good sense of color, however, and I wear black clergy shirts because black is more slimming.

There are some things as a male Fashion Police officer that attract my attentions.  Mind you, I am only a rookie.  I am not ready to investigate the Wal-Martians.  That is the email that a friend send someone with those bizarre individuals spotted at Wal-Mart.  We don’t want to look at them but there is a macabre sense that forces us to scroll through those pictures.  There are not enough latex gloves in the world for the Fashion Police to investigate those fashion offenders.  I certainly am not prepared to bust any of those perpetrators.  (Did I actually use the word “bust” to describe the Wal-Martians.)

We male Fashion Police still have our task cut out for us.  There are not as many sagging delinquents but still there have been sightings of young men with their pants hanging half-staff and their boxers in full sight.  Some of those gentlemen got the word from some dudes with street cred that this fashion statement originated in prison exercise yards.  They learned that in prison it advertises er, umm, dare I say, availability and preference.  That might be enough for those guys to start wearing their pants like Urkel.  (Remember him?)  We Fashion Police just sit back and say, “Wait until those young bucks hit middle-age and their bellies naturally push down their pants and their butts have flattened out and can’t prevent those britches from falling around their ankles.  It’s karma.

I think there is something in the Fashion Code about basketball shorts.  I thought those things were called shorts because they were short.  My sister wore something like that in the 60’s.  Then, they were called culottes.  If some guy ever trips on the hem of his basketball shorts maybe the Fashion Police will start flashing our badges and writing citations.

One final sighting that the Fashion Police might place under suspicion is the t-shirt under the t-shirt. Isn’t that redundant?  I can understand a rash guard or an athletic shirt or a tank top under a t-shirt perhaps but I simply cannot understand the double t-shirt look.  Being the macho sort of guy that I am, that look would not be comfortable.  A little chest hair can show.  Biceps do not have to be big and rippling.  The ratty, white t-shirt worn under another t-shirt just does not complement the ensemble.

Gentlemen, it’s time to “cowboy up.”  Don’t let those hoity-toity fashion couture dictators like Kohl’s,  JCPenney and Sears push you around.  Go to Farm and Fleet for your wardrobe like you want to.  Rip the sleeves off if it makes you feel better.  Button only the buttons you want to button.  Make a statement.  Be yourself!

Let the Fashion Police say about you, “Move along, folks.  There’s nothing to see here.”

In Defense of Goofy VBS Songs

I came home from Vacation Bible School and told my family that I wanted to become a Lutheran missionary.  This was met with some surprise considering my family was Methodist.  They may have wondered if sending me to Grace Lutheran’s VBS was a good idea.  After all, those Lutherans were beer-swilling Germans who danced the polka and Flying Dutchman like hussies and even played a card game called “Schaffskopf” (trans:  Sheepshead). Thus, the seeds were sown on my journey to Lutheranism, albeit without becoming a missionary.  Although, at times, a tour of duty in Papua New Guinea has seemed appealing.

Vacation Bible School has been special for me ever since. The rest of the year a kid wasn’t allowed to run in church because it is God’s house.  A kid could run during VBS.  The rest of the year we sang dorky songs.  During VBS we sang cool songs with a lot of jumping and bumping.  The rest of the year we had to be dressed up for Sunday school and church.  A kid could wear shorts and sneakers at VBS.

At Grace Lutheran, Oconto Falls, the 100 or so kids would gather in the sanctuary and Pastor Diemer would lead the opening exercises.  I remember how we would face the American flag and say the Pledge of Allegiance.  Then, we would turn and face the Christian flag and recite the Apostles’ Creed.  Golly, now I have 3^rd year confirmation students who cannot recite the Creed.  We would be dismissed to our classes to the strains of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”  There would be the day’s lesson, crafts, and then, go outside to play games.

Friday, the final day of class, was the picnic which was the highpoint.  Once again, more voices joined together calling me to Lutheranism, “come, have some more to eat!”  It was a bountiful fare—no silly tray of crudités, no righteous high-fiber, whole wheat hot dog buns, no obligatory serving of fruit.  We had hot dogs from the locker plant; beans with extra bacon fried that morning; cold potato salad and hot German potato salad that all the other kids killed for. I was still an interloper—I didn’t know about such things. A special table for dessert groaned from the weight of chocolate brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and chocolate peanut butter cookies (sense a theme here?).  This was real food of chocolate, sugar and saturated fats prepared by equally bountiful Hausfrauen with names like Erna and Irma, and Hilda.  If Grace Lutheran had not converted my soul during the week of VBS, they sure as hell converted my belly.

Fast forward to the advanced stages of the journey and I am a Lutheran pastor, though still not a missionary.  I can’t help but have fun with Vacation Bible School.  I get to be a kid again.  I love to sing the goofy songs that drive home the point and drive parents bonkers on the ride home.  I love doing melodramatic skits about Apostle Paul’s shipwreck.  I love making tempera paint foot prints on newsprint as we follow Jesus and then the kids laugh at Pastor Ken’s weird foot prints.  I love helping kids remember their baptism by dousing them with water balloons and water guns.  Unfortunately, the kitchen crews now serve ½ cup of broccoli lightly salted, ½ cup of fruit cocktail in light syrup, baked potato chips and ½ pint of skim milk.

Erna, Irma, and Hilda now are part of that great cloud of witnesses.  If only they could still be with us to show us how a VBS picnic should be done.  I’m good to go with the goofy songs.

On Watching the Packers and Feeding the Hungry

I had a great Father’s Day.  My wonderful son received tickets to attend the Donald Driver Foundation Packers softball game.  It was a fun afternoon at Appleton’s Fox Cities Stadium watching the Packers defense vs. the Packers offense.  Between innings there were the goofy games that amused the crowd. There were the occasional chants of “Go, Pack, Go!”  We saw a lot of flubs and we saw muscled brutes in green and gold whack the ball way beyond the fence.

In my research of the game I discovered one of the sponsors was Thrivent Financial for Lutherans directing proceeds to Ending Hunger in Eastern Wisconsin.  I shared that information with my young adult son who chuckled saying, “as if there’s hunger in Eastern Wisconsin.” 

I don’t fault my son.  Kids his age think of hunger as naked children in Africa with distended bellies, too weak to shoo away the flies.  Not just 21-year olds:  there are scads of people naïve to the issue of local hunger.  Hunger may be disguised but it is among us and in our communities.

Thirty-some years ago, a school secretary saw a need, so she and her neighbor started a local food pantry.  The secretary saw lethargic kids coming to school without breakfast.  She kept it in confidence but she knew how many students were on free and reduced lunches.  She observed first-hand that there was a hunger issue in the town.

The two women brought the need to the community.  They addressed service clubs and they spoke to the churches about their plan for a pantry.  One church basement lady patronized them saying that it was an honorable plan but she was certain there were no hungry people in the community.  The food pantry began.  In the first 12 months the food pantry had over 100 requests. The numbers increased every year after that.  Ha hah to you, Church Basement Lady!

Every community that I have been in has had some sort of food pantry.  None of them are perfect.  Some need better organization and choreography. They all notice a handful of abusers of the system. But, they all witness genuinely hungry people who are undernourished and under fed. It may be families with children and it might be that growing demographic of elderly who must decide if they will eat or take their medication.

The simple contributions and donations of common people make an impact on those who are in need.  So many people know that they are one paycheck away from being in the same boat.

Local pantries are indebted to the donors who supply food and money so that the shelves can be stocked.  Blessings be upon programs of the Boy Scouts and the USPS mail carriers who go door-to-door reminding the community and then pick up food donations.  In our part of the state, Second Harvest Foodbank of Southern Wisconsin is an incredible resource in the fight to end hunger.  In its 16-county service area, Second Harvest provided 11.5 million meals last year. 

Dear Readers:  there is never a bad time to write a check for local hunger programs.  Second Harvest is certainly worthy of your contribution.  St. John’s folks, a check for the Samaritan Fund would be appreciated in a time when kids are at home and there is no school lunch program.  Any organization getting food to hungry people could make use of food or cash donations. Volunteers are always needed, also.

As for the Green Bay Packers playing softball—I recommend that they keep their day jobs.

Here Comes the Bride

Ah, ‘tis nothing so rare as a day in June.  June traditionally has been the month associated with joyous weddings and the celebration of young love united in holy matrimony.  Weddings are surrounded with all sorts of customs, traditions, and old wives’ tales.  Allow me to shine some light upon these practices.

June became the time for weddings for a couple of reasons.  Formerly, churches would only be heated on Sunday mornings—and just barely.  Churches were not available for large Saturday weddings until the heating season was done.  One might look at family histories and see that Grandma and Grandpa or Aunt Ingebor and Uncle Torvold were married in the parsonage.  That was commonplace for weddings scheduled during the heating season.

We may tell the groom dressed in his finery, “You clean up pretty good, don’t ya’ know.”  June is a time for our ancestors in the north could finally get cleaned up.  After months of accumulating winter’s stink and chimney soot, the creeks and ponds were warm enough to thoroughly bathe.  Still, highly scented peonies and other fragrant garden flowers covered up what the creek and lye soap could not conquer.

The Interim Geezer and Mrs. Geezer, in fact, celebrate their wedding anniversary during the month of June.  We were not married for the reasons above but rather, my bride, a teacher, did want to be married during the school year. Understandably, she wanted a little time between the last day of school and her wedding day to take care of those details brides are fond of tending to.

There are marriage customs that go back much farther than the days of our pioneering kinfolk.  We must remember that marriages were a transaction between families or between the groom and the bride’s family.  Many moons ago, I played Lazar Wolf in “Fiddler on the Roof.”  He was the village butcher smitten by Tevye’s daughter and strikes a deal for her hand over which there is much consternation.  The dowry was an important factor in the connubial contract.

Thus, we have two people in the wedding party whose roles date back to those days of the marriage contract.  “Best Man” is a cleaned-up version of “best man with the sword.”  The groom would select from his family or the community the best man with the sword who would defend the honor of the groom in case the father of the bride would welch on the deal and try to pass off the ugly daughter instead.  History does not reveal if the best man with the sword was required to give a long and embarrassing toast at the wedding banquet.

Likewise, the maid of honor was not the bride’s BFF and sorority sister.  Rather the maid of honor was from the groom’s family.  She did not flounce and puff the bride’s train.  Her task before the wedding was to examine the bride to attest to her virginity.  (Things that make you want to go, “yeewh!”)  So, too, history does not tell us if she was required to buy an over-priced, ugly dress that she would never wear again.

But, by marriage the bride was also given authority.  As a sign of such authority, the groom gave the bride a ring.  It was not a band of gold encrusted with diamonds and shimmering gems.  Those came later in history.  The groom gave the bride a signet ring of the family crest.  While he was off slaying dragons or on religious crusades or conventions in Reno, the bride had authority to use the ring to seal business and family documents making them legal and binding.

I’m sure Wikipedia might tell us about oodles more customs and traditions. Don’t get me wrong.  I love to do weddings.  I am just uncomfortable, however, when traditions stand in the way of reality of life and the profession of love before God and the community.  Let us hear the Word of God, recite vows of our earthly love and fidelity, put a ring on the finger, a kiss on the chops and I am good to go.  We can fill in the blanks from there.

'Went to a garden party just to see who was there

If I were to undergo DNA testing I wonder if geneticists would discover a gardening gene within my make-up.  If so, the gardening gene would be two recessive genes that have been made manifest within me.  Let me explain.  I enjoy gardening and growing things in the soil.  The growing warmth of May triggered something within me that calls me to dig in the dirt.  But, I am fussy—the weather has to be warm.

Both my grandmothers were avid gardeners.  They raised families when it was necessary to have a garden to feed the family.  My Grandma Mary had seven children within thirteen years.  Her feeding that many children required her having a large garden to be in charge of  The boys were working in the field and the girls would be hoeing the garden. (I almost forgot, Uncle Dave had to practice the piano.) Not surprisingly, none of my aunts were gardeners in their mother’s footsteps.

 My Grandma Lindsay also was from that era when they canned everything that would fit in a jar. But even when she was all alone, Grandma Bessie would stand upside-down in the blazing sun pulling the errant weeds that were so foolish as to rise above the soil. She had the benefit of a garden made up of sandy loam, a gardener’s dream.  The soil was enriched with magical, composted manure brought to town each spring from the farm produced by proud, registered Holsteins.  What I inherited from Grandma Lindsay was the joy of growing flowers.

The gene skipped a generation.  Gardening, according to my father, involved a John Deere pulling a moldboard plow, the larger the better.  For my mother, she had “done her time” as a young girl and had no plans of going down that path of purgatory again.  A few petunias in a planter were satisfactory.  It appeared to be a pact to which she and her sisters all subscribed.

Then, I married a woman with a dominant gene for gardening.  Together, we discovered our mutual admiration for perennials, those deep rooted plants that return year after year.  Each house that we have lived in has been left with the posterity of our gardening presence. The purchaser of one house subsequently sprayed Round-up on the perennial bed we had cultivated eradicating all those noxious plantings.

During my tenure at Home Depot during a furlough from interim ministry, I would often be the cashier in the garden area.  I dispensed a lot of free gardening information to customers for which I was not compensated.  Should I have submitted a statement for consultation fees?

As I write this, I am returning from a week’s vacation.  Much of the time was spent with duties such as spreading back dirt into the newly edged beds, planting annuals as borders, potting planters, perpetually mowing grass, and waging war against quack grass (quack, it is suspected, is a communist plot).  My muscles ached.  I missed applying sunscreen to some spots.  My fingernails were embedded with dirt and, as the saying goes, I was happier than a toad in hell.

There are no plans to go “pro” when and if we retire, but we will surely continue to putter as long as we are upright.  I may need a crane to get me up but let me dig.  We will unapologetically beg for divisions of perennials.  We will play with combinations of colors and textures.  We will keep amending our soil.

Then, someday all that soil will be shoveled on top of me and I can be at one with the soil I have tilled, the soil I have hoed, and the soil I have cussed. 

And Deliver Us from Eagles

Two favorite hymns of people are “On Eagles’ Wings” and “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”  The two hymns are both about birds.  Interesting isn’t it?  They are totally opposite variations of bird species.  The hymns reflect that difference.  “On Eagles’ Wings” sings of the Good Lord who is strong and valiant holding his children in the palm of his strong hand.  “His Eye is on the Sparrow” is a more pastoral message caring for all the little, helpless sparrows like a loving mother.  Eagles and sparrows certainly become an odd couple, don’t they?

Many moons ago when I was a baby pastor a colleague told the parable of eagles and sparrows in the church. I may embellish a little.  (The analogy fits most volunteer groups because it is about human nature.)  He said there are eagles and there are sparrows.  Eagles make the place look splendid.  Their noble stature becomes a reflection of the institution. Everyone driving by sees the eagles and takes pictures of the eagles.  Sparrows are in the background flittering around also needing to be fed.  Without ceremony they get their job done being fed and feeding one another.  But then the cameras are put away and the eagles end up scaring away the sparrows.  The sparrows begin to wonder if it is a safe place anymore.

I would say this is a universal condition whenever we gather.  It happens at St. Philomena’s Catholic Church, at Generic Lutheran Church, at the Grand Order of Buffaloes, at the Loyal Daughters of Jupiter, and at Suburbia Elementary PTA.

Oh, I have seen my share of eagles over the years. In my case, it has been at Generic Lutheran Church.  I’ve seen eagles scare sparrows out of study groups that were designed with the sparrow in mind.  I’ve seen eagles scare sparrows out of the choir loft; scare sparrows from junior leadership positions; scare sparrows out of kitchens, sacristies, parking lots, and garden spots.  The sparrows begin to wonder if it is a safe place anymore.

Enter the emerging church:  those are the untraditional communities of faith that don’t look like their parents’ iconic churches.  They are the communities made up of Gen-Xers, Millennial Agers and a scattering of Boomers, students and hipsters, social activists and unchurched people in search of community.  They are sparrows who have nested together.  If someone begins to sound like their eagle parent, they are called out for their offense to the nature of the community.  They are committed sparrows.  Sparrows rock!

We need eagles.  Eagles take on necessary leadership roles.  Eagles initiate programs.  Eagles know the history. Eagles might be bankrolling the organization.  But eagles need to be reminded that they are eagles.  Eagles need to soar humbly and lovingly otherwise they become too “eagle-icious.”

Why can’t we all be robins?

The Sound of Kaleidoscopes

I like to think I have a colorful personality.  Maybe there is a neurological quirk that explains it.  Some months ago while listening to Public Radio, there was a segment about  synesthesia.  It is a neurological condition by which the stimulation of one sensory system involuntarily stimulates a secondary sensory system.  I might be a dumb guy because I never heard of the condition but now, I find it extremely exciting.  Synesthesia is not a troublesome condition unless it goes to an extreme in an individual.  In fact, synesthesia can aid a person in their creativity and productivity.

I find the thingamabob intriguing.  I will call it a thingamabob because “condition” makes it sound like there should be a telethon or a 12-step program for synesthesia.  It is intriguing because I think as a child I experienced it.  For my 6^th or 7^th birthday I received two striped t-shirts.  One was blue and yellow and the other was red and green.  The blue and yellow shirt I called my 6+4 shirt and the other was my 7+3 shirt because those were the number that the colors represented for me.  Being the ever-transparent schoolboy, I explained the correlation to my family.  The explanation was received immediately with laughter and scoffing.  Thus, I repressed any further synesthetic connection between colors and numbers.

People with full-blown synesthesia tell of their mental processes.  As I have mentioned, some people might think of it as a malady.  I think the possibilities are endless. Usually thesecondary sense stimulated is color. In the radio interview I listened to, a young man told how music is a kaleidoscope of color.  Composing music for him is also a coordination of colors.  It raises the question if some of the master composers of the ages were also synesthetes. This makes me wonder if those people who play by ear (a talent I would kill for) have a form of synesthesia.  Golly, have those electric keyboards with color-coded keys screwed up any synesthete who could have been the next Liberace?

Other synesthetes connect numbers and colors.  These are people who do rainbow mathematics in far more advanced forms than my banal 6+4 and 7+3 t-shirts. The complexity of advanced mathematics must look like the largest box of Crayola crayons possible within their minds.  That would mean to me that an abstract subject like math becomes a little more concrete and visual.  On the flip side, there are synesthetes who see art (abstract and traditional) as numbers developing a pattern or a formula.  Again, may some of the great master painters have had a correlation of color and numbers.

Still other synesthetes give color associations to their sense of taste.  Different foods or tastes stimulate visions of color for the individual.  Broccoli may be green but will taste “violet.” Apples may be sky blue. One interviewee sampled a glass of chardonnay and said it was aqua. I could see an individual being a picky eater because they do not want their foods to clash.

Here’s my point:  synesthesia is a thingamabob far more than a condition.  Unless the thingamabob gets out of hand I would think synesthesia might really be a real enhancement to a person’s perception of life.  Meanwhile, I regret that my erstwhile visit to synesthesia had not been repressed.  It would have made balancing the checkbook much prettier.