The Dangers of "Contemporary" Christian Music

This one wouldn't let me sleep the other night, and as I laid there flipping from one side to the other, trying to get some sleep, I couldn't stop thinking about how dangerous what has come to be known as "Contemporary Christian" music really is.  Now, if you know me, I know what you're thinking: "But that's all you do at Grace on Sunday morning."  I know...  I know... But that doesn't mean it isn't dangerous.  

Now, let me tell you what I mean.  "Contemporary" really only means "right now."  If  you've heard it used to describe a certain type of music, let me offer a definition:

Definition of Contemporary:
1: Of the same time: existing or occurring at or dating from the same period or time as         
     someone or something else.

2:  Existing, in existence now

3:  Modern in style: distinctly modern in style.

Definition #3 is the only one that would come close to the proper use of the word "Contemporary" in describing music in the church today.  But, then again, chanting the Psalms during worship 500 years ago could have been considered "Contemporary" also.  

Ok, semantics aside...on to the reason for this post.  

I serve a growing church.  Our worship is wide open on Sunday morning and is so by design.  Our praise band does "contemporary" worship music 95% of the time with the occasional hymn plugged in for the offertory.  I have learned over the last month or so that this "contemporary" worship music is dangerous.  

I grew up on the old Cokesbury Hymnal and a little green paperback hymnal with a picture of the gates of heaven on it but I can't remember the name.  They were packed with songs like "Amazing Grace," "The Church in the Wildwood," "Ivory Palaces," and "Victory in Jesus."  I remember Scotty standing up front and belting out those tunes loud enough for the church across the highway to be able to sing along with, and folks were clapping their hands and tapping their toes.  

I'm a United Methodist pastor, and was born into a United Methodist Church, but it wasn't until I was 16 or 17 that I was even introduced to the United Methodist Hymnal.  I know that the songs in our Hymnal have been carefully chosen to teach our theology, but when we started singing from that hymnal, and this is just my observations, the hand clapping and toe tapping stopped.  There was theology in them, but little fire...we knew them...they were safe...they were comfortable...and they told our story.

Then in my early 30's I was introduced to "Contemporary" Christian music...and I hated it.  I didn't know any of those songs...I had never heard any of those songs...and I'm not talking about songs like "Kum ba yah."  (I actually had one church member tell me one day that we needed to be doing more upbeat and contemporary music in church, and when I asked, "Oh?  Like what?" Her answer seriously was "I don't know, like Kum ba yah."  #Facepalm ...not a fan...)  I'm talking about drums, electric guitars, floor thumping bass, keyboards, and multiple vocalists...

Now, you may be asking, "Jamie, why do you think it's dangerous?"  Good question.  It's not because it's loud and we shouldn't do loud in church.  It's not because of all of the instruments instead of the organ and piano.  It's not because it may seem undignified to some.  David, in the Psalms, wrote about all kinds of musical instruments and about how undignified his worship could become.  It's because it's sneaky.  

When we sing from a hymnal, we know that we are getting theology and doctrine.  Sometimes it moves us, sometimes it doesn't.  When we sing along with a "Contemporary" worship song, we're just singing along, and then BOOM!  we're singing a prayer and don't even realize it.   Not that this can't happen from a hymnal, but for me it hasn't happened from a hymnal.  

"Contemporary" Christian music is dangerous because it leads folks into prayers they may not even be aware they're praying.  One example for me, just recently, was "Keep Making Me," by Sidewalk Prophets.  For a couple months, I sang along in my truck with them, then I woke up one morning and God had actually answered the prayer that I had been praying and didn't even realize I was doing it..."Make me broken, so I can be healed.  I'm so calloused and now I can't feel.  I want to run to you with heart wide open, make me broken...Make me empty, so I can be filled.  Cause I'm still holding onto my will.  I'm completed when you are with me, make me empty."  

It's not Church in the Wildwood, but God answered that prayer in a huge way in my life and I didn't even know I was asking for it.  Dangerous, I tell you.  Sneaky.  But it works.  

"Show me your glory" by Third Day...prayer.

"I will follow" by Chris Tomlin...prayer.

"Hold us Together" by Matt Maher...prayer

"I need a miracle" by Third Day...prayer.

"Let them see you" by JJ Weeks Band...prayer

"Lord, I need you" by Matt Maher...prayer

...and that classic contemporary song...

"Sanctuary" by Randy Scruggs...Prayer...are we sure we really want God to prepare us to be a sanctuary?

Sneaky.  Dangerous.  If we sing along with them, we need to be ready for God to answer those prayers.  Sometimes I don't think we realize what we're doing as we buzz down the highway with the radio on.  

Now, I'm not dissing the UM Hymnal at all.  It's my theology...but for this 43 year old rebel preacher, it just doesn't speak to me like some of these others.  Maybe it's not the hymns, maybe it's been my experience with the presentation of those hymns... piano... organ... about half tempo... trying to stay awake until the end... oh my God are we singing that one again this week... but this month, I had an epiphany, and that is this: for the last 13 years I have been praying prayers that I didn't even realize I was praying and this month God answered one of those, sending my sand castles tumbling down.  

So, if you still want to argue "Contemporary" verses "Traditional" that's cool with me.  What I have realized lately though, is the danger in singing a "Contemporary" worship song.  I will always love the old revival hymns I grew up on.  "Ivory Palaces" is running through my head right now...but...my prayer life has been taken to a completely different level through some of these new fangled contemporary songs...and I'm not alone.  

Now, if you are a fan of contemporary worship songs, and contemporary worship bands, do me a favor...check out the lyrics before you sing along with them because some of them are prayers, and when God's people pray, God listens whether we realize we're doing it or not.  

Teaching Old Dads New Tricks...

Ok, I haven't done this in a while.  Life has been crazy busy, but inspiration hit last night and I thought I'd share some thoughts this morning.  Get your Kleenex ready.

I'm a dad.  Have been for over 18 years now.  My oldest daughter, Jenni, just graduated high school two weeks ago, and my youngest, Hannah, will be a freshman after Friday afternoon.  I think it was some divine practical joke that I wound up with two daughters.  God must have grinned and said, "Hey, Jay...remember that teenage boy you used to be?  Wouldn't it be a hoot if you got to be the dad of two teenage daughters?  I think we should do that."

The problem with having teenage daughters is that, eventually, they attract teenage boys.  Most dads are just like I am and are very protective of the apples of their eyes.  Occasionally, we have to remind some teenage boy just how precious that little girl is, and sometimes we have to leave them with no doubts whatsoever.  Every now and then one will come in the door all puffed up, saying things like, "I'm not afraid of any dads..." and it is our duty to show him the error of his ways.

...Then there's the ones that absolutely blow your mind.

...Like Kyle...

Yesterday was a very long Wednesday for me.  When I finally got home last night, I went out into the backyard and lit a bonfire.  Kyle was at the house with Jenni, and they came out and sat on the ground by the fire with me.  As I sat there watching them, it hit me that this may be the one.  Who knows?  Here's the deal, though... Jenni has epilepsy.  She was diagnosed in March of 2009.  Kyle is blind.  He has had prosthetic eyes since he was a little boy. Watching them together melts my heart.  It's exactly what every dad wants for his little girl.

Why?  Because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Kyle is not after my little girl for what's on the outside.  He sees on a level very few others can. He sees her for what she is on the inside.

If she is having an off day, he texts me to find out how she is doing.  If she is having an absence spell, he texts me to let me know that she's not acting right.  If he's down, he'll ask me if he can some see her because she makes him happy.

Every now and then he'll tell me, "Hey bro, I need to borrow your eyes for a minute," but most of the time, the kid is unstoppable.  I never called any of my girlfriends' dads "Bro."  Hell, I was terrified of most of them.
I was a pretty good drummer in high school, but this kid blows my mind when he gets behind a trap set.  He can completely rebuild a computer and has never seen one.  He knew his way around our house within 20 minutes of getting there the first time.

But more importantly than all of that, he loves my little girl for who she is and not what she looks like.  His mom even told me that he had told her once, "I know I can't see her, but I just know Jen is beautiful."

Now to the title of this entry.  See, here's the thing...Since April 19, of 1996 I have been dreading, and at the same time looking forward to, the day when I could be the dad that I was always afraid of.  I had it all planned out.  Then that country song came out, "Come on in boy, sit on down, and tell me 'bout yourself..." and that was just going to make it even easier.  I even downloaded it to my phone so I'd have it ready anytime I needed it. I had the speeches ready, and the hard looks...and the snarls...I was going to be that dad... because nobody was ever going to be good enough for my little girls.

Last night, I had to rethink all of that.  Every bit of it.  She's happy, and it's his fault.  My baby girl has been through hell for five years...then here comes this kid wanting to see  her...and he doesn't care that she has seizures, and she doesn't care that he can't see...and she's smiling again.  So I sit back and think, "You know what, I'm ok with this."

So...dads of little girls...this ol' dad has learned that not every teenage boy who comes to my door is a wolf.  Most of them are, yes.  But if I had done all of the things I had planned on doing when my oldest started dating, she wouldn't have been sitting around the bonfire with me last night, laughing with a boy who loves her for her.  I could have run all of them off...I'm the dad...but in trying to keep the bad ones away, I just might have caused her to miss a good one.

Jen, you make me proud, baby girl.
Kyle, you're a good kid, and thank you for making my baby girl laugh again.

"Come Away With Me to a Quiet Place and Get Some Rest..."

Ok, this may sound
stupid but I just had surgery Monday and I've been looking forward to it for months.  Not just because the surgeon came in for the consult a couple months ago, pulled my CT scan up, and said, "I don't usually say this, but that's one messed up nose."  I knew that.  I've been looking forward to it because I knew it was going to knock me on my butt for a few days.  And boy, howdy, has it.  Thanks be to God.

I'm a work in progress, like most of us.  I'm stubborn.  I'm hard headed.  I can't sit still.  I've been told that I'm ADD, OCD, and probably some other letters I haven't heard of yet.  I've worked since the summer I turned 9 years old and my dad told me, "One of these days, boy, you're going to want to drive.  You'd better go to work and start saving money for a car."  Watching a movie is almost impossible because it requires me to sit down for 2 hours...2 hours, really?  But...I'm a work in progress. 

Which means...I'm better than I used to be.  After I got home from surgery Monday afternoon, I took the pain meds the doctor sent home and hit my recliner.  Every four hours, another pain pill like the doctor ordered, and back to the recliner.  Tuesday morning, I popped my copy of "The Hobbit" into the DVD player.  Three hours later, I popped "The Fellowship of the Rings" in.  Three hours later, "The Two Towers..."  For ten hours I sat in my recliner and watched hobbits, elves, and dwarves try to save Middle Earth.  And you know what, it didn't bother me. 

One of my favorite passages in the entire gospel story is found in Mark 6.  The disciples have been running all over God knows where, and as Jesus calls them back together they are climbing all over each other trying to tell him how busy they'd been doing all that he had sent them out to do.  He seems unbelievably unimpressed.  Totally blows them off.  Doesn't even seem to acknowledge how busy they'd been and how proud they were of that.  Instead, do you remember what he does?

"Come away with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest."  That's his answer to their busy-ness.  Talk about busting some lead pastor bubbles. 

2013 was a hell of a year.  Thank God and greyhound it's gone.  So, as 2014 rolls in, and I'm still pretty much confined to my recliner for a couple more days, I think I'm going to take JC up on that invitation.  Not just for this week, but for this year.  I love my job.  I love to work.  I may even slip into the office for just a few minutes today, but I am going to rediscover how to rest and play this year. 

Life is just too damned short to stay stressed all of the time.  That's not what we were designed for.  Jesus knew that, and that's why he did what he did to the disciples.  Sure, there's lots of stuff that needs to be done.  Sure, there are going to be long days for all of us.  There will be long weeks and overtime.  There will be doctors visits and phone calls to keep the creditors at bay.   Things are going to break and we will want to pull our hair and scream.  But...in all of that, I am going to work harder this year at hearing that voice, "Come away with me by yourself and get some rest." 

"Dum Vita Est Spes Est...While There's Life, There's Hope."

Ok, I will own up front that this is mostly rant, but at some point during this rant, it will evolve into something else.  I need to do this today.  If you've had the kind of day I've had, I invite you to read along.  Maybe we can figure some of this thing called life out as we go.  If not, there's probably a rerun of "Flipper" on somewhere. 

I'm going to start out by saying something that is going to cause a collective "gasp" throughout most of my circle of friends, and will leave folks saying to themselves, or under their breath, or hell, even to someone else, "I can't believe he said that...especially with his career and all..."  So here it is, right out of the gate: The next person who comes up to me, with some sort of self-denial laced smile on their face, and says this..."God is good...all the time...all the time...God is good." I will not be responsible for my actions.  You have been warned. 

I'm mad as hell.  I don't know who or what I'm mad at, but today I have found myself at a level of pissed off I've never been at before in my life.  Maybe I'm having some serious theodicy issues (justice of God stuff) and maybe I am mad at God.  Maybe I'm pissed at the medical community because we can map most of the human genome but we can't figure out why what happened this morning keeps happening.  Maybe I'm pissed at myself because I'm the dad, and protector, of my progeny.  I don't know. 

Some days, being a servant of a loving God is just a slap in the face.  If I were still building houses, no one would even flinch if I had a bad day and let a few explicatives fly.  In fact, it's almost expected.  But since I'm clergy, most folks think that I (we) have everything under control, take it all on the chin, and smile all the way through...no matter what life deals us.  We're expected, (in most places, not all) to have this inner peace that never, ever gets shattered.  Well, today I learned that's just not always possible. 

I'm mad as hell.  Did I mention that?  I know deep inside that it's nobody's fault, and that there is no one to blame, but something within me wants to scream, cry, cuss, and tear the hell out of something.  Something within me needs to find some release.  So, you're welcome to stop reading here and see what's on TV, because it's about to get very real. 

I have two beautiful daughters, 17 and 13 years old.  I love them more than life itself.  I have chased off boyfriends because I knew what they wanted.  I have changed dirty diapers.  I have bandaged boo-boos.  I have climbed trees to help get them down.  For 17 years I've taken my role as dad pretty seriously.  Granted, seminary kind of kicked that in the teeth for a few years because I was never home, but for the most part, I've watched out for them pretty well. 

My oldest daughter, for those who don't know, has epilepsy.  She was diagnosed nearly five years ago.  She has all the different kinds of seizures: absence, petit mal, grand mal...we've been through one doctor after another, tried more medicines that I can keep up with, one trip after another to the hospital for evaluations and tests...and she's been a trooper.  One time in five years she asked, "Why me?'  Just once.  That's a hell of a witness from a teenager.  This morning, all hell broke loose in her daddy's world, though. 

I was cooking breakfast and she came into the kitchen to take her meds.  I noticed that she was trying to go into a seizure, but watched her fight it off like a member of the USMC.  Without giving it much thought at all, I told her to go on and get ready for school.  Ten minutes later, she came back into the kitchen, and here is what I saw: my gorgeous 17 year old was unrecognizable because of the blood covering her face and running down her neck.  There was a look of terror in her eyes that I've never seen before, and hope to God never to see again.  Her hair was matted down with blood, and she was holding bloody hands out to me, crying.  I freaked out, but she didn't see that.  I got her to a chair, sat her down, and started cleaning off the blood.  It took four dish towels. 

After I got her cleaned up, and her mom got into the kitchen, I said that I was going to go clean up the blood out of the bathroom because I figured that's where she was.  Instead, she was in her bedroom when she seized, and on the white carpet (who in the hell puts white carpet in a house anyhow?), all of her pillows, her desk, her bed, her clothes on the floor, her notebook...was blood.  So much blood.  She had hit her forehead after the seizure started and fell face down on the floor.  None of us knew she was seizing.   Then I started freaking out for real.  My daughter's blood...everywhere. 

For an hour and a half I cleaned her blood out of carpet, pillows, and towels.  And I cried.  A lot.  Go ahead, call me a sissy.  I dare you. 

That was this morning.  I still can't get the image of her standing there, covered in blood, reaching out to me, out of my head.  But she's alive...and 95% of the time leads a perfectly normal life.  It's the 5% that pisses me off. 

So, this afternoon, I'm trying to regain some perspective.  Yeah, she has epilepsy.  Yeah, she may never drive a car.  Sure, college is going to be hard as hell for her.  A job?  I think she'll be fine if she has an understanding boss.  We're trying to teach her to take care of herself, making her order her own prescription refills, and set out her own meds (a lot of meds).  She's a tough kid.  A lot tougher than her old man. 

So, evolution begins...Dum Vita Est Spes Est...While there's life, there's hope.  You Latin geeks tell me if that is the right translation, I just found it online.         

Where there is life, there's hope.  By damn, I hope so.  Where there's life there's hope.  I looked at her after she got back from getting stitches and there was life.  Her color was perfect.  She was laughing (I think the little Yoda doll I found her helped).  She was poking at the stitches because it was still numb.  She had a hell of a lot more life in her at that moment than I did, so I've decided that it is from her life, and her hope, and her strength that I will draw mine. 

Now, you can say, "Jamie, you're a preacher, your hope is supposed to be in Christ."  I'd say you're probably right.  But the reality is, I felt pretty alone cleaning up all of that blood.  Oh, not completely alone, I had friends constantly encouraging me.  Today, I need something tangible.  Not an idol, really, but something I can look at...put my eyes on...and say, "There is life.  There really is hope."  Hell, maybe it is an idol, but if you think so, keep it to yourself.  Today I don't want to hear it.  Today, I needed to look into those eyes that had been so filled with fear this morning, and see life.  That gives me hope. 

Sure, I have hope in the resurrection and the new creation, but you know what, sometimes I don't want to be a theologian.  Sometimes I just want to be a dad.  Sometimes I don't want to think so deep about every little thing, (and wish to God others wouldn't all the time either...loosen up, people...holy hell) and instead, just be.  Just be a guy.  Just be a dad.  Just be pissed for a while. 

I'll get over it.  Tonight I'll strap on my guitar and the praise band will practice.  That will help a lot.  Always does.  I'll be able to be a theologian once again tomorrow, but for a little while today, I just needed to be mad.  But when the mad is gone, and some sense of normal returns, there is life...there is hope. 

Shucking Corn...

Yeah, boring title.  I know...but...

Everyone in my circle has been telling me to slow down...my family...my friends...my church...even my counselor... But I love working.  I love my job.  I don't mind the hours or the stress.  It does get to me every now and then, just like everyone else who's trying to make it through the day, but all in all, it's a great gig. 

I realized over the last few months, though, that many of the things I used to enjoy just don't have much attraction for me now.  I don't know if I'm getting older...or I'm tired...or just have changing tastes, or what...but one thing I still enjoy tremendously is my garden.  Oh, sure, there's been no shortage of "old man" comments since I started gardening seriously last year, but I don't mind.  I even have a straw hat. 

Something hit me today, though.  (Oh great, here he goes again.  Cue fuzzy background) 

I realized today that I even rush through my gardening.  During planting, it was a dead run to get the ground tilled, manure worked in, rows laid out, strings pulled (The rows HAVE to be straight, duh!)  and the seeds or plants in the ground.  I don't know why I rushed through it.  I really enjoy it.  It's not even really work to me.  But it was "Get this done and get gone." all the way through the season. 

The cool weather garden is done now.  The first planting of sweet corn and pole beans are gone.  As soon as they were finished, I ran into the corn patch, clippers flying, cutting down corn stalks and bean vines, and straightening up squash vines so that I could till again and plant a late crop of horticulture beans. (Hurry up!) 

Today, I picked corn from my other patch.  Here's the deal...with all of the corn I've picked before today, I would carry my corn out to the compost pile and stand there while I shucked it (quickly) so I could get it in the house and start cutting it off of the cob.  As I walked out to the compost pile today, images of my childhood hit me like a brick to the face.

It's a gorgeous August day.  The sun is shining and a little breeze is blowing.  As I walked across the yard, the clock turned back thirty years or so and I was transported in my mind to the shade of the pine trees behind my grandparents' house, as Granddaddy backed the pickup truck in loaded down with corn.    

Then we'd all pull up a chair, or grab a seat on the picnic table, and it would begin.  Somebody would shuck the corn, someone else would silk it, someone else would trim it, then it would be cut off, prepared, and divided up.  I can picture it just as clearly as if I were there right now...and it just hit me...that was over thirty years ago...maybe even thirty five years ago. 

Thirty years...  That's a long time.  Where the hell has it gone?  Oh, I'm not moping or moaning, or anything like that.  I've had a good run so far.  I mean, I'm 42 and have no real complaints.  But really...that was a lifetime ago.  Thirty years...

You know, everyday we are given a chance to learn something about ourselves if we just pay attention.  I've learned today that at 42, I've gotten to a point where I rush through the few things I really enjoy doing because life has just gotten so busy...AND...I know I'm not alone.  That's not cool.

I know I can buy corn a whole lot cheaper than I can grow it and put it up myself.  It's simple economics.  But it's not about economics.  It's about connecting the boy I was with the man I am.  It's about relearning that not everything has to be done so damned fast.  It's about remembering that there was a time in my life when sitting under the shade, shucking corn with the family, was the highlight of the day.     

So, do you know what I did?  I grabbed a lawn chair, packed it over to the compost pile...and sat down to shuck corn.  It sounds stupid, I know, and you're probably thinking "It's time for the hugging jacket." That's ok. 

I'm trying not to tear up right now.  Why?  Well, it might not make sense to anyone else, but as I looked down at the hands shucking the corn, they weren't mine...they were my granddaddy's...and it's as if he were saying, "Son, what are you running so hard for?  Slow down.  Just shuck some corn for a while." 

Addendum...

It wasn't until after I published this to my facebook page that I remembered a question Granddaddy used to ask me all of the time.  Every time I got ready to leave their house, without fail, Granddaddy would say, "What's your rush, son?"  Every time.  He's been gone over 10 years now, but I think I finally have an answer: "Well, Granddaddy, I have no clue.  I think I can stay a little longer."




 

  

I'm Christian Unless...

I made the mistake of praying once... No, you read that right.  It's not a typo.  I made the mistake of praying once, and it was Pete's fault.  Pete was one of my professors in seminary and changed my life.  He, and a few others, showed me a different way.

See, I had a great gig going.  It was comfortable.  It was stable.  Very few problems, even fewer counseling sessions.  Plenty of money in the bank.  But I made the mistake of praying.

I don't remember the exact prayer, but that's not important.  I'm pretty sure it went something like this, though: "God, I know there has to be more.  Show me how I can make a difference.  Send me to change lives."  It seemed innocent enough, right?  So God began to answer that prayer by creating within me a haunting sense of restlessness. 

I loved my folks.  They loved me.  Most of the time we got along great, and I could have stayed for years...but God had answered my prayer by making me restless.  Did I mention that already?  So I used the system to make a change. 

Shattered delusion.  Yeah, that's what I'd call it.  I was living a delusion.  I had been raised in a community that was pretty stable and I cannot think of a better place to grow up, but...

...but I was never really exposed to anything other than white, middle class, straight, and for the most part, law abiding.  So I thought that was how everyone lived, until I met Pete.  Pete took me to the slums of Mexico (literally) and exposed me to a side of life I had never experienced.  He then introduced me to lives lived on the streets of Memphis.  Talk about an experience.  Actually I did here:

  http://www.outsidethecitygate.blogspot.com/2010/02/board-games-and-bologna-sandwiches.html

Every stone in the walls of my ivory palace was blown all to damned pieces...and I loved it.

Now, to the reason this surfaced this morning.  I read a Dan Pearce blog this morning.  I'm not sure when he wrote it, but I can bet he took some heat for it, and I figure I probably will too.  But hey, I wrote yesterday about breaking rules, so why not?

The title of his blog was "I'm Christian...unless you're gay."

Yeah, that. 
Oh no he didn't! 
Oh yes he did!
 
Oddly enough, his blog really isn't about homosexuality.  Well, ok, yes it is, but not only about that.  It's long, but it's a good read, and should actually be converted to pamphlet form and put on every information table in every building that keeps the church dry while they meet.  Whether you agree with him or not, you (we) should read this and let it soak in for a while. 

Read it here...

http://www.danoah.com/2011/11/im-christian-unless-youre-gay.html

His blog is a call to love...period.  But before we can love...period...we have to be able to judge less.  It's tough.  Believe me. 

I'm at a new place now.  Actually in my third year of ministry in a new place.  God has answered that prayer from a few years ago...BIG.

Almost every day I get the opportunity to decide if I'm going to judge...or love.  Almost every day of the week I have someone come through my door whose life is a complete damned mess...they're gay and no one understands them...they're back on the bottle and need some help...they're popping pills again and damn near died this time...they're at the end of their rope and don't know where else to go... and I have to decide, "Am I going to be Christian...unless..."?  Or, am I going to love them? 

Like I mentioned yesterday, sometimes love brings with it some pretty tough words, but tough words can be said out of love.  I've had to do that, but I'm learning that the person in front of me is more than the problem that brought them to me.  Whether it's alcohol, drugs, soliciting prostitution, wild living, going back to jail, or just the desire to get the hell out of Dodge and run away...they are people, created in the image of the living God, and I was commanded to love them.

It has meant a completely different way of thinking for me.  I have discovered a lot of shades of grey.  I have learned that there are very few absolutes.  I have discovered that I don't have to support the lifestyle and that I really can separate the person from the problem.  Mostly I have learned that your "right or wrong" and your idea of truth may not be someone else's...even if "the bible says..."  Because...unless I've read it wrong, Jesus said two things really matter...love God...love those God loves.  That's it. 

So...I made the mistake of praying once...and I am so glad I did. 

Call Me Patch...

Ok, I don't know what's behind the blogging this week, but I've kind of missed it.  Who knows how long it will last.

I'm not a movie buff...not at all... Two hours is just entirely too much time to commit to something, and as a result, I very rarely sit down to watch a movie.  I have a 30 minute sitcom or 15 minute episode of SpongeBob kind of attention span...and that's about it.

Yesterday I watched "Patch Adams".  I haven't been able to get this one out of my head.  It came out nearly 15 years ago, but if you haven't seen it, don't worry, I won't spoil it. 

It was almost Jerry MaGuire'ish in that instead of "having me at hello," this movie had me from the very beginning, and I don't usually do that.  Why?  Because I can relate to Patch.  Having struggled myself with depression, then finally figuring out what I was made for, then realizing that I didn't fit the expected mold, and finally with the obstacles he faced as he came into his own.  Still not spoiling anything...who didn't see that coming?

Now...the reason it hit me so hard...

I love my job...can't even imagine doing anything else anymore (Except for the occasional bad day when I walk around saying to myself, "Where did I hang that tool belt?")  But what I have seen is almost a shift, from the focus being on loving the people and proclaiming the Word...to a focus on proclaiming the Word but "Don't do anything to get you slapped with a harassment suit."  Professional distance, we call it.  I get it.  I respect it.  I watch myself so closely because I know I'm being watched just as closely.  It's more than just a fishbowl kind of life, it's the reality of a changing world...but it's not going to change lives. 

I don't know that it's part of the decline of the church, but it could be.  When a patient becomes nothing more than their dis-ease, or a parishioner becomes just a number on the board after worship, we have a problem.  Folks are not stupid.  They know when they really matter to someone, or when they're just there to be counted.  Patch wanted to be the kind of doctor that made his patients know they mattered.  I want to be that kind of pastor. 

So...I have come up with three guidelines that, to a degree, have already shaped my ministry, but that I want to be more intentional about after having watched this movie.  They're not the same three I was given by a well meaning colleague when I entered the ministry: "Love the people...Don't piss off the UMW...Get the folks out at 11:55...and they will love you forever" (Direct quote, by the way)        

My three are this:
                 Love the People...
                        Be passionate about what you do...
                                 Break a few rules...

I've already been labeled a rebel in the Conference.  I'm really not...just different.  I've already broken some rules...but not just to break rules...they needed to be broken.  I don't want my ministry to just be my profession.  I want to change lives.  I believe Jesus once said, "It's not the well who need a doctor..."  Folks come to us, many times, and their lives are a mess...maybe even at their own hands...what they don't need are institutional rules and professional distance.  They need compassion.  Sometimes they need a kick in the pants, but we can do that and still let them know they are loved. 

I'll still leave my office door open when I'm counseling.  I'll still follow all of our safe sanctuaries protocol.  But if I'm going to be effective in my ministry, the folks coming through my door have to know that I love them and that they matter.  If a few rules get broken in the process, that might not be such a bad thing. 

BTW...the picture above is the real Patch Adams.