Season of Darkness, pt. 2

Scroll down if you've not yet read part one.

Last night, after a conversation with our church treasurer, I agreed to pay the electric bill over the phone and get reimbursed; that would be the quickest way to get power restored. So this morning at 6:20, I called the "pay-by-phone" line.

Computerized voice: "Please enter your account number, followed by the pound sign." I do as asked. "I cannot find that account number; please enter your account number, followed by the pound sign." I do it again. Same result. I try a third time. "I'm sorry, I'm having trouble with the number you entered. Please hold while I transfer you to an operator."

A few moments later: "Hi, how may I help you?"

"I'd like to pay my electric bill and have service restored."

"Have you tried entering your account number through the computer system?"

"Yes, and it said my account doesn't exist."

"Well, that's because our computers are down. Try back in 28-30 minutes."

7:10. I try again. After being told by the computerized voice three times that the account number does not exist, I get a recording saying to try back in a half hour.

7:45. I try again. The system still isn't working.

8:45. I try one more time. I enter the account number three more times, then get transfered to an operator. "How may I help you?"

"I'm trying to pay my electric bill and get power restored."

"Have you entered your account number through the computer system?"

"Yes, and it says my account doesn't exist. Are your computers still down?"

"What's your account number?"

I read the account number off of the statement. "You're missing a digit; I need the whole account number."

"I'm reading it directly off of the letter I was sent."

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to call this other number to find out your account number, then call back."

I call the other number, the same one I called yesterday. The computerized voice starts talking, but I simply shout, "OPERATOR!"

A person comes on the line. "What's the address/phone number/zip code/current temperature/exterior color/etc. of the service location?" I supply the necessary information, and am given the missing digit of the account number.

I call the pay-by-phone number (how many times is this now?), and, when prompted by the computerized voice, enter the account number. Twice. Then I'm finally allowed to pay the bill. I'm given a 20-digit confirmation number. I hang up and call the other number, ask for OPERATOR, provide the confirmation number, and ask that electricity be restored. "Are there any access problems, any dogs or other things we should know about?"

"Sure; doesn't every church have a pit bull guarding it's entrance?"

"Your service will be restored sometime today before 8:00p.m."

"Can you be more specific about the time?"

No, I can't. Goodbye."

You know, our sanctuary roof would be a great place for some solar panels....

Season of Darkness, pt. 1

I had planned on spending today working on my sermon. I had planned on putting together the prayers for Sunday worship. I had planned on preparing for a two-day conference I have this weekend, and also a regional committee meeting which I'll be chairing.

Instead, I had to deal with PG&E.

Yes, today's adventures of the country parson are brought to you by Pacific Gas and Electric, the same company featured in the movie Erin Brockovich.

This morning, the power was out at church. When I called PG&E (the first time), I got a computer voice that asked for the phone number on the account. Then it asked if I had a billing question or an outage to report. "Outage," I said, as clearly as I could. Then the computerized voice said, "We're not aware of any outage in your area. If you'd like to report an outage, say "operator."

"Operator."

The person who came on the phone asked for our church's account number. "I don't know," I answered. "I don't pay the bills. That person is a church member who works during the week and picks up the bills every Sunday."

"Well then, what's the name on the account?"

I said, "Fairview Community Christian Church."

"We don't have an account listed for Fairview Community Christian Church," she said. "What's your phone number? your address? your city?" After supplying her every phone number and address I could think of, I heard: "Oh, yes, here it is. It says that it's a street light."

"A streetlight?"

"Yes."

"That's it?"

"Yes. The only listing we have for the address you gave is a streetlight in Marysville."

"But Marysville is 20 miles away!"

"There's nothing else, sir."

"Well, will power be restored soon in Marysville?"

"We don't have any reports of an outage in your area."

This went on for some time. Realizing that I was getting nowhere, I hung up. I walked around the church to see if I could discover for myself what the problem was ... as if I know anything about electricity. I found a notice shoved into the handle on a side door of the church. It said power has been disconnected due to late payment.

I went back across the street to the parsonage (where the power is still on) and I called both our current treasurer and past treasurer, but they're both at work. I left messages and waited for them to get back to me.

A few hours later, the mail arrived; in it, there was a letter from PG&E, advising us that our account was past due. The letter was dated February 13, but it wasn't mailed until this past Friday. I wondered, on whose desk did it sit all week before it was dropped in the mail?

I called PG&E again. The letter has our account number on it, so I figured that maybe this time I could get somewhere. The familiar computerized voice came on and asked for the phone number on the account. I spoke the numbers as clearly as I could into the phone, but the computerized voice said, "I'm sorry I don't recognize that number. Please---"

"OPERATOR!"

An operator then came on the line and asked how he could help. I said, "There's two issues here. One, our power is off and we weren't notified in a timely manner, and I'd like it back on. Two, the letter that we did receive (after the power had already been disconnected) says that, since we're a business, we have only two weeks from the billing date to pay our bill. Given that notices seem to be delayed at PG&E up to a week before they're even mailed, and given that we are a rural country church whose treasurer is a volunteer and is only here once a week, I'd like to see how we can extend our payment period."

"I can't help you with that."

"You can't help me?"

"No, sir."

---

Lent is the season when darkness gives way to light. It begins next Wednesday --- Ash Wednesday --- and ends with the celebration of the resurrection at Easter. What more can I say?

Three-Day Weekend

This week at church, we are collecting a special offering for Week of Compassion, our disaster relief ministry. Week of Compassion responds to global disasters, such as Hurricane Katrina, the Philippines mudslide, and the violence in the Darfur region in Sudan. This winter, our church actually received some money from Week of Compassion, to help with flood relief here in northern California.

On Friday, my wife left to help lead a retreat for high school kids. By Friday night, I was ready to request my own personal grant from Week of Compassion. It started with bathtime. I put my youngest son in the bath; he likes to play, so I kept popping in to check on him. The third time I went in to check, there was more water on the floor of the bathroom than in the tub. I yanked him out, sent him to bed, and began a major mop-up operation.

On Saturday, Ethan had his acting class in Yuba City, and I promised the boys that afterward, I'd take them to see a movie. They chose Curious George. "Are you sure you don't want to see Eight Below?" I asked, but they would not be swayed. We had nearly three hours to kill until the movie started, but unfortunately it was too cold to go to a park, so we went to the one fast-food restaurant in town that has an indoor playland ... the same fast-food restaurant that makes me sick whenever I eat there. All went well, however, but I did develop a headache by the time we left, something that I don't think I could blame on the food.

Later, at the theater, the movie was just starting when some latecomers filed into the row behind us, whacking me on the head as they did. I sank lower into my aisle seat, thinking maybe I could just sleep through this movie, but then the person behind me starting snoring and snorting. My headache was throbbing by this point, but it wasn't until we left at the end of the movie that I saw that the person behind me was a young girl in a wheelchair. Great, a helping of guilt to go with my headache. We came home, and my efforts to nap my headache away did not happen. It was then that I got the text message from the teenage girl who is our church's nursery attendant saying she would not be at church this weekend. Pretty much anyone I could think of to call to fill in was away at the retreat with my wife.

Sunday morning, I tried bribing my kids to sit still in church. It worked ... for about 15 minutes. That was actually about 13 minutes longer than I expected. But when I (the pastor) started chasing my own kids around the pulpit and communion table, a dear church member finally volunteered to take the kids to the other room for a "Bible lesson."

Sunday night I was exhausted. I put the kids to bed, watched the Olympics for a little while, then went to bed myself. No sooner did I start drifting off to sleep, did Tristan start crying. For two hours I tried to console him, asking him what's wrong, but he wouldn't tell me. Finally, well, after midnight, he went to sleep, and so did I.

Three days. 72 hours. My wife will be home very shortly. I hope she doesn't mind giving the kids their baths tonight.

An Olympic Story

OK, so I'm too busy watching the Olympics to do much blogging this week. But after my last post, I thought I'd post this:

"American speed skater Joey Cheek did something very unusual after winning the 500 meter race at the Winter Olympics. He announced he's contributing his $25,000 gold medal award from the U.S. Olympic Committee to refugees from Darfur. And he urged Olympic sponsors to support the same relief effort." [from the NPR website. To hear the rest of the story, go here.

Our Opponents' Stories

They are heartless beings without eyes, machines with muscles seeking Olympic gold. We, on the other hand, are hometown heroes, kids from small-town America, with hopes of rising above the obstacles in life and "bringing home the gold." They have no past, no history. They're robots; we don't even see their faces, just the reflection of the Italian alps shining off of their polarized goggles. We have histories complete with childhood pictures, showing off wide-eyed preschoolers whose smiles mask the trauma in their lives.

Last night, while watching the Olympics, I realized that this is how NBC presents the athletes. It's reality TV at it's best: manipulative and captivating. The brief background stories presented for the hometown athletes draw our sympathy, and we can't help but cheer and root for them. Yet halfway through last night's telecast, at the point when I realized I could not go to bed until I saw "The Flying Tomato" win gold, I became aware of just how I was being manipulated. It's not true, I realized; all the athletes have stories. Every one of them.

When I first started in ministry, I heard a more experienced colleague comment that "everyone has a story." I didn't really think that was true at the time. Since then, experience has shown me that my colleague was right. And once we take the time to listen to their stories, they become more human, and God's love flows more easily between us.

Which is why, of course, our opponents and enemies must always remain without stories, without human emotion of any kind. Otherwise, they would be our enemies no longer, and what kind of a world would that create?

Pheasant Feather

The weather in the Sacramento Valley has been unseasonably warm. Bright rays of sunshine quickly chase away the morning cold. And I've been enjoying it as much as I can.

When I walked from the coffee shop to Buttes Christian Manor on Tuesday, I was disappointed that the walk was so short. On Thursday and Friday, I had the pleasure of walking home from Browns Elementary School after teaching a class of fourth graders. My own son, a third-grader, accompanied me. It's one and a half miles, and takes us about 30-40 minutes to walk. Ethan complained about it at first, but then we discovered the pheasant feather.

It was over a foot long, with black circles spaced along its length. He picked it up and carried it home, where it remains.

Friends driving down the road stopped and asked if we needed a ride. They seemed confused when I said, "no thank you." To their way of thinking, there must be something wrong if a person is walking down the road. To my way of thinking, there must be something wrong if someone doesn't take some time to enjoy days as beautiful as these ... spending some time outside, where pheasant feathers and other discoveries await.

Some Good News

I just received a phone call informing me that I am one of 25 clergy nationwide accepted to participate in the Summer Collegium at Virginia Theological Seminary. This is a 9-day program for small church clergy, fully funded by a grant from the Lilly Endowment. I am so excited!

Letting Off Steam

At this moment, I'm in downtown Marysville, at a place called The Brick Coffee House Café, enjoying a blueberry muffin and a cup of jasmine green tea. An exceptionally warm mid-winter sun shines through the front window and onto my table. Muffled conversation is punctuated by the occasional clinking of dishware and cutlery.

I sit at my table alone, pondering the challenges of being a father and the pastor of a small country church. The cupboards at home are almost bare, yet the checkbook already shows a negative balance. I count on grace that comes in the form of uncleared checks and debits.

I have a meeting at Buttes Christian Manor at 11:00; it is a church-related living facility for low-income seniors, and I'm on the Operations Board. I had planned on spending the morning visiting some of our shut-in church members who live in the Yuba City/Marysville area, but my wife needed our one car this morning, so she dropped me off here at The Brick. Buttes Christian Manor is just a block away. It's probably just as well. I'm in no right frame of mind for visiting, anyway.

At the house this morning, it was 90 minutes of chaos. Stephen and Spencer arrived at 6:45 in their usual early morning cheer, yelling at one another and lobbing cuss words at anyone in their path. Stephen usually grabs a blanket and curls up on the couch in my office, to catch up on some extra sleep before school. Knowing that I'd be away from my office today, I was already at work at my desk when he arrived, and Stephen was dismayed, as if I had no right to be there.

That's when I realized that my office is not my own. And not just my office; the computer in the living room--the only computer with internet access, and the one where Spencer was currently communicating with his MySpace friends--is not mine. Our car--which Stephen actually drives more often than I do--is not mine. My kitchen--which Spencer raids every morning before school, complaining because we're out of this or that--is not mine. My life, it seems, is not mine.

On the day I was baptized, at the age of 11 (or so), I gave my life away. I gave it to Jesus. I didn't really know what that meant. Had I known, I might have decided differently.

Before heading to town, we dropped all the kids off at school. Spencer was complaining (with much cussing) that my wife and I never do anything for him. I lost it. I told him if it's so bad, to stop coming over to the house. If it's so bad, take the bus to school. If it's so bad, keep your ungrateful self at home with your ungrateful parents....I was fuming all the way to Marysville.

My tea and muffin are half gone. I was thinking that at least, for now, this table is mine, and no one's going to bother me here, but two older women just walked in and took a seat at the table next to mine; one of them is wearing so much perfume, it's making me nauseous.

Fantasies of running away fill my mind. My commitments will leave those fantasies unfulfilled. Besides, I realize that those who bring me the most anguish, are also those who bring me the most joy. Previous blog posts are proof of this. So I'll just keep on keepin' on, and pray that God will guide me.

One More Blessing to Count

My family attended a friend's wedding over the weekend. My wife wrote about it in her blog, so I won't say much, other than the fact that I'm counting my blessings: Although it was my son who stuck his finger in the cake frosting upon entering the reception hall, it was NOT either of my sons who sent the dishes tumbling during the meal. Praise God!

Algebra

Anyone know how to write "six-x-squared" numerically using a computer keypad?...

Spencer called the other evening. "Can you help me with a math problem?"

"Sure," I said. After all, isn't that a part of every pastor's job description, to set aside sermon preparaion to assist an 8th grader with his algebra? Besides, I made it all the way through calculus when I was in high school, even passing the A.P. test, so I must be good for something. "What's the problem?"

He read it to me: 3x(2x-5). Then he said, "The directions are to multiply or factor using a generic rectangle."

"A what?" I grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, and drew a rectangle. I stared at it for a moment, but it didn't do anything. Not understanding how this was supposed to help, I said, "Well, uh, 6x2-15 is the answer, but I don't know what a rectangle has to do with it...."

"Well, just show me in the morning, then." (Spencer and his brother come to our house every morning to wait for the school bus.)

"Um, yeah....Sure."

The next morning I opened Spencer's algebra book, and discovered that a generic rectangle is a diagram that looks a lot like a map of California's electrical power grid. I thought to myself, this isn't an easier way; it's nothing more than yet another attempt to make adults feel so out of it when it comes to understanding their kids.

It wasn't long until the bus arrived, so I said to Spencer, "I don't think I'm going to be very much help."

He said nothing, but by the look he gave me, I could read his mind. He was thinking to himself, this guy got straight A's in high school and college, and he can't even do 8th grade algebra? Yeah, right.

God help me when Spencer starts geometry.