Little Church in the Big Woods
I've been typing and writing so much the last week I hardly want to post, but I turned in my paper, my letter and vita, last Thursday. Was it perfect? No. I thought of some district committee I was on once that I forgot to include, but I do think I represented myself well. The lady at the district personnel counter seemed impressed with my resume paper. I don't even know if the committee sees that paper or not; I can't recall if all we got was copies when I helped hire someone.
But it's done. Blechh. Puke. Fin. The interviews come next, if they come (and they should almost certainly; I teach in the district for petra's sake) and while that one afternoon is very imporant, it's only one afternoon. Then the presidential interview, which I feel the least worried about for some reason. With so many people, probably near 200, applying for two positions, it takes a lot of luck to get hired, even if one does very well at all stages of the process. At some point it becomes random. But I have skills they want, and hopefully that will get me through.
If not, hey, I still have tenure! It's not like my job is on the line.
***
My involvement in my parish has grown quickly. Being senior warden (which I assume gets me the senior discount) carries a lot of responsibility. It's like chair of the elder board in a protestant church, only for one year so there's lots of rotation. But my priest must trust me enough to ask me to do it. I'm supposed to be a support person for him, and this is a strange feeling.
When I when through alpha class at another E parish, there was one woman in my class I absolutely hated. She grated, man. Controlling, yappy, she grated ultra-fine. And when the alpha class ended and a new home bible study was formed, who was picked to lead it? This woman. She had no training. But she turned out to be a true friend to S and I; she led a group I still miss. When we got married they gave us wonderful little presents. Working through Acts, we were in chapter six, I think, at the end of an entire year. But it was still very positive for me, a new man in a strange land, and this woman became my friend, someone I cared about and still wonder about.
When I first came to my little mountain parish, I thought it was a sinking ship. An interpersonal disaster. Ancient, frightening, geek-grim. The cliche is the frozen chosen, but it was worse than that. I went to an event or two and couldn't talk to any of them; am ashamed to admit I couldn't even look at some of them while they were speaking. They were, are, mostly foothill people, born and raised in the hill country. That kind of background either makes one talk all the time or not talk at all when confronted with a new face. I thought the central valley, where we had moved to from long beach, was home to the tule-grin. Now I met the true article.
There are people in that town (including one in my parish) who dress up in nineteenth century clothing every day. Some will wear a hat from the forties, a skirt from the twenties, a scarf older than that. My first sunday I met some of the choir and two assured me they were deaf. The church was small and getting smaller. The rector, my priest, the man whose has made me his support person, is acutely shy. The first few times S and I went to something I was astonished that he didn't even introduce himself; I was used to the church growth model, where the pastor takes your picture, learns your name, talks to you about your spiritual journey, tunes up your car as he shares the Lord. This was stark contrast. Sadly, with my critical eye, I would watch him struggling through creative sermons, say a twenty minute homily where he is dramatic monologuing the part of the shepherd boy in the manger, and think he was in the wrong line of work. I used to think the church was like a baseball team playing without a pitcher.
Still, since it was so close to our home and we drive too much already, we kept going. And S liked something about it, and two of my dear friends, the ultra-hip cocktail era couple who live near us, were involved there. My brother encouaged me. So we kept on.
What have I learned?
My rectors is very shy, but intelligent and well-intentioned. Once you get to know him, a personality does emerge. The intro class I'm attending is very good; he is a repository of church history and theological information, and his mind is rational and open. If you want to talk about the third ecumenical council, he's the cat. The man is the total opposite of the evangelical pastor model, and perhaps he does need to grow and risk (his sermons have been improving, and I hope someday I can give him feedback here) but the irony is helping him grow may now be my job.
Did God put me here or did I put myself here? Don't know. Both maybe. But I'm here, and I've found one thing I have in common with these people is a desire to grow in my love for Christ and to be a better husband and father. I see in my priest a genuine interest in the improvement of his parish. Instead of dying, the church has been slowly growing, and socializing much better. Yes, the beer I've brought to the events has helped. But my first year on vestry I did almost nothing; missed four of my ten meetings I think. Still, I saw the church begin to change. My instinct was that God was showing me he can, in fact, do things without my beautiful self.
Will the positive energy continue? I hope so. Being senior warden is giving me the courage to, uh, market the parish. Some resist that, but it's the way churches survive now. The way they always did maybe. A larger question is how will we reach the unchurched? Our deacon asked that at retreat. I don't yet have the answer, or not the answer for this parish yet. But while I wrote this place off three years ago and agreed to serve on vestry only after being plied with scotch, and was shocked to become senior warden, the fact is there are some beautiful people here and I hope I can help. A church doesn't have to be big to have good things going on. People don't have to look good or have any idea what fashion is to have hearts more true and vast than mine. I'm learning strange social habits, intense shyness, utter lack of sartorial polish...these in fact don't mean much.
It's been a good lesson, and one I must continue to learn.
But it's done. Blechh. Puke. Fin. The interviews come next, if they come (and they should almost certainly; I teach in the district for petra's sake) and while that one afternoon is very imporant, it's only one afternoon. Then the presidential interview, which I feel the least worried about for some reason. With so many people, probably near 200, applying for two positions, it takes a lot of luck to get hired, even if one does very well at all stages of the process. At some point it becomes random. But I have skills they want, and hopefully that will get me through.
If not, hey, I still have tenure! It's not like my job is on the line.
***
My involvement in my parish has grown quickly. Being senior warden (which I assume gets me the senior discount) carries a lot of responsibility. It's like chair of the elder board in a protestant church, only for one year so there's lots of rotation. But my priest must trust me enough to ask me to do it. I'm supposed to be a support person for him, and this is a strange feeling.
When I when through alpha class at another E parish, there was one woman in my class I absolutely hated. She grated, man. Controlling, yappy, she grated ultra-fine. And when the alpha class ended and a new home bible study was formed, who was picked to lead it? This woman. She had no training. But she turned out to be a true friend to S and I; she led a group I still miss. When we got married they gave us wonderful little presents. Working through Acts, we were in chapter six, I think, at the end of an entire year. But it was still very positive for me, a new man in a strange land, and this woman became my friend, someone I cared about and still wonder about.
When I first came to my little mountain parish, I thought it was a sinking ship. An interpersonal disaster. Ancient, frightening, geek-grim. The cliche is the frozen chosen, but it was worse than that. I went to an event or two and couldn't talk to any of them; am ashamed to admit I couldn't even look at some of them while they were speaking. They were, are, mostly foothill people, born and raised in the hill country. That kind of background either makes one talk all the time or not talk at all when confronted with a new face. I thought the central valley, where we had moved to from long beach, was home to the tule-grin. Now I met the true article.
There are people in that town (including one in my parish) who dress up in nineteenth century clothing every day. Some will wear a hat from the forties, a skirt from the twenties, a scarf older than that. My first sunday I met some of the choir and two assured me they were deaf. The church was small and getting smaller. The rector, my priest, the man whose has made me his support person, is acutely shy. The first few times S and I went to something I was astonished that he didn't even introduce himself; I was used to the church growth model, where the pastor takes your picture, learns your name, talks to you about your spiritual journey, tunes up your car as he shares the Lord. This was stark contrast. Sadly, with my critical eye, I would watch him struggling through creative sermons, say a twenty minute homily where he is dramatic monologuing the part of the shepherd boy in the manger, and think he was in the wrong line of work. I used to think the church was like a baseball team playing without a pitcher.
Still, since it was so close to our home and we drive too much already, we kept going. And S liked something about it, and two of my dear friends, the ultra-hip cocktail era couple who live near us, were involved there. My brother encouaged me. So we kept on.
What have I learned?
My rectors is very shy, but intelligent and well-intentioned. Once you get to know him, a personality does emerge. The intro class I'm attending is very good; he is a repository of church history and theological information, and his mind is rational and open. If you want to talk about the third ecumenical council, he's the cat. The man is the total opposite of the evangelical pastor model, and perhaps he does need to grow and risk (his sermons have been improving, and I hope someday I can give him feedback here) but the irony is helping him grow may now be my job.
Did God put me here or did I put myself here? Don't know. Both maybe. But I'm here, and I've found one thing I have in common with these people is a desire to grow in my love for Christ and to be a better husband and father. I see in my priest a genuine interest in the improvement of his parish. Instead of dying, the church has been slowly growing, and socializing much better. Yes, the beer I've brought to the events has helped. But my first year on vestry I did almost nothing; missed four of my ten meetings I think. Still, I saw the church begin to change. My instinct was that God was showing me he can, in fact, do things without my beautiful self.
Will the positive energy continue? I hope so. Being senior warden is giving me the courage to, uh, market the parish. Some resist that, but it's the way churches survive now. The way they always did maybe. A larger question is how will we reach the unchurched? Our deacon asked that at retreat. I don't yet have the answer, or not the answer for this parish yet. But while I wrote this place off three years ago and agreed to serve on vestry only after being plied with scotch, and was shocked to become senior warden, the fact is there are some beautiful people here and I hope I can help. A church doesn't have to be big to have good things going on. People don't have to look good or have any idea what fashion is to have hearts more true and vast than mine. I'm learning strange social habits, intense shyness, utter lack of sartorial polish...these in fact don't mean much.
It's been a good lesson, and one I must continue to learn.
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