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This article was orginal written for Baptist News Global
Walking along a well-beaten path, my daughter and I make our way through the canopy of trees toward the small lake’s shoreline. Already, I can see the congregating group of other parents with their children, staking claims with chairs and beach toys with an intensity rivaling that of gold miners. Like old “rabbit ears” found on ancient televisions, my legs demand direct tuning to stay focused as I approach two irks I’d much rather run from.
The first is sand.
I visibly cringe when someone tells me they enjoy long walks on the beach or enjoy the feeling of sand between their toes. Being a red-haired ginger, shadeless spaces beckoning the total exposure of our Milky Way’s favorite flaming star never will make my top ten of life’s most appealing experiences.
The other, small talk.
In a world catering to extroverts, I’ve had little choice but to adapt and become efficient at water cooler conversations. However, since I have children, there is another level of cumbersome unpleasantries forced upon me to discuss all things trivial with other parents.
No longer am I limited to recapping what I watched on Netflix the other night or offering my hot take on New Haven a’pizza. No, I’m left to talk about the mucus content of a 5-year-old and unpack the reasoning behind my choice of their extracurricular activities. Ballet or soccer?
Well, settle in as we discuss the pros and cons of each for the next 45 minutes. I don’t like to think of myself as antisocial, but the longer I’m in these situations, I’m starting to believe Anthony of Egypt was on to something when he decided to pack it all in and head for the desert.
Back on the beach, I lather the kiddo with sunblock. The swim instructors attempt to wrangle her and others into small groups to get the lessons started. I’ve managed to bring a week’s worth of supplies for her, but I’ve neglected to bring a chair or a towel for myself. I sit down on the smoothest flat rock I can find, realizing quickly I should have chosen better, and pull out the one item I did remember to pack for myself: a collection of essays by Wendell Berry.
I’m a couple of pages into The Prejudices Against Country People when I hear, “So watcha reading?” A beach towel away sits another parent. Pale, tattooed, seemingly misplaced — could I have possibly come across a kindred spirit? For the next half hour, we chat off and on. We talk a little Berry. We point out our kids to one another. We discuss spouses and talk about life in general.
“How’d your family end up here?” she asks.
“Job,” I say.
“So what do you?”
Pause. “I’m the new pastor at the Baptist church.”
Another pause. She breaks the short silence.
“So, can I, like, ask you some questions? Promise you won’t get offended?”
We talk about spirituality and religion. I’m not offended by her critiques or anything she says. It’s an open and honest discussion laced with what I’m interpreting as genuine curiosity. Lifeway couldn’t have produced a better curriculum to hold a Sunday school class’s attention.
We talk until I notice the splashing in the water has finally stopped. I take the cue to rise, gather my belongings and dry off my kid while my parlay partner does the same. We tell each other it’s been good chatting. Before leaving, we introduce the kids to one other. She says, “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
And we did. And the next day. And the day afterward. The swim camp lasted for two weeks. Each day, we talk a little more.
More questions about faith. The pressure and concern of raising kids in the current times and what the pandemic did to us and them. We talk about growing food. My spouse joins us on a day when the youngest decides to push through her usual nap time. I entertain the cranky toddler while she gets to know “Morgan.” They keep talking until the next swim class arrives and runs us off. By the time we leave, the two have made plans to meet at another parent’s home for a pool play date.
In the car with two water-dripping children, we talk about Morgan. We talk about her kid and how well she played with ours. My spouse tells me they exchanged numbers.
“She seems cool, right?” I say.
“Yeah, I’m glad we met her,” she says. “Maybe she’ll be a friend?”
“Maybe,” I say. And without hesitation, I follow it with, “Let’s not invite Morgan and her family to church.”
I can hear some of y’all gasping through your screen.
Why won’t I invite Morgan to church?
The truth is, I don’t have one answer.
I have several. Here are but a few,
You don’t need to go to church to be my friend. I see diversity as a virtue, meaning everyone I connect with doesn’t need to be limited to the social circles of Sunday mornings. I want to be careful not to surround myself with people who only know me because of the “Rev” in front of my name.
I’m not only talking about parishioners but fellow clergy relationships, too. Sure, I like the camaraderie, peer help and the “I get what you’re going through” vent sessions, but like a piece of rich pecan pie, I only want a slice, a sliver, from time to time. A little goes a long way.
“I’m not looking for a world where all my people exist in one place or hold to the same beliefs.”
In short, I’m not looking for a world where all my people exist in one place or hold to the same beliefs. That’s excessively boring, and I’d go as far as to say tacky. I need people in my life separate from my vocational call.
I don’t want to commit the faux pas of assuming church is what they are looking for. While I’m still praying Phyllis Tickle’s description of the 500-year church “rummage sale” will kick in soon, I’m not holding my breath. New reformation dreams aside, I’m concluding the modern form of church isn’t for everyone, so I’m not worrying about inviting everyone.
Besides, why ask someone to a space that isn’t ready, welcoming or affirming of them? And if, by chance, they are looking for a community of faith, does it have to be mine? I’m happy to recommend a church if they express interest or hear me out, point them to another group of like-minded individuals who may deal less with spirituality but have the concept of community dialed in.
There are unfair expectations and inevitable disappointments. I’ve found church buildings, stained glass and vestments amplify emotions in the best and worst ways. I’m not eager to attach them to everyone I meet or have them attached to me all the time because, inevitably, and much to my chagrin, I let folks down — consistently.
Can you believe it? I don’t always say the right thing, reach out as fast as some would like me to or live up to the level of revered reckonings passed on by predecessors. There’s a threshold of acceptance of this fact I have to come to terms with, and while I’d love to tell you I don’t care what people think, I do.
The stakes are high every Sunday when I step behind a pulpit and wonder, “Who might this offend?” It happens. I can preach a sermon and, without meaning to, leave someone feeling as raw as sashimi.
I can tell you what generally happens next: the person or family disappears. We’re ghosted right out of each other’s lives. Trying to balance how I can challenge a parishioner who’s a close friend is an awkward dance of me looking at my feet more than I’m looking at them while we both attempt to find the rhythm in our relationship. No one’s having fun because we’re exhausting each other.
Unfair expectations rest on the other side of the table, too. I can project from my pulpit as quickly as someone can from a pew. If I haven’t seen someone in a few Sundays, or the same person keeps forgetting to attend a committee meeting, I have feelings ranging from concern to aggravation.
“There’s an elephant in the room when a group of ‘friends’ in your church determine and vote on your salary.”
I don’t want people to think our relationship centers on their attendance, but damn, their presence matters to me more than they know. Plus, there’s an elephant in the room when a group of “friends” in your church determine and vote on your salary. I can’t help but feel a certain way about this fact. Having friends not impacting my family’s budget is a blessing I want more of.
Honestly, the people I have the most in common with don’t go to church. I had to reread this sentence when I first typed it, and the truth of it hit me like a charging rhino. You see, I’ve never been a church person. I didn’t grow up in church. I don’t have youth camp or group stories.
Outside my sporadic attendance to a random VBS here and there or a Christmas Eve service falling during election years, I never went. It’s not hard to see why the people I bond with haven’t either. Personal history and conditioning have left me associating that friendship exists elsewhere — dive bars, restaurant counters, bowling alley arcades, to name but a few locations.
I tend to believe people seek out their people. If potential friends, the people I like, are anything like me, the church will be one of the last places they show up.
What I’ve shared is born out of my experience in congregational ministry over the last 10 years. I name this because there are other stories — stories from other pastors whose time served in their respective communities run as the antithesis to mine. Pastors who develop deep friendships with those they shepherd aren’t uncommon. I’ve met and sat across from them, slightly envious of their recounting. This isn’t to say I haven’t developed deep relationships with parishioners during my calls because I have. I’m constantly growing strands of connection with those filling the pews.
Yet, when those strands run so close together, they can just as quickly become spider webs, and it’s never fun trying to walk through one of those. I want to avoid them altogether if I can help it.
In the coming weeks and months, there’s a strong possibility our family and Morgan’s will become closer. We’ll do play dates, we might have a parents’ night out together, we may, at some point, even feel safe enough to call each other in moments of joy and crisis. Hey, it can happen.
I just don’t plan for it to happen at church.