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.