It is a difficult thing to pay attention to our conversations, relationships and simply being in the presence of others. We rely so heavily on cliche, routines and posturing. From the opening moments of human interface these relational habits kick-in with the force of the most powerful addictions. What do I mean?
"Hi, how are you doing?"
"Fine!" A pause and tilt of the head sideways. "And how are YOU doing anyway?"
"Couldn't be better," he lies.
Fake smiles--yeah I've been caught in a few. I had a guy in one church that would give me back my Guy Smiley smile every time I posed it.
Why can't we live in the real world? Why can't we truly mean what we say, interface with sincerity and truly touch one another with authenticity? You need to be seen today. Has anyone looked at you? Has anyone studied your eyes and your face and really asked about you? You need to be heard today. Is anyone listening?
Would you touch someone this day by making a real conversation--by being honest when you are with them and looking them in their beautiful eyes and expressing some form of human contact? Would you listen to someone who needs to be heard.Oh God, please help us love each other!
Sometimes when people tell me I'm special, I'm tempted to think they just like being loved. They just think it's cool being seen, or heard, or spoken to in the present tense and moment... Funny idea, isn't it?
For more on this topic click here.
Showing posts with label depression in the ministry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression in the ministry. Show all posts
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Beatles/A Hymn/and A Sunday Morning Pastor
Before reading, please sing the Beatle's Eleanor Rigby. Done? Make sure the chorus is playing in your head... All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Ahhh, look at all the lonely people...(repeat last phrase.) So, are you with me now?
On Sunday mornings, I awake thinking of the day ahead. I rise earlier than most any morning of the week and go downstairs to my chair. I pray. I seek strength. I rehearse my sermon for the morning--sifting it through my spirit and hopefully a Greater One. And I feel alone.
Around the area where I live I know there are people, preparing to rendezvous with me at the "meeting place." (I always like that Quaker title better than "church.") I begin seeing their faces. There are parents who are hurting for sick or rebellious children. Elderly who are wondering if they can make it again ("Just hanging in there," I'll hear one say in another few hours). There are some couples struggling to stay faithful--or who have no idea their spouse is. There are teenagers doing life as if it feels like walking through deep oncoming water--or motor oil. There are single people wishing they were loved. There are people awaiting a diagnosis...cancer? There are children who will run to me for a hug. (God bless the children.)
And somehow in the strange way we do church, I will be a key to providing hope and healing to all of these.
I pray for the strength--the faith to perform.
I weep here alone in my chair, before anyone else gets up.
And I go to facebook hoping for a friend. One pastor after another has already been there, or drops-by while I am. Some mention sermon topics, others psych themselves up with a positive statement. And none of us comment on the others, or speak using the chat feature. We post no notes to each other. What can we say? We are storming the beaches today, and once again, we wonder if we'll survive.
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?
Father mckenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Eleanor rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father mckenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
RECORDED BY THE BEATLES
And there is another text, this one by Edwin Hatch:
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
fill me with life anew,
that I may love what thou dost love,
and do what thou wouldst do.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
until my heart is pure,
until with thee I will one will,
to do and to endure.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
till I am wholly thine,
till all this earthly part of me
glows with thy fire divine.
AMEN
On Sunday mornings, I awake thinking of the day ahead. I rise earlier than most any morning of the week and go downstairs to my chair. I pray. I seek strength. I rehearse my sermon for the morning--sifting it through my spirit and hopefully a Greater One. And I feel alone.
Around the area where I live I know there are people, preparing to rendezvous with me at the "meeting place." (I always like that Quaker title better than "church.") I begin seeing their faces. There are parents who are hurting for sick or rebellious children. Elderly who are wondering if they can make it again ("Just hanging in there," I'll hear one say in another few hours). There are some couples struggling to stay faithful--or who have no idea their spouse is. There are teenagers doing life as if it feels like walking through deep oncoming water--or motor oil. There are single people wishing they were loved. There are people awaiting a diagnosis...cancer? There are children who will run to me for a hug. (God bless the children.)
And somehow in the strange way we do church, I will be a key to providing hope and healing to all of these.
I pray for the strength--the faith to perform.
I weep here alone in my chair, before anyone else gets up.
And I go to facebook hoping for a friend. One pastor after another has already been there, or drops-by while I am. Some mention sermon topics, others psych themselves up with a positive statement. And none of us comment on the others, or speak using the chat feature. We post no notes to each other. What can we say? We are storming the beaches today, and once again, we wonder if we'll survive.
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?
Father mckenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Eleanor rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father mckenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
RECORDED BY THE BEATLES
And there is another text, this one by Edwin Hatch:
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
fill me with life anew,
that I may love what thou dost love,
and do what thou wouldst do.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
until my heart is pure,
until with thee I will one will,
to do and to endure.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
till I am wholly thine,
till all this earthly part of me
glows with thy fire divine.
AMEN
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Journal: Kill Devil Hills, NC June 2008
I've toyed with letting you into my private life a bit further. I struggled last summer with some exhaustion. While I was not,at this point, depressed. I was still healing from a previous experience with burnout. But indeed, the brooding I'll share over the next days or weeks, will let you in on a bit of what it looked like from inside of my head when I was tired and wondering about ministry, and my place in it.
Below are some unedited excerpts from my private journal while on vacation last summer. I'm letting you into a private place here. Please be kind.
June 2
So here I am, washed-up on another shore, pushed here by a need to be away--a need to rest. I've sat at surf's edge for much of the first day. Feeling profound thoughts, and wishing I could pen them.
The encroaching tide, and the fleeing foam breathe-in-and-out in a primal whisper--they say something to me. And deep within, I comprehend. Though my "first-day-away ears" hear only white noise; rhythmic static. And once again I come here with a restless spirit and a quivering soul. My body is picking-up their symptoms. Anxiety is grinding my teeth, dizzying my conversations and crowding-out my peace.
What is the capacity of the seas? This, yet another escape, lands me by the surf, seeking relief, cleansing, peace--Truth. A mystic of sorts once asked me, "What are you running from?" As the sun sets behind me, and the sky shimmers before, I feel it is time to find an answer--one that I can live with.
June 3
At 5:40 this morning I woke. Light peered through the edges of the window where the curtain comes to an end. Quickly I step into shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, walk into the morning and toward the beach. Cresting the dune, I see the top half of the sun. (Have to fight feelings of failure for a moment--I missed the first peek of the sun over the ocean.) Then I realize the foolishness of my driven-ness--even on vacation!
As the sea bears the sun, and births this new day, two words emerge. "Mortality" and "vantity." And somehow this morning, I must admit their relation to one-another, and to me.
My family has known dark days. Days of disease or broken body. Now that we have moved beyond those reminders of our mortality, we are grateful to be living comfortably back in the "real world" where we easily ignore mortality--at least until a friend calls speaking of a new measuring stick, marked with three months, and divided into 90 notches called days.
Why did I and so many others rise early and take our places to watch the sunrise this morning? And why did the nascent beauty of today's first light reflect off of mostly graying heads? In some internal place we are learning that be it ninety or nine thousand notches that remain, there will be a last. And I want to be OK with that. Yet I know that I am not. I know this because yesterday--I shaved!
I'll put more of this entry up in a day or so. Be easy on me in your comments. It's not easy putting private journal stuff on the internet:)!
Below are some unedited excerpts from my private journal while on vacation last summer. I'm letting you into a private place here. Please be kind.
June 2
So here I am, washed-up on another shore, pushed here by a need to be away--a need to rest. I've sat at surf's edge for much of the first day. Feeling profound thoughts, and wishing I could pen them.
The encroaching tide, and the fleeing foam breathe-in-and-out in a primal whisper--they say something to me. And deep within, I comprehend. Though my "first-day-away ears" hear only white noise; rhythmic static. And once again I come here with a restless spirit and a quivering soul. My body is picking-up their symptoms. Anxiety is grinding my teeth, dizzying my conversations and crowding-out my peace.
What is the capacity of the seas? This, yet another escape, lands me by the surf, seeking relief, cleansing, peace--Truth. A mystic of sorts once asked me, "What are you running from?" As the sun sets behind me, and the sky shimmers before, I feel it is time to find an answer--one that I can live with.
June 3
At 5:40 this morning I woke. Light peered through the edges of the window where the curtain comes to an end. Quickly I step into shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, walk into the morning and toward the beach. Cresting the dune, I see the top half of the sun. (Have to fight feelings of failure for a moment--I missed the first peek of the sun over the ocean.) Then I realize the foolishness of my driven-ness--even on vacation!
As the sea bears the sun, and births this new day, two words emerge. "Mortality" and "vantity." And somehow this morning, I must admit their relation to one-another, and to me.
My family has known dark days. Days of disease or broken body. Now that we have moved beyond those reminders of our mortality, we are grateful to be living comfortably back in the "real world" where we easily ignore mortality--at least until a friend calls speaking of a new measuring stick, marked with three months, and divided into 90 notches called days.
Why did I and so many others rise early and take our places to watch the sunrise this morning? And why did the nascent beauty of today's first light reflect off of mostly graying heads? In some internal place we are learning that be it ninety or nine thousand notches that remain, there will be a last. And I want to be OK with that. Yet I know that I am not. I know this because yesterday--I shaved!
I'll put more of this entry up in a day or so. Be easy on me in your comments. It's not easy putting private journal stuff on the internet:)!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The Runaway Pastor: Prologue?
It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. Indeed, there were many people and things he loved. And he could remember days when a painful depression cursed his every waking thought. No, it wasn’t that.
A nagging web stretched across his path, more disgusting--intimidating--than limiting. It must be cleared away, lest the fibers smother his existence—the question proving to have no proper answer.
Having lived with fiery passion dictating his actions, his every moment; he feared his life held no more tinder. A widening gulf appeared before him; the expanse between his life, and his purpose, seemed insurmountable. A man may, after all, own loves, yet loose direction.
Perhaps this fearsome abyss was that which drove him out from himself--seeking some resuscitating-bracing breath, something after which to dream--for longing was missing in his living.
A nagging web stretched across his path, more disgusting--intimidating--than limiting. It must be cleared away, lest the fibers smother his existence—the question proving to have no proper answer.
Having lived with fiery passion dictating his actions, his every moment; he feared his life held no more tinder. A widening gulf appeared before him; the expanse between his life, and his purpose, seemed insurmountable. A man may, after all, own loves, yet loose direction.
Perhaps this fearsome abyss was that which drove him out from himself--seeking some resuscitating-bracing breath, something after which to dream--for longing was missing in his living.
Friday, November 14, 2008
THE RUNAWAY PASTOR: True Story?
I have often been asked if The Runaway Pastor is a true story, or if it is based upon one. It is based on many true stories.
Many men and women are cut out perfectly for the role of pastoral ministry in this day when "bigger, means better." They are often blessed with the multiple talents of organization, leadership, management, motivation, and institutional development; as well as being gifted with sympathy, the abilities to teach and preach and to make their faith real to "outsiders". These are wonderful people--and rare.
I spend a lot of time thinking these days of smaller, sustainable, organic house churches as a preferable model for some leaders. I am more and more convinced that much of what our success-models have pushed us into, is a lovely and large cruise ship with little ability to maneuver in the post-modern waters of our times. On the other hand, the smaller congregations seem quite adept at relational, conversational, servant-oriented ministry that is so effective in these days.
And don't get me wrong, churches are usually good places with good people. The runaway thing is typically not an issue of some ogre institution chewing up, and spitting out its leaders. No, ministry has simply become a very broad and demanding job emotionally, mentally and physically. And the greater the desire to love a congregation (that for some of us means always pleasing), and to lead a congregation to mega-greatness, the greater the tendency to burn-out.
Some pastors are strong in the leadership/management skill sets, and weak in the caring ones. And others, like Trent in The Runaway Pastor, are the other way around. Churches can be filled with wonderful people, but the institution itself demands a very highly gifted and well rounded person to carry-off the gig. Many find themselves incapable, or tired trying to keep up. That, in my opinion, is where the runaways come from.
I can remember like yesterday, conversations with middle-aged and broken pastors, when I was first starting in ministry. I would often come away from such conversations thinking: "I'll never be like that." Or, "Why are they so negative?" It is true that many pastors never run from their ministry, but wish they could. When they signed-up for ministry, they believed they could spend a lifetime caring for others, teaching and speaking about faith. Their spiritual gifts and their training equipped them for this. However, once in the roles of ministry, they found different expectations, and overwhelming stresses.
And the stigma of having a "calling," is a difficult one to break out of. When I was called to serve as a missionary, and signed a career contract, coming home was the most humiliating step I ever took. (It also, however, saved my family.) We left the US as heroes, and returned perceived as embarrassments to the church. Before leaving, I spoke in large churches, three of our university chapels and many district church gatherings. But after returning, we were not even included in the introductions of "former missionaries" at our own district's meetings. (Like Trent, The Runaway Pastor at Baylor's Bend, I understand now that my [cross-cultural and] people-loving skill sets were strong; however my organizational and institutional motivations and abilities were inadequate.)
Many in the church push young people to profess a "calling," and if they ever testify to such a calling, the mold is cast. I remember my boyhood pastors telling me, "If you can do anything else, and know that God would still love you, do it." But once I said I was called, and after leaving for college to study, even my most sincere doubts of such a calling had to be squelched. From early days in college, and throughout my ministry, the only respectable path has been to keep on plugging.
Today, many pastors quit in their early years of ministry, or even before beginning a pastoral career. (There is probably less of a stigma than there used to be, and a deeper belief in God's grace.) A common statistic now is that half of those who do study for ministry, get out during their first 10 years. I know several young men who went to a denominational school to study for pastoral ministry less than ten years ago. Of the group who took the four year course, none of them are pursuing the job of pastor now. One of them--a recent seminary grad--told a family member that his seminary years and college studies were largely wasted. He's getting out now. Others have diverted into such caring ministries as hospital chaplaincies.
Multiple pastors have told me they spend time dreaming of what else they could do to earn a living. There are web sites for pastors looking for a new start. That is another part of the "trapped" feeling. Training in Greek and Hebrew, hermeneutics, preaching, etc. does little for a resume in the "real world." Pastors have told me of scheming to commit enough of a crime to get kicked out of their church, without going to jail or losing their family. Others have told me they wish they could get in the car and drive as far away as their savings could take them. Others have told me they wish they could die, or become debilitated.
And then there are those who do find a way out. Some, with great wisdom realize their skill sets are welcomed in varying 501C3s, the teaching community, or other professional career paths. Unfortunately, affairs, internet pornography, or complete emotional breakdowns have taken many. And perhaps, the leading way out is actually more of a switching of the channel: Some change congregations and home towns once every two, four or six years....
Many men and women are cut out perfectly for the role of pastoral ministry in this day when "bigger, means better." They are often blessed with the multiple talents of organization, leadership, management, motivation, and institutional development; as well as being gifted with sympathy, the abilities to teach and preach and to make their faith real to "outsiders". These are wonderful people--and rare.
I spend a lot of time thinking these days of smaller, sustainable, organic house churches as a preferable model for some leaders. I am more and more convinced that much of what our success-models have pushed us into, is a lovely and large cruise ship with little ability to maneuver in the post-modern waters of our times. On the other hand, the smaller congregations seem quite adept at relational, conversational, servant-oriented ministry that is so effective in these days.
And don't get me wrong, churches are usually good places with good people. The runaway thing is typically not an issue of some ogre institution chewing up, and spitting out its leaders. No, ministry has simply become a very broad and demanding job emotionally, mentally and physically. And the greater the desire to love a congregation (that for some of us means always pleasing), and to lead a congregation to mega-greatness, the greater the tendency to burn-out.
Some pastors are strong in the leadership/management skill sets, and weak in the caring ones. And others, like Trent in The Runaway Pastor, are the other way around. Churches can be filled with wonderful people, but the institution itself demands a very highly gifted and well rounded person to carry-off the gig. Many find themselves incapable, or tired trying to keep up. That, in my opinion, is where the runaways come from.
I can remember like yesterday, conversations with middle-aged and broken pastors, when I was first starting in ministry. I would often come away from such conversations thinking: "I'll never be like that." Or, "Why are they so negative?" It is true that many pastors never run from their ministry, but wish they could. When they signed-up for ministry, they believed they could spend a lifetime caring for others, teaching and speaking about faith. Their spiritual gifts and their training equipped them for this. However, once in the roles of ministry, they found different expectations, and overwhelming stresses.
And the stigma of having a "calling," is a difficult one to break out of. When I was called to serve as a missionary, and signed a career contract, coming home was the most humiliating step I ever took. (It also, however, saved my family.) We left the US as heroes, and returned perceived as embarrassments to the church. Before leaving, I spoke in large churches, three of our university chapels and many district church gatherings. But after returning, we were not even included in the introductions of "former missionaries" at our own district's meetings. (Like Trent, The Runaway Pastor at Baylor's Bend, I understand now that my [cross-cultural and] people-loving skill sets were strong; however my organizational and institutional motivations and abilities were inadequate.)
Many in the church push young people to profess a "calling," and if they ever testify to such a calling, the mold is cast. I remember my boyhood pastors telling me, "If you can do anything else, and know that God would still love you, do it." But once I said I was called, and after leaving for college to study, even my most sincere doubts of such a calling had to be squelched. From early days in college, and throughout my ministry, the only respectable path has been to keep on plugging.
Today, many pastors quit in their early years of ministry, or even before beginning a pastoral career. (There is probably less of a stigma than there used to be, and a deeper belief in God's grace.) A common statistic now is that half of those who do study for ministry, get out during their first 10 years. I know several young men who went to a denominational school to study for pastoral ministry less than ten years ago. Of the group who took the four year course, none of them are pursuing the job of pastor now. One of them--a recent seminary grad--told a family member that his seminary years and college studies were largely wasted. He's getting out now. Others have diverted into such caring ministries as hospital chaplaincies.
Multiple pastors have told me they spend time dreaming of what else they could do to earn a living. There are web sites for pastors looking for a new start. That is another part of the "trapped" feeling. Training in Greek and Hebrew, hermeneutics, preaching, etc. does little for a resume in the "real world." Pastors have told me of scheming to commit enough of a crime to get kicked out of their church, without going to jail or losing their family. Others have told me they wish they could get in the car and drive as far away as their savings could take them. Others have told me they wish they could die, or become debilitated.
And then there are those who do find a way out. Some, with great wisdom realize their skill sets are welcomed in varying 501C3s, the teaching community, or other professional career paths. Unfortunately, affairs, internet pornography, or complete emotional breakdowns have taken many. And perhaps, the leading way out is actually more of a switching of the channel: Some change congregations and home towns once every two, four or six years....
Friday, October 24, 2008
Shocking Stats about your (?) Pastor
I've struggled today with whether or not to post this. However, I've decided it is vital rational for this entire blog. It also explains the reason I have written The Runaway Pastor, and will help many to understand the plot of the book itself. You may read the first five chapters at the following link:
http://docs.google.com/View?docid=dhdr3wvs_6g8fc94c2&hl=en
(Note: The following references partially assume that pastors are male. That is not the case in all settings, including in mine. The statistics however are both frightening and vital.)
"Depression and burnout are at epidemic proportions. If this were the case anywhere else in the world, there would be an incredible outcry. The September/October 2000 edition of Physician magazine reported that 80 percent of pastors and 84 percent of their spouses are discouraged or dealing with depression. Forty percent of pastors and 47 percent of their spouses say they are suffering from burnout. The norm among men in our country who are experiencing depression at any given time is about 10 percent. The norm among pastors is 40 percent."
Goodall continues: "To help me understand the role of stress in a pastor’s life, the executive leadership of the Assemblies of God asked me to participate in a 4-year think tank at Duke University called Pulpit and Pew. A book came out of that study entitled Pastors in Transition. I learned the primary reason pastors quit the ministry is conflict in the church. Conflict never goes away. Many pastors do not know how or when to deal with conflict. Conflict constantly hits them like a baseball bat on the head. They say: “I’ve had it. I’m going to do something different.” Unless church conflict is addressed along with the issues of burnout, stress, and depression, and the underlying causes creating these problems, the church will lose more and more of its fine pastors."
(Source: http://enrichmentjournal.ag.org/200603/200603_040_journey_pastors.cfm )
Coming Out of the Dark:
Two Pastors’ Journey Out of Depression
With Wayde I. Goodall And E. Glenn Wagner
In my new novel The Runaway Pastor, you can experience life through the eyes of a burned-out pastor. It is my desire to pastors learn to step-away for rest, before they run.
I think it's time this conversation gets a bit more public.
Jump in and comment. What are you thinking?
http://docs.google.com/View?docid=dhdr3wvs_6g8fc94c2&hl=en
(Note: The following references partially assume that pastors are male. That is not the case in all settings, including in mine. The statistics however are both frightening and vital.)
"Depression and burnout are at epidemic proportions. If this were the case anywhere else in the world, there would be an incredible outcry. The September/October 2000 edition of Physician magazine reported that 80 percent of pastors and 84 percent of their spouses are discouraged or dealing with depression. Forty percent of pastors and 47 percent of their spouses say they are suffering from burnout. The norm among men in our country who are experiencing depression at any given time is about 10 percent. The norm among pastors is 40 percent."
Goodall continues: "To help me understand the role of stress in a pastor’s life, the executive leadership of the Assemblies of God asked me to participate in a 4-year think tank at Duke University called Pulpit and Pew. A book came out of that study entitled Pastors in Transition. I learned the primary reason pastors quit the ministry is conflict in the church. Conflict never goes away. Many pastors do not know how or when to deal with conflict. Conflict constantly hits them like a baseball bat on the head. They say: “I’ve had it. I’m going to do something different.” Unless church conflict is addressed along with the issues of burnout, stress, and depression, and the underlying causes creating these problems, the church will lose more and more of its fine pastors."
(Source: http://enrichmentjournal.ag.org/200603/200603_040_journey_pastors.cfm )
Coming Out of the Dark:
Two Pastors’ Journey Out of Depression
With Wayde I. Goodall And E. Glenn Wagner
In my new novel The Runaway Pastor, you can experience life through the eyes of a burned-out pastor. It is my desire to pastors learn to step-away for rest, before they run.
I think it's time this conversation gets a bit more public.
Jump in and comment. What are you thinking?
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