First Interview

By the end of my first year in seminary, I was expected to find a "student ministry" placement in a local congregation.  So I filled out the necessary paperwork, turned it in to the seminary's field education office, and waited.

One by one, my classmates received calls for interviews, and began finding placements.  Waiting and watching was a strange experience.  It was like we were members of the Quileute tribe, wondering who was going to "phase" next.  Some placements were nearby, right in Indianapolis (where the seminary was located); others were as far away as Evansville, or even in Illinois or Ohio.  Some were for a part-time position as the sole pastor of a small church; others were for associate or youth pastor positions in larger congregations.

One day I received word that a church in Pittsboro, Indiana was interested in talking to me about becoming their part-time youth pastor.  We made contact, and an interview was scheduled.

I counted down the days to the interview with both fear and excitement.  I knew that I had been called by God to be a minister, and yet I had a hard time picturing me - a shy, socially awkward young man - leading a congregation.

At the time I was working a temp job in a real estate office on the north side of Indianapolis.  (The guys who ran the office had ventured into a side business promoting "Softspikes," a then-new feature of golf shoes that, in the years since, has become quite popular.  I imagine those guys are rich today.)  On the office wall was a detailed map of Indiana.  I spent quite a bit of time staring at the map, following with my eyes the road that led from Indianapolis to Pittsboro, imagining myself driving that road several times a week.

Finally, the night of the interview came.  Outside my apartment it was raining.  Inside, I nervously adjusted my tie while murmuring to myself, "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength."  I kissed my wife, Ginger, and on my way out to the car I grabbed an umbrella and directions to a Pittsboro restaurant called Frank and Mary's, where I would meet the search committee.

Frank and Mary's, it turned out, was the only restaurant in Pittsboro, a small farming community of about 1,000 with exactly one stoplight.  I pulled into the parking lot and gazed upon the mostly windowless, stone-brick building, noticing the drops of rain illuminated by the one outdoor light.  It looked to me like the kind of place one sees in the movies, where crooked yet powerful people meet in semi-secret to drink, smoke cigars, and plot their next sinister move.  Before stepping out of the car, I hesitated just a moment, wondering what would happen if I didn't make it back home, and how long Ginger would wait before calling the police.

Knowing (hoping?) that it was my nerves that made the situation seem more ominous than it probably was, I walked across the parking lot and into the unimpressive door on the side of the building ... and was greeted by some of the friendliest church people I've ever met.  The conversation flowed easier than I expected it to, and a few days later, I found myself leading the youth program at Pittsboro Christian Church.

I stayed there almost three years, until I graduated from seminary.  The people there treated me and Ginger better than any other church I've been part of.*  We returned to Frank and Mary's many times - a place that became much less scary with familiarity - and once or twice I was even surprised when I went to pay my bill and was told that it had already been taken care of.

I learned a lot about ministry from the people of Pittsboro.  I carry those lessons with me still.  My time there was a great beginning to my ministry.

---

*Probably the main reason for this is that the people of Pittsboro Christian Church truly saw themselves as a community that had been called to nurture young pastors, and saw me for what I was: a student pastor. They taught me even as I ministered to them.

First Interview

Reading a book about wild redwoods last night, I was reminded of my first interview for a full-time ministry position. Not that the two have anything in common. Who knows what triggers those old memories to resurface?

Anyway, I was in my last year of seminary. Graduation day loomed ever closer, and with it, the expectation that I would begin my ministry. That, plus the fact that I would be evicted from the campus apartments reserved for seminary students and their families, motivated me to begin searching for a place where my newly minted seminary skills could be put to use.

I got a call from a church half a continent away. The woman on the phone sounded elderly, and said that their pastor of 25 years (she described him as a "real doll") was retiring. They were looking for a new pastor, and had received my papers. I said, "Let's talk."

She told me that one member of their search committee would be vacationing soon in a state next to the one where I was currently going to seminary. Perhaps he and I could meet? He and I got in touch, and he confirmed that he would be taking a cross-country RV trip. Arrangements were made for us to meet over coffee (or tea in my case), in his RV, in a WalMart parking lot several hours away.

A few weeks later, I drove to the WalMart parking lot, and found the RV. I briefly thought of other meetings that take place in big parking lots, but quickly put those thoughts out of my mind. I knocked on the RV door, and this older gentleman kindly welcomed me in.

We sat down at the small dining table; the window above the table framed the entrance to WalMart perfectly. We began with small talk, but the conversation quickly turned to more pressing questions. One of those questions had to do with gays and lesbians. He told me that a lot of people in the region he's from favor the ordination of homosexuals, and if the larger church ever tried to impose such a policy on the congregation, they'd leave the denomination, and how would I feel about that?

It's strange. I've never once had a search committee ask me what the church should be doing about the 30,000 or so children who die every day from preventable causes. I've never been asked about what the church should do to end poverty in the world--or even in one's own community. And I don't remember being asked how I think congregations can work to help those outside their walls. But every congregation I've ever interviewed for wants to know what I think regarding the behavior of two adults in their bedroom.

I told him that, in our denomination, things don't work that way. Authority in such things rests with the congregation. No one outside the congregation can tell the congregation how it should do things.

He said to me, "But what if they did?" I said that what he was talking about would never happen, but if it did, I was committed to the denomination and what it stood for, and that if the congregation should leave the denomination, then I would probably need to leave the congregation.

Surprisingly, this did not end my conversation with that congregation. The lady who had contacted me initially kept calling me, asking for more information on various things. We continued the process of learning more about each other over the next few weeks.

Then one day, she called and told me that their dear pastor of 25 years had become so used to living in the parsonage next to the church, and that he was so old, that they didn't think it was right to ask him to move. So the congregation decided to continue renting out the parsonage to him, and that they would provide their new pastor--me, if things worked out--a housing allowance instead of the parsonage. Besides, she said, this will make it easier for him to stay active in the congregation, which he plans to do.

It is commonly understood among clergy that it is unethical for a resigning or retiring pastor to remain active in his or her congregation after the arrival of a new pastor. It makes things too complicated and difficult for the new pastor. In my mind, I could see people coming to the church, looking for the pastor, seeing a parsonage next door, knocking on the door--and where would that leave me? How could that possibly be any kind of an effective ministry?

This first interview was not a good match. The second congregation I interviewed with was better, but still the match wasn't right. Fortunately, it wasn't long until a third congregation came along, and just a few days after my last seminary final exam, I arrived in my new congregation, ready to begin a career in ministry.

It's Not Just Me (or, "Verizon Sucks")

We waited. Eight months we waited. After moving to southern California, we wanted southern California phone numbers, and we wanted them to be with AT&T, since that would mean we could call our many AT&T relatives for free; but we had to wait eight months for our contract with Verizon to expire.

A few weeks ago, it did. So we signed up with AT&T (who did give us local Long Beach phone numbers once we requested them).

After allowing friends & family a week to note the change, we called Verizon today to cancel. We were informed that there is a $145 fee per line for early termination. Apparently, during a call to customer service last February, the Verizon phone representative offered some bonus minutes at no charge, and we of course said yes. (Wouldn't you?) He never mentioned that this involved the establishment of a new one-year contract. Hmm, he must have skipped that part.

The Verizon rep we spoke to today also said that we needed to have AT&T disconnect us from Verizon--something called porting. I said I just wanted to cancel our Verizon account, thank you very much. The unclear-on-the-concept Verizon rep said "I'm sorry, but by law, that's how it is."

So, another call to AT&T. After being transferred around and placed on hold for 46 minutes, I was told that none of this made sense, because we received new phone numbers. I said that it didn't make sense to me either, but that that was what the Verizon rep said.

So now I have to call Verizon again and tell them (again) to just cancel our service. And I'll tell them that, yes, I'll pay the $145 per line ($290 total), because I don't want to have anything to do with Verizon any longer.

(Now, if one of the candidates for president could somehow get big corporations to treat thier customers like human beings, he'd get my vote for sure!)

I'm not sure that AT&T will be any better. So far they are, but I'm still in that 30-day period in which I can cancel with no penalty. After that, I'm theirs. My expectations are low.

The only real consolation in all this is that a quick Google search ("Verizon sucks," if you must know) let me know that Verizon has done this to numerous people. It's not just me. There are countless webpages written by people who have been scammed by Verizon. And now there's one more.

House Searching

Yesterday after church, we went to take a look at a house that is for rent. Several other folks were there looking at it as well. The owner was very kind, and the house seems to be in many ways a perfect fit for us: not too big, close to the church, with a long L-shaped yard that stretches around two sides of the house--perfect for our dog Saydee.

The owner gave us all applications to fill out, and this morning I dropped off our completed applications to him. We should know in a day or two if this will be our new home. If so, yeah! If not, we'll keep looking.

Getting Started

I had thought that I would be nervous, that I wouldn't be able to sleep, the night before the congregation voted on whether or not to call me as their pastor. However, it was the night after the vote, the night before my first day "on the job," that I found it hard to sleep.

To be called to pastor a new congregation is a very humbling thing. A lot of hope rests on your shoulders. My new congregation, like so many others, has had some difficult times, and has spent the past several years healing from a very divisive period in their life. The healing, from what I can tell, was good, and now they are ready to move on.... Now they are looking to me to lead them into their future, which, they hope, will be a good one.

I know that this is the ministry to which I am called, the place that is right for me. Yet I worry about all the hopes and expectations that this congregation has, now that the new pastor has arrived. Am I up to the task? Will I disappoint? Will I let them, and myself, down?

I started unpacking boxes in my office yesterday. Among all the books, I pulled out my M.Div diploma. I also pulled out the plaque that recognizes me as Chapman University's "Outstanding Senior Man" for 1993. Somewhere (I haven't come to it yet) is my ordination certificate. Surely someone who has accomplished what these items signify is capable of leading a congregation?

I also spent some time sorting through the stuff that previous pastors had left in the office. Among all this was a list that the congregation had come up with at some point in its recent past of their "unwritten norms and expectations." The congregation had evidently spent some time brainstorming all their unspoken expectations and put them down on paper, even those that they themselves wished they didn't have. After chuckling at the idea of a written list of unwritten expectations, I decided that these are good things to know.

After my first day in the office (which was Monday)--after being there, meeting some of the members who dropped by to introduce themselves--I slept better the next few nights. This Sunday, however, is my first day in the pulpit, and last night, I dreamed about it. In the dream, I wasn't quite prepared.

I'm sure that things will go well on Sunday. This is a good congregation, and I know it is where I belong. It will be a good day.... As long as I wear my robe. A pastor who wears a robe during worship is, after all, an "unwritten" expectation.

New Ministry & Book Festival

It's official now: I have been called to be the pastor of Bixby Knolls Christian Church in Long Beach. Yeah!

(And my first day "on the job" is tomorrow.)

In other news, our family attended the Festival of Books this weekend at UCLA. The highlight for my boys was meeting D.J. MacHale, author of the Pendragon series. It was hot, and there were about 50 bazillion people there, but we had fun.

Earth Day

There were many activities taking place in southern California this weekend in honor of Earth Day. We chose the one closest to us: a canyon clean-up and community festival at Stough Park here in Burbank.

Ethan and Tristan didn't particularly care for the canyon clean-up part of it, but there was plenty of time to enjoy the activities, which included visiting booths, enjoying snacks, and participating in some arts and crafts, all scattered inside and out at the Nature Center. We left just before the mayor spoke, because my sister invited us to go to the L.A. Zoo with her and her family.

In light of all this week's Earth celebrations, I'm wondering about my transportation issue if/when I start working in Long Beach. I could take Metro from North Hollywood to Long Beach. Metro does have bike lockers for rent, and I could use a bike to get around Long Beach. Hmmm.

A New Ministry (And How to Get There)

In two weeks, the congregation of a church in Long Beach will vote on whether or not to call me as their pastor. The leadership of the congregation has already voted unanimously in my favor. It certainly seems likely that the congregation's vote will have a similar result.

One of the congregation's leaders has already asked me if I would be ready to start right away, the day after the vote is taken. I said yes. So it is very likely that I'll begin a new ministry on April 28.

Meanwhile, on the morning of June 4th, Ethan and all the 5th graders at Edison Elementary will participate in a graduation ceremony. Next year, it's off to middle school! Since Long Beach is only about 30 miles away from Burbank, we will remain living here until summer so that Ethan and Tristan can finish the school year.

This is great news, but it also presents a challenge. We only have one car. My wife's idea is to get a 2nd car, but I see cars as a necessary evil, so why would I want another one? Besides, we really can't afford one, not to mention gas (currently $3.70/gallon here). We could possibly rent or lease one (is there such a thing as a two-month car lease?). Or we could get creative, actually daring to figure out the Southland's public transportation system--which, obviously, is the most environmentally-friendly solution.

We've ridden the Metro before, to Hollywood and L.A. But will it get me all the way to Long Beach? Perhaps, but what about my need to visit church members and attend meetings which may or may not be at the church?

Ginger could take the bus across Burbank to her job, but she probably wouldn't see that as fair. (I get the car, she gets to take the bus.) I know there are other families in L.A. with only one car, and some folks even get by with no car. But is it possible for us?

Are we willing to find out?

To be continued...

Victory Blvd. where it crosses the Ventura Freeway, during a rare lull in the L.A. traffic.

Prayer for Guidance and Wisdom

He was (I think) eleven years old when I first met him. Just a kid. He and his mom were at a weekend family camp that my family also attended. Our two families were the only first-timers at the camp. The only ones who weren't "in the know" regarding all the camp traditions. The only ones who felt so out of place at that camp.

That immediately drew me to him.

A year or two later, he was one of the campers at the youth camps where I counseled. I got to know him better as I helped guide him on his faith journey. In the years that followed, I watched him mature. His faith deepened, and his leadership skills grew.

He's in college now. He says that deciding which college to attend was a difficult choice for him. One had a high academic reputation; another, a strong community that would nourish his faith. A prayer, inspired by his decision, reads:

Lord, please walk with me through life, and provide me with guidance as I make important decisions. Please give me the wisdom to see your plans for me, and strength to stick with the path that you guide me along.

Lately, I've been praying a similar prayer, since I am at an important crossroads myself. When I resigned my previous pastoral position, I did it because I knew it was the right thing for the church I was serving. My father had invited my family to live with him until I found a new call, and I figured that I could easily find temporary work that, when combined with the money we had managed to save, would provide for my family. After all, I had done temporary work before, in the mid 1990s.

Alas, this is not the mid 90s. There are no jobs, especially in a city that is still recovering from a TV & movie writers' strike. Even if there were, potential employers wonder why a pastor with a master's degree is interested in what is considered an entry-level job.

So, the saved-up money is gone. Bank accounts are now in the red. I've stood in line at the welfare office and have had phone conversations with the unemployment office. I've told my kids, "No, you can't buy a book at the book fair. No, you can't go to the nature camp over spring break that I'd promised you." My wife has now found work at a preschool, which is keeping the situation from becoming any worse, but on the other hand, it's not doing much to make it better. And like that young man in college, I'm wondering now if the choice I'd made was the right one.

There is hope. I am now in conversation with a congregation about becoming their pastor. As far as I can tell so far, we'd be a good fit, which is good, since I will not accept any position just because I need a job. Only if I sense that this is the place to which God is calling me will I go.

In the meantime, I have that prayer to guide me.

Flogging Molly

Ever heard of the music group Flogging Molly? Are you anxiously awaiting your pre-ordered Flogging Molly CD? If so, know that it's quite likely that your CD and t-shirt were packaged by yours truly.

For two days, I have a job. In a little building beneath the Hollywood Sign, on a street named Cahuenga (a now familiar name on this blog), I am hard at work. More work may, perhaps, follow, although that's not guaranteed at this point. I still wake up every night at 3:00 a.m., scared to death that we'll lose our health insurance. (I have a $1700 bill and only $300 left in the checking account). Losing health insurance is not an option when your child has diabetes.

But maybe it will be OK.

BTW, I did guest preach last Sunday, and now have a video of my sermon on its way to a church search committee. We'll see what happens.

Watching the Waves

We went to the beach yesterday, after church. The boys played in the water, and spent the entire afternoon laughing and running around, without a single fight. Even Ginger, who moved down here to southern California with some reluctance, had to admit that the L.A. area does have its good points.

I have a feeling that this week, I'll find some temporary employment. The writers' strike is about to end, which means a lot of people in Burbank will be going back to work, which means (hopefully) that a lot of temporary jobs will be opening up. If not, I have the option of delivering flowers on Valentine's Day, or assisting the Easter Bunny at the mall between now and Easter. I could even be the Easter Bunny. If I wanted to.

A church that's looking for a pastor has asked for a video of one of my sermons. This is great, except that I can't make any videos, since I'm not currently preaching. Anyone in the L.A. area in need of a guest preacher this Sunday?

Resume

Not having a job is getting old. I wonder if part of the problem is my resume....

Daniel Bradfield
Burbank, CA ~ http://fieldofdandelions.blogspot.com

Objective
To find a full-time, temporary job so I don't run out of money before I get the job I really want.

Experience
Pastor of a small country church, where I successfully handled challenges such as chasing skunks out from under the sanctuary and arranging for porta-potties when the septic tank overflowed during Vacation Bible School.

Education
Way too much for the temp job I'm currently seeking.

Training
My training will be a great asset for those water-cooler conversations on eschatology and biblical exegesis.

Hi! Do You Have a Minute?

In my quest to find temporary employement while I wait for a new pastoral call, I find myself scouring the classified ads. I've already signed up with several temp agencies, but they have yet to call. I suspect that the striking writers took all the temp jobs before I moved to this town.

One ad kept appearing day after day. Initially I ignored it, but as the days ticked by, I began to consider it. It read: "ACTIVISM--Protect Our Coast. Earn $400-$600 a week." Well, I needed some income, and protecting the coast is a worthy cause, so finally, I called.

The next day, I found myself standing in front of a store, saying to people as they walked in, "Hi! Do you have a minute for the environment?" Unfortunately, it was, by California standards, a downright frigid day, with a cold wind and occasional rainshowers. Several feet of new snow blanketed the nearby mountains, with the snowline surprisingly low.

I knew it would be cold, and I was dressed for the weather. Most of the people entering the store were not. Why should they be? They only had to dash from the parking lot to the store; they didn't plan on actually spending time outside, listening to someone talk about about beaches, oil spills, and the environment.

A number of people did stop, though, much to my surprise. When I said, "Hi, do you have a minute for the environment?" they said, "Yeah, sure."

So I gave them the spiel. I told them about how they could help protect the coast (which of course involved making a contribution to the organization for which I was working.) I had spent the first hour of the day carefully rehearsing my spiel (or, "rap," as the organization calls it). In front of the store, I tried to stick as close as possible to the "rap," as per my training. It was easier than I thought it would be. It was even enjoyable. There were, I realized, two reasons for this: One, I was talking about something I believed in, and two, I had been trained and given the opportunity to practice before heading out to the street.

The job only lasted one day. I wasn't asked to return the next day, due to the fact that I couldn't actually convince anyone to weather the arctic air long enough to write a check. The organization's policies didn't allow for weather extremes. However, despite how much I enjoyed talking to people, I can't say I was disappointed. It wasn't just to make myself feel better that I told myself, "It's the organization's loss."

As I made my way home, I thought about my day: the early morning training, learning and practicing the "rap," and then the time spent putting what I'd learned to work. I knew that my experience as a pastor helped make this easy for me, but I also realized that my experience in front of the store could help me in the church. I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to people, people I had never met, in front of the store. I was surprised at how comfortable I was, approaching them, talking with them. I was surprised also at how many people actually stopped, and listened to what I had to say, despite the weather.

Of course, I believed in what I was saying and the work I was doing. But I couldn't help but think about how much more I believe in the church and the work the church is doing. I wished that that was what I could have been talking to people about: the church, and the difference that being a Christian has made in my life.

I know that a lot of people feel the same way. They want to talk to friends, neighbors, and co-workers about their faith and their church, but they don't know how. They haven't been trained. They haven't learned the "rap."

What if we had training sessions for this? What if we had workshops in which people learned how to talk about their faith and their church? What if we provided a place where we could learn how to personalize our own "rap," using our own voice, and present it in a way that isn't obnoxious or "in-your-face?" We could spend 45 minutes or an hour practicing with one another. We could practice talking. Sharing. Inviting. And we would be commissioned to go out, and live what we'd learned.

Now that would be a job worth having.

Change

Change. It's what everyone's talking about these days; everyone who's running for president, anyway.

Upon my recent return to my hometown, I of course noticed what had changed since I left for college. The nicely modernized schools, the new restaurants, the street improvements. Burbank has changed a lot since I was a kid; back then, "Beautiful Downtown Burbank" was a real joke; now it's a fact.

But it's still Burbank.

This contrasts with an experience I had last fall driving through Lincoln, CA. Lincoln is one of the cities near where I used to live. Trips to the grocery store or doctor regularly took me through Lincoln.

Lincoln is, by many accounts, the fastest growing city in California. To facilitate this growth, new streets are being built, and old ones are being realigned. On that particular day last fall, I was driving down a street I had driven down dozens of times, when I suddenly did not recognize where I was. I literally had to pull over to figure it out--and to shake away my fears of early onset Alzheimers. It wasn't Alzheimers--it was simply that development was happening so fast that the familiar town had become unrecognizable.

Everyone says they want change; and yes, I do believe that, as a nation, change is what we need. But I also know that we need to be careful what we ask for. Governor Schwarzenegger recently proposed some drastic changes to our state budget. The budget is a mess, and he's trying to fix it. And people are in an uproar. [Note: this may sound like an endorsement of the governor's plan. It's not. It's simply an essay on change.]

I've been worried about my family's ability to adapt to the changes we've faced. We've been living with my Dad for over two weeks now, and so far, so good.

Dad is now gone on a 10-day vacation. While he's gone, and since we don't have jobs yet, my wife and I have been doing a lot of cleaning and organizing. I guess you could say we've been making some changes. Change is good. But we're trying not to do too much, so that, when he returns, he'll still recognize it as his house.

Moving Time

To be continued...

Fairview Cemetery

On Saturday, I was asked to officiate at the funeral of a community member. It was a graveside service at the cemetery up the road where I have done many funerals over the past eight years.

I didn't really know the man who had passed away. I had met him and spoken with him a few times. His grandson is in my son's 5th grade class. I didn't realize, until the funeral, how many people that I knew were part of his family. As I looked around at those gathered at the graveside on that cold Saturday morning, I saw a number of familiar faces.

Several of them were students I had met while substitute teaching. Yesterday, one of them, a teenager, found my myspace site and sent me an email thanking me for doing his grandfather's service. I was touched by his gesture.

I felt an urge to return to the cemetery today, to take one last look around before we leave this community next week. I arrived in between rainstorms, and walked around, searching for the tombstones of others whose funerals I had done....

I saw many names that I had pronounced before crowds of mourners: Pierce, Spangler, Mascaro, Calliote, and Walker. There were the names I had pronounced twice, doing funerals for both husband and wife: Berrier and Derby. There was even the name of my congressman--Herger--who's father was a member of my church.

I found the name of Cornelius Stolp, who died in 1909. For the past eight years I've lived at the intersection of Cornelius Ave., named for him. I've met Cornelius' grandson, who lives in Sacramento.

I found the grave of two young children who both died on the same day in 1884, and wondered what sort of tragedy took their lives. I'm guessing it wasn't a car crash.

The oldest grave I found was for a person who died in 1865. That's pretty old by California standards. There may have been one or two that were even older, but I didn't find them.

You may think it would be depressing to walk around a graveyard, especially one in which so many of the names are of people I knew. It wasn't. What's sad isn't that these people died. What's sad is that so many who are alive today are wasting away their lives. Maybe if they'd spend a little time walking around a graveyard, they'd realize just how valuable and precious their own life is.

I guess walking through the graveyard on this misty day was also a way for me to say goodbye to this community. It is certainly with mixed emotions that I prepare to leave the place I've called home these past eight years, the place where one son was born and the other has lived all but two of his ten years.

Sweet Gum Trees

Today is my last day of substitute teaching at East Nicolaus High School, where most of my teaching has taken place. I do not expect to get called in next week, when the students will be taking their finals before winter break.

Outside the classroom is a row of sweet gum trees. I love sweet gum trees. (I wish I had brought my camera to take a picture of them today, but instead I had to use this image I found on the internet.) They are among the few trees in California that give brilliant fall colors. I grew up in Burbank on a street lined with sweet gum trees. In fact, I once gave a neighbor kid a bloody lip with one of the sticker balls those trees produce ... but that's another story. (It was an accident, I swear.)

Of the four trees outside my classroom, three have lost all their leaves; but the fourth has stubbornly held on to about half of its crimson-colored-foliage. It's as if this fourth tree is trying to make a statement: "You call this a winter? Bah! A little frost on the ground is nuthin'. Why, my grandpappy was from New England, a place where they know what a real winter is!" Or it could be that this tree is a literalist when it comes to the calendar: "The calendar says I still got one week left of autumn, so quit buggin' me about my leaves!" Or, perhaps, this one tree just isn't ready. The changing of the seasons brings with it a sort of death for trees, followed by a rebirth in the spring ... and don't we all face change and new beginnings with a bit of reluctance?

It's my last day of substitute teaching at East Nicolaus High School. In less than two weeks, we move -- to the very street lined with sweet gums where I grew up. Here, I've watched most of the leaves fall, and perhaps within two weeks, the ones that still remain will finally let go. There, I'll look forward to seeing the new growth that will come in the spring ... which, in southern California, usually occurs in mid-February.

Darkness and Joy

The scripture for next Sunday begins with John the Baptist sitting in his prison cell. Maybe I'm too much of a movie fan (we've already purchased Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix), but for days now I've been carrying around with me the image of that lonely prison fortress, it's distant, remote location east of the Dead Sea, and the darkness of John's prison cell. Hmm, I'm sure I can get a nice Advent sermon out of that...

Last night Ginger and I began packing in earnest for our move, which is two weeks away. I started in my office, packing all my books and other office items. Even then, the image of John the Baptist--sitting in his prison cell, wondering where the hope was, desperately wishing for some light to shine into his life--came to me. Where is the light? Where is the joy?

Well, I saw a little light when, last Sunday, I was told that the church is planning a going-away luncheon for me and my family. And I do experience joy when I think of being able to spend more time with family, especially my Dad, in whose house we'll be living for the next ... month? two months? He has let me know how excited he is to have us, and I must confess I'm a little excited that, for a semester at least, my sons will be going to the same elementary school I attended.

The boys were watching an episode of VeggieTales the other day, and I was in the other room pondering John & next Sunday's sermon, the sermon for the 3rd Sunday of Advent, the Sunday of joy. I admit, I wasn't feeling very joyful. But then I overheard Bob the Tomato say something about how one doesn't have to be happy to be joyful; happiness comes and goes, but joy stays with you through all circumstances. I laughed, because he was right. And even though my worries are still with me, I am joyful.

I Wish...

In the movie The Santa Clause 3: The Escape Clause, Christmas is particularly stressful. Mrs. Claus is about to give birth, toy production is behind schedule, the in-laws are coming for a visit, and Jack Frost is threatening to take over Christmas. One thing after another leads Santa (aka Scott Calvin) to declare, "I wish I'd never been Santa at all."

It was a comment spoken out of the frustration of the moment. Santa immediately regrets saying it, for the words do not convey his true feelings. What's worse is that Jack Frost has tricked Santa into saying those words at such a time that they become true: as soon as he speaks them, he is no longer Santa. He must then attempt to set things right, and become Santa again.

Nearly every pastor I know can relate. There are times when we've said, "I wish I'd never become a pastor at all." Some of my friends have seen their wish come true, as they are no longer in the ministry.

When I heard the call to ministry, I remember all my family and friends being happy for me. These days, I sometimes wonder if some of them were secretly thinking, "better you than me." As I prepare to move my family despite the fact that I have no job waiting for me, taking my kids to a new community and new school, faced with the possibility of not having enough money to pay the bills (not to mention health insurance), and with little support from the congregation I am leaving, I'm increasingly finding myself wishing that I'd never entered the ministry.

My sister-in-law is trying to get me to go into teaching. She's a teacher, and says that if I were a middle school or high school math teacher, I could easily get a job almost anywhere, earning much more than I am now. The idea is tempting.

But would I regret it? Ministry is, in many ways, rewarding. It is what I feel I am called to do. If I were to speak the wish out loud and it magically became true, would I fight to undo it? Would I fight to become a pastor again? Or would I happily turn my back on the vocation to which I feel called? Would the better income, and the relative security that lets me sleep at night, be worth it? Would being able to maintain health insurance for my family (including my diabetic son) be worth it?

Too bad the screenwriters are on strike. Maybe they could script it out for me.

Advent Hope

"Look, son," Cyrus said earnestly, "nearly all men are afraid, and they don't even know what causes their fear."
John Steinbeck, East of Eden

The days are long gone when monsters under the bed or in the closet caused me to be afraid. Even my sons are outrowing those fears. Unfortunately, childish fears are often replaced by grown-up fears, and grown-up fears can be just as frightening.

Most people I know are afraid of something. As for me, I'm afraid for my future. The future is largely unknown. Advent marks the beginning of the end for me and my family, since we are moving at Christmas ... whether we're ready or not.

According to Pi Patel, the protagonist of Yann Martel's novel Life of Pi, fear is life's only true opponent. Pi knows a thing or two about fear. Pi was in a shipwreck, and drifted across the Pacific Ocean in a lifeboat, which he shared with a Bengal tiger.

In the book Pi says...

Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread.

Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on. Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake. Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot. Your ears go deaf. Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing. Your heart strains to hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And so with the rest of your body. Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work well. They always pay proper attention to fear.

Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself. Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.

Every year, I give thanks for Advent, which comes at the darkest time of the year (at least here in the northern hemisphere). There is a lot of darkness in our world and in our lives, and a lot of fear. But Advent brings with it hope. It brings with it the angel's message: "Fear not! I bring you good news of great joy!" And as I begin getting ready for Christmas (we're getting our tree today!), hope grows strong, and fear ... well, fear remains, but as long as I hold on to hope, I know that fear will not triumph. With hope, fear is tamed -- the tiger is tamed -- and, though the journey is long and difficult, I will make it to that distant shore.

OK, this is an old picture, but we're getting there...