…Still thinking…

My last blog seemed kind of…heavy. I was thinking a lot about my life, likely not an uncommon thing for a person of my age. And I was thinking primarily of my work life. Another time, I will share with you my feelings about my day-to-day life with the people I care about.

When one is a clergyman, minister or priest, so much of life is lived within the shadow of church – the spiritual shadow more than the physical one – that lines get blurred between what is work and what is not. I think that in the years I worked in hospitals made it a bit easier for me, because I could leave the institution in others hands when I went home. Someone was always on call, but often it was not me. And when I was on call, my head and heart were always there, even if I wasn’t called in too often.

My theological and spiritual life has not been enmeshed primarily with congregation and church building, but rather with people, pain, and attempts to understand and alleviate that pain. “Religion” has not been my central focus, but the spirit lives of the people in front of me – spirit and psyche life.

Recently I read a new book by Diana Butler-Bass, entitled Christianity After Religion: the end of the Church and the Birth on a New Spiritual Awakening. I found the book both interesting and helpful to me in understanding myself a bit more. She analyzes the statistical findings that reveal how many folk in North America identify themselves religiously, not with a Church, but with the “Spiritual but not Religious” category. While this can be framed negatively, as describing people who are too lazy or indifferent to participate in any church’s life, Butler-Bass lays it out in a much more positive light. Many of these people, she argues, have deep spiritual feelings, longings and beliefs. However, they no longer can identify with any institution that holds or nourishes these feelings and beliefs. They are being honest when they own the spiritual nature of their interior life, their longings, feeling, doubts, etc. and they are being honest when they admit that no church organization or structure represents those things that occupy their interior life. In a sense, over the last decade or so, many people have moved in the direction of “spirituality and only spirituality.” In many ways, the Churches have not moved in the same way. She says more, but let me leave her for a bit.

In some ways, this describes my own situation. I care a lot about “the church” – a gathered community of people around a common belief, trying to live out their faith and serve their God. It’s just that, so often, these matters don’t relate to the doctrinal or governance or organizational issues of the churches I know. Churches try to “catch up” by building flashy structures, importing bands that express a particular genre of music, or by simplifying their language and their requirements to make access easier for contemporary young people. Success or failure is measured by numbers gained, or numbers lost. Too often, little attention is given to the quality of the lives of the people involved, or the quality of the life of the gathered “ecclesia” – church.

I find myself concerned abut how to engage people in learning the faith they say they want to live, in practicing the beliefs they insist are central to them. God knows, I don’t emulate these things perfectly myself, but in my own mind, I attempt to guide people in those ways. I’m not remotely interested in congregational organization, or doctrinal purity. I’d love to connect with a community of people who are drawn to similar interests and concerns that I am. In giving leadership in congregations – part-time and in various different places at this point in my life – I sometimes feel at a loss regarding connection to people relatively new in my life, puzzled as to how to open ways of access for them…or for myself, for that matter.

I still find worship and preaching very meaningful, study and discussion nourishing. Committees…? If I’m never on another one, I’ll be happy. Too many, over too many decades. In some ways I feel like a lonely pilgrim, or perhaps a pilgrim in the dark. I travel, I know that there are other people walking the same way that I am, but I can’t see them, or find them most of the time.

Enough for part two of this “long ponder.” More another day.

Deep thoughts…on Friday

It feels like I’ve been in ministry all my life. It’s almost 58 years since I assumed my first ministerial responsibility at Sutherland Mission in north end Winnipeg in 1955. I was an Arts student, and I knew nothing about ministry.  I had felt a strong call to ministry just a year or two earlier, and by the time I’d worked my way through the system, it was 1955, and here I was, a student minister.

‘Not knowing what I was doing’ seemed to be the hallmark of my progress through the tasks of ministry. I had to learn by doing, with some supervisory help. Hal Parker, later a professor at Queens University, was my first supervisor. A kind, gentle, supportive and insightful man, he was perfect for a new and scared student.  Later, when I was working out in “Mennonite country” in southeastern Manitoba, George Taylor was my supervisor. Just as supportive, but not always so available as Hal had been. I had to suck it up and go at the task on instinct. I conducted my first funeral in Steinbach that first summer. I couldn’t find George to ask for help, and I had never even attended a funeral. I went by the book. The family, sensing my greenness, was incredible supportive, and helped me do a decent job.

Later came ordination and placement in Lynn Lake, Manitoba, an isolated mining community. There, I conducted a wedding in a basement suite where the bride was in labour and wanted to be “married” before the baby was born. From there, it was to Drayton Valley, Alberta, in the Pembina oilfield – another outlying place, parts of it very urban, parts of it quite back woodsy. There I engaged in heated discussions about theology with an intellectual physician who was a strong rationalist conservative Christian, and the organist in my DV congregation. There, I encountered ‘yellow mud’ – full of oil!

Five years at Augustine Church in Winnipeg put me in touch with the alcoholic community, within which I did a lot of counseling over the years. A year studying in a Kansas Mental Hospital was my preparation for the rest of my ministry years. One of the key books I read said it best: “People in psychiatric hospitals are just like us…only more so.” That has remained as my guiding motto over all the almost 50 more years that I have ministered.

I spent 32 years in hospital ministry, where I was a teacher and supervisor of ministry students in pastoral care. I loved this work, and believe that here, I discovered my gifts as a teacher. When I talk to my son, who is himself a consummate teacher, I can only smile inwardly and know that some of his ‘gift’ he got from me.

Since ‘retirement’, I have been a pastoral minister in Banff, Alix/Delburne Alberta, Bashaw, Alberta, Gaetz Memorial in Red Deer, and St Andrews in Lacombe, Alberta. In none of these places have I ever been really sure that I knew what I was doing. As a teacher/supervisor, as a counselor/therapist, I had some clues. But as a congregational pastor, I was always partly in the dark.

Congregational administration never really interested me. Trying to figure out ways to get the church to be “the Church” seemed… pointless. If people got the gospel, then they could get on with it. If not, then keep trying to give them gospel in ways they could grasp it. I have no idea if that is correct, or even if it works!

In the hospital, and with people in life crisis, I did have a clue. In those situations, trivia was irrelevant, organization was not helpful. Could somebody “hear” me? Would somebody respond to me? In this sort of situation, I could pour my energy into the work. It was personally important; it mattered. People’s lives were at stake.

I still remember, with agonizing clarity, the ICU nurse who came to me for counseling. She was introverted, seriously depressed, in a barren alcoholic marriage. I worked with her for months, and made some progress. Then we agreed that she should continue with a female therapist. I referred her, and she worked with someone else. And then, one fateful, horrible day, she sat on her marital bed, doused herself with gasoline, and lit a match…I was in pain over that death for months. Could I have done anything? Had I contributed to her pain, made her life worse? Who knew? Not me.

Some of the other painful moments for me have occurred in the last ten years, in supportive and appointed ministry in rural places, who had no other minister. There I encountered my first sociopath, who wounded me while climbing over me in ministry. There I have entered my first serious congregational division, one that can’t, so far, be acknowledged and dealt with. Once again, I don’t know what I am doing, and at 78, I wonder if I should even be trying to ‘know’ or ‘do’! I wonder if God’s call upon me to minister is done, if it’s time to sit back and do nothing. I can’t decide, but the pain pushes me to keep looking at it.

I wonder if anyone else out there agonized so deeply about their life path, wondering what God – or whatever he or she calls “It” wants of them? More another day.

Downton…and Pi

Three things are on my mind this morning: the name of this blog, prognostications for Downton Abbey, the show, and my reflections on the Life of Pi.

I chose Methuselah for a name some time ago, because I thought “old…and hopefully wise…” The first is certainly true, but my readings backward tell me that wisdom is in short supply on these pages. So I’d like some assistance from those few of you who find the time read these pages. A name that suggests wisdom of perspicacity, a name that will spur me on to greater things!

On to DA. Most of us are aware by now that Matthew’s sudden demise at the end of season three was not so much the action of Julian Fellowes, but the action of Dan Stevens, the actor. He wanted out, to get on with more interesting projects. So Fellowes was stuck with something that comes to all of us: a fait accompli. The only appropriate way to get Matthew out of the script was to kill him. Voila!

Now that leaves a host of plot lines waving about, unraveled. On FB, I have read a number of hopeful…and hopeless…scenarios. Here are some of my own!

 Mary will ‘carry on bravely,’ as any 19^th century aristocrat would. ‘Widows weeds’ will prevail, and there will be a struggle about naming the boy Matthew…or Robert, for dear old papa. She will not marry Tom. Tom, the new agent, will shoulder the farm like the brick that he is, and will save them all from ruin while still being looked down upon by Robert, at least.

I wish a good life for the Bates, perhaps even a baby, and departure from service to some nobler and more personal life together. I’d like to see Barrow more fully rehabilitated, seen as a human being, rather than an evil man, if only for Sybil’s memory’s sake.

Deep in my heart, I hope that Edith and her Editor beau kick over the traces and live together in sin, even if it has to be in France…of the USA, under the tutelage of that other grandmother, Shirley McLain.

I want Daisy to get her farm and cooking business, with a doting father-in-law in the background, smiling at the way things are turning out. I also hope that something bad happens to O’Brien. She seems to stubbornly avoid personal trouble. Could she fall down the stairs? Be caught in a fire, or better still, be blown up in an early air raid on London when the family is visiting? I forgot to mention that I see the series coming to a decent end in 1939, with the declaration of war, or even the blitz!

A great twist would be the young son and heir, now 17 or 18 in 1939, rushing off to join the RAF in defense of the Homeland, leaving his mother torn between terror and pride as she finally realizes that she’s no longer in the age of cavalry, and that even aristocrats die in war. Alfred could stomp off to war as well, to be a grunt in the army if nothing else.

Carson and Mrs. Hughes are, de facto a married couple, but I do hope no thought is given to wedding them. Mrs. Hughes deserves more of a real guy than the wonderful stuffed shirt Carson presents.

As the series closes, I want to see Robert and his eminently sensible spouse, facing up to closing a large chunk of Downton, while Robert (the honorary Colonel, remember) goes off to die in France. Lady Grantham and Tom could fade into the sunset, not a “couple,” but a pair who will keep Downton alive in some manner until the boys come home.

I still need a more fitting end for O’Brien. No one will marry her. So who could kill her? Barrow, perhaps? That would redeem him in my eyes. How about you? I await your suggestions and alternative patterns.

The Life of Pi. Hmmm…. The tale of that young man of infinite possibilities was enthralling, and filled with mind-bending images and metaphors. For me, the quintessential scene in the movie version, is of Pi standing at the blackboard, having memorized all the digits following the “3.14” of traditional Pi. He has filled three blackboards in the math classroom, and given you the sense of the possibilities in this boy.

Rather than trekking through the whole book, let me reflect on just three aspects of the story. The first is “the island of vegetation.” What a wonderful metaphor for western culture! In the daylight, it provides you with everything you need, indeed, everything you could ask for, and more: food, comfort, cosy friends who demand little. The visitor is lulled into believing that this is paradise! Then darkness slides over the island as the sun sinks into the sea. Suddenly, the water is acid, the ground as well, and unless one is willing to pull oneself up above the whole place, it will devour you whole, leaving only a tooth behind! Much the same could be said of our culture, embraced fully and without caution. Death ultimately ensues. First of the spirit, and then of the whole person.

Then, of course, there is Richard Parker, the Bengal Tiger. What a conceit, to present each of us with the tiger we carry within us, without ever making the accusation! A killer cat, useful but dangerous. One can live with the cat only if one trains and tames it. By the tiger never becomes your ‘friend.’ It is always there when you need it. When you don’t need it, it simply walks away into the jungle. Of course it doesn’t say goodbye…because it is not really gone. Pi comes to love Richard Parker, who keeps him alive. He has realized what so many humans do not; that our inner tiger is essential, though frightening and destructive to us and others. But we need our Richard Parker, all of us!

The wonderful scene with the Japanese men from the shipping company allow Martel to remind us that our lives are a story. Well, actually, our lives are more than one story. We tell different stories in different places. Which ones are true? Only one, or in some way, are all of them true. They want ‘just the facts.’ But ‘just the facts’ doesn’t satisfy them. It isn’t the best story. The other story – what one colleague insists is Pi’s psychotic episode – tells you all you need to know about the characters and what they accomplish. The long struggle of Pi with his Richard is a heartening tale of a boy dealing with his inner life with whatever resources he has – orange whistles, a locker, flying fish and a gaff pole, with a knife. That’s what life gives you. Your family, which produced you, can’t in the end help you.We are all ‘in the same boat’ and have to tame our tigers with just those things.

I’m sure not all of you will agree with my understanding. Good: what is yours? Share it here please. And for those of you who have not heard of, or read, this book, it is The Life of Pi by Yan Martel, 2001, winner of the Man Booker Prize 2002. And enjoy!

Names…and Times

This morning, I got to thinking about names, personal names. I was remembering boys that I knew as a child. They were named Jim, and Jackie, Curtis and Edwin. Then there was the immigrant boy from Poland (circa 1949) whose name was Antanasi. Girls names were common, too. Audrey, Tannis, Opal, The Abrams twins (I never did learn their first names!), Norma, Margaret. Their shades rise up before me as I roll  their names off my lips. In one family, there were two brothers, Jack and Jim. However, in all the years i knew him, Jim was never called Jim, only "Easter." Why? I never knew, only that Easter was the name he bore.

All this was brought on by Beatrix reading through the local paper in which, for some reason, their were pictures of all the babies born in our community in 2012. There was the usual crop of Cody's, and Olivia's, a Jaxon, and a Quinn, an Abbygale, a Tyce (?) an Aleah and a Zachary. There was one Treyton, and one Twister. Twister? I wonder if his/her formal name would be 'Tornado'? It feels like the naming process has devolved into the same process used by the auto manufacturers when naming models: Camry, Calibre, Titan, Allure…

Time was when names were handed down through families as honored links with the distant past. My name, James, for example. My father was a James, and a great grandfather also was James. How far back in the family the name goes I don't know, but it came to me as a name with meaning in the family.

Reading over the current list of baby names in 2013, I try and figure out what the logic is, if logic there be, in the naming process. It would appear to be novelty, onomatopoeia - the way it sounds, rather than what it means. It strikes me that contemporary names are like the ring tones in my phone, each one distinct and alluring in some vague way, alluring enough to make me adopt it for a time as my own. However, it isn't so easy to change personal names as it is to change ring tones. What we are called used to be connected to who we were. How do you become a 'Twister' without getting in trouble with someone. Understand that spelling conventions change - Jackson becomes Jaxon; Abigale becomes Abbygale - but Tyce sounds like a mispronunciation of something, or a misspelling with a letter left out. It's all so confusing to try and understand a new age. I suppose best to simply accept it with a shake of the head, and compressed lips. Especially compressed lips!

The shocking end of the final episode of season three of Downton Abbey left me quite speechless. Spluttering, but speechless. It seems to me as though the author has opened up so many plot lines and relationships that he couldn't bring them together in 90 minutes. Another half hour wouldn't have helped. So there must be a season four. How will the family cope without Matthew? Will Mary slide back into the 19th century completely, and become a total Victorian, raising a jerk for a son? The old Countess scarcely got a good shot in last night. Will they finally kill her off in season four?

And Tom…what will become of Tom. Having escaped the clutches of the scheming Edna, will he go on to manage the farm as Matthew has set it up? Will there be any struggle about the name of the new heir? Matthew, or Robert? The Daddy's girl's nod to dear old 19th century Dad.Will he keep the spine Mrs. Hughes has given him? I hope to God the Bates will be allowed to go on to happy life, without another tragedy to foul them up. And how much farther will they redeem Barrow? Will Edith and her beau move in together and live a life of glorious sin? Damned shame to have to wait until next autumn to find all this out. My own game plan for the series is that it roll on until 1939, and finish on the eve of WW2, with ll the boys leaving for the army, and refugees piling in from London. But then, that's just me. I want some kind of happy ending.

Time for a walk in the cold. See you soon, I hope, with more profound reflections to share.

Gifts…

With lots of time on my hands, recovering slowly, I get bored. From TV to Computer, to novel, to bed, and so on. Housebound…a little like incarceration. Not a patient person in this situation. I've been watching hypnotists on the 'net, seeing how far they deviate from the ethical norm that is taught when you learn hypnosis, that you will not use this ability for entertainment or humiliation.

I have spent a lot of time reflecting on the power of the unconscious mind as I sit around, and I had an experience of that power the other day. I was preparing to go to the church in  Lacombe, and realized that my keys were missing. I had no idea what I had done with them. I looked in every pocket of every jacket and pair of trousers that I might have worn…no keys. Finally, as I was preparing for bed the night before I was to go to Lacombe - and feeling anxious about losing work keys - I decided to give myself an hypnotic instruction. I instructed my unconscious mind, which knows what I did with the keys, to tell me where they were before I had to leave in the morning. Off I went to bed.

About two thirty in the AM, I wakened out of a sound sleep, with my own voice in my ear saying, "The keys are at the bottom of Beatrix' purse." Then I remembered that I had asked her to stop by the church on the previous Friday, when I was just home from hospital, to pick up my laptop. She had done this, and had not given me back the keys! When she woke up, I said, "My keys are in your purse." She was thunderstruck, having no memory of not giving them back to me.

She had to dig around in her purse for awhile…right at the bottom, but there were the keys, just as my own unconscious had told me! Imagine if I chose to use that ability more often. I could relax about my 'poor memory,' as my unconscious, which remembers things that "I" forget, could tell me. Amazing…and pushed me to pull my old book of hypnosis theory, to begin relearning it.

I actually wrote an hypnosis instruction into my last sermon, but didn't get a chance to use it, as I was sick with a relapse on the weekend. I'm currently thinking of ways that I can incorporate that ability into my work, to improve my memory and my ability to positively influence others. Any comments?

Saw my family doctor this afternoon, to debrief my surgery and relapse with her. She has been away, so I haven't seen her for awhile. Had a good visit, and just as we were leaving, she said, "Oh, wait…I have a gift for you!" Who gets a gift from their doctor. I was thunderstruck, said thank you, and left with a huge gift bag. When I got home, I discovered a huge bottle of 21 year old Glenfiddich! That was amazing enough, but even more amazing was the little card that accompanied the gift. It was a plain card, handwritten by Dr. Swartz - I recognized her handwriting - and it said: "A belated Christmas gift to one of the people I respect, admire and appreciate most."

I've been wondering about that wonderful compliment for awhile this evening. In some way, I think I act as pastor to the Dr.  The card expressed the kind of sentiment that one sees attached to gifts that people give their pastor or therapist - I have received those in the distant past.

Quite amazing to realize that, in ways that I can't imagine, I have influence and an impact of this woman who has cared for me for a decade. I was, and am, profoundly touched by this gesture. (The scotch is good, too.) This is especially uplifting to me in the midst of my current situation. Not only my medical setback, but the tension building around my work situation, where conflict lurks just below the surface, and will certainly arise in some form before summer.

An altogether full day, with lots to ponder. If you are interested in how one can touch the unconscious mind, go to You Tube and look up "Derren Brown." He is a most remarkable man. Seems like a magician, but in reality is a very careful observer, a man who understands human predictability, and who plans his interactions in great detail.

This is enough for tonight… time to shift to another activity. Recovery shortens my attention span, I guess. See you later…

Humility 101, for the mature, if not elderly, student. Must have take 'Life' prior to enrolling.

I am sitting at the conclusion of 24 hours of stress and humiliation. Sounds melodramatic, right? Let me try and summmarize it for you, using discreet language. Thursday afternoon, I began to have major problems with the passing of water. The problem: most of what I passed was bloody…then blood, period. Then, less, then little, then none. As you might guess, this is bad news. There ensued a mad dash to the hospital, an agonized (literally) wait for attention, and then gradual releif. End of story…should be. But not so. From then on, the problem was with catheters malfunctioning, or not functioning at all. This still goes on, although I am home and trying to cope with this dilemma without professional help.

Let me close the curtain on the gory…and otherwise…details. My point, this time around, is to share with you some of my reflections on this aspect of aging and mortality. Through the day, I have mused about the reality of failing attempts to preserve one's dignity and decorum in a situation where this becomes impossible. The only recourse is to suck it up and "be there" in the midst of embarrassment. I'm sure that some of you have experienced this, and endured it, more then once. It is a powerful reminder that most of what we use to make ourselves feel important and 'above it all' is artificial and, ultimately, bogus.

Facing our own humanity in terms of bodily functions that don't function and exposed nakedness in unusual situations is a daunting task. During the day, I had a vivid recall of a TV sketch by Joan Rivers many decades ago. It concerned people you meet in the gynacologist's office. The most hilarious and revealing segment concerned seeing, through the door left partially open while the MD stepped out to get a nurse, an old high school beau, there to pick up his spouse. He comes to the door with a cheery "Hi Joanie, haven't seen you in ages!" Her response is delivered through her knees, raised high because her feet are in the stirrups!

I don't minimize the shame and embarrassment of this moment for 'Joanie,' but I freshly appreciated her internal response: "I was surprised that he remembered what I looked like…down there. I guess I haven't changed as much as I thought!" From the outside, it is funny. From the inside, what shred of dignity is left a person?

I shared that feeling more than once today, and deeply appreciated the calm professionalism of the three nurses that dealt with me over time; two women and one man. All were superb…and i loved them for it. One was a student…could have been my grandchild…very cool and crisp. Thank God.

Another subject of my reflection concerns the health care system in this province. It is supposedly a cut above many others, but I'm doubting that on a number of fronts. The drive to save money is blatant, and seems to be done at the expense of the patient…or client, to use the current euphemism for people in distress who are at your mercy! A hospital stay of four days, announced before the procedure, suddenly becomes three because the Unit closes for the weekend (to save money), and if you are sick enough (ie at death's door), they will transfer you to another unit. The first day at home (really the fourth day of hospital needs) is miserable because it is clear that you continue to need hat only the hospital can provide.

Staffing in ER is another obvious place to save money. The local hospital has two staff on in ER at night, with up to ten"clients" is EZ boy chairs around the halls, in cubby holes and corners. All examining rooms are full by midnight, and new patients are examined on the fly. The two staff are simply running, holding crises, minor and major, at bay until the end of their shift. Apart from the lack of privacy, and absence of a caring presence, there is always the weird woman who talks on her cell phone in ear shattering stage whisper about some body's breast tumour!

My current experience was of a night in an examining room, made as comfortable as possible with warm blankets and soft light provided by a X-ray reader on the wall.Staff were not around all night, but I did sleep a bit. All this because to admit me would commit the institution to bed care, and take money from a nursing budget. Dollars again. Freely, but surreptitiously acknowledged by the staff, who carry the burden an take the flak. No wonder they have those stern posters all over the waiting room about the 'Consequences of Abusing Staff,' ranging from banishment to the end of the line (surely a calming gesture) to arrest and expulsion. Like…take your misery somewhere else,where someone will actually care! Well, no one ever says that, but the posters do, and they keep even the most frustrate patient silent and fuming. Good for the blood pressure and gastric juices, I'm sure. Good for the prayer life as well, if you are so inclined: "O God, I hope they come soon…" Or, "How long will this hell last? And what have I done to deserve this?" Non prayers shrug on  a jacket over their all-access gown and step out into a) rain, b) snow, c)wind, d) -27°. This IS Alberta after all, and not South Carolina!

Opposition parties in Alberta are always bleating about the money the government is wasting on health care, or rather IN health care. I can tell you, it isn't at the level of 'here i come through the door in deep distress, scared out of my wits and needing comfort and an ear as much or more than a pill and catheter…although a catheter that worked was nice in my case.

I did not reflect on God today. I FELT that God was far away in theological terms, and very IMMANENT in young bodies and brains that actually cared about me, and discussed running while trying insert a BIGGER catheter! (As what a "20" i the next time you are in ER. It will put your stress in perspective.

I was treated very well by the people I came in contact with. They talked to me, they listened to me, they treated me like the human I am, and they did their best. Of course, being me (some of you will understand and appreciate that caveat), I harboured all the potential worse case scenarios possible, and I had my secret weapon if I was pushed to the proverbial wall: "I worked with Chris Eagle years ago!" Dr. Chris Eagle is the Top Banana of Alberta Health. We were on an Ethics committee together int he 90's. Like, he'll remember me like a brother, right? Ad will want "something done"! Even though the latest Alberta scandal has to do with hotshots jumping the cue.I hug this weapon that I could never, and would never use. But it helps keep my sense of agency in place. "Just push me too far, Doc, or I'll lower the boom an ya!"

In the end ( so far) I have come aw wit great appreciation for nursing skills in the grotty areas of bodily care, and at my own incompetence here, as well as my terror of uncontrolled body functions not doing hat i want them to do. When I finish this I am going to write tho that self-same Chris Eagle and comment "my" nurses in Wetaskiwin by name and give them the plaudits they deserve. The crap I'm sure they hear regularly.

Well, it is after midnight - another day is upon us - and I haven't slept in this one yet. My catheter appears to be working, so I crash. Day one of Humility 101 is over. Day two could begin at any time!

Not dead…!

Rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated. I have been away…I have been busy…I have forgotten that I might have something to say. So here I am, for anyone with enough patience to come back and see if I've written anything lately.

Last week I was away for a good part of the week at a workshop for clergy types in team ministry, or as we clergy are prone to say, Team Ministry. Things that are capitalized are more important, you know, like the name of God.

Anyway…it was a good experience for me. I did come to realize that where I work we are NOT a team, and need to face that fact, and deal with our work life accordingly. But that didn't stop me enjoying the enthusiastic team ministry folk sharing their learning with one another. The big thing about team ministry is how it mitigates against the sense of isolation so many ministers feel. In a team, you have a colleague to share things with, test ideas against, and share responsibility for activities that might receive blow back.

I found it fascinating to watch from my aged vantage point. Some of the participants were the age of my children. Many more were the age of some of my grandchildren. They spoke in language categories that I didn't always understand. The quoted authors I had never heard of. But they were keen to share what they knew and to take in wisdom from others in the group. Many of them could see immediately, I think, that I was not on their page. But they were polite and they were inclusive, and I did learn some things that I feel were valuable.

Using my new-found knowledge to reflect on own current work situation, I began to understand why I feel such dread as I approach the weekend in the congregation. I don't feel like i "belong" there. This partly my own issue of belonging/not belonging, but it is also related to the fat that my colleague has been the incumbent for 18 years, and most questions, information and relating focus on him. Some younger members have had him as their minister their whole lives!

I have five months left in my contract there, and I am quite serious about not renewing it, should they want or need to renew because they don't have a replacement person yet. I'm sure they would want me to remain over the summer, if only because they have six Sundays to cover when my colleague will be absent…which leaves very little summer for me!

I don't belong there, and I'm not even sure if I want to belong there. To be 'second fiddle' in a place without even a clear job description is a recipe for frustration, and frustration is what I feel these days.

Complicating all of this is the up and down nature of my recovery from surgery. Mostly, it's fine. But then a time arises - like Sunday, when I'm racing around the country conducting two worship services in place of a 35 year old student - when I start to blood in my urine again, and have to slow down and lie down for the afternoon when I get home. One never knows when this will happen. It's normal over the first 4 to 6 weeks weeks post surgery. Sigh…

Beatrix and I took in The Life of Pi at our local theatre last evening. I have somehow managed not to read the book, so the story was new to me. New and fascinating. A visually rich and dynamic parable about what it is like to pass through a hard life. Symbols abound, and growth is described in a number of cunning metaphors. Now I have to find the book …I think it's here in the house…and read it. Jan Martel deserves that!

Walking in the dark yesterday morning, I cobbled together the beginnings of a sermon for Sunday. I plan to inject into its conclusion, a sort of hypnotic suggestion to fix an idea or a plan in peoples minds. I'll let you know how it works.