A Good Death

What is a good death? We talk about a good life? We see the optimistic logo of “Life is Good” on a wide variety of apparel and other items. We smile when we see the stick figure man or his stick figure relatives or friends doing or being that which gives them pleasure. But is a “good death” anything similar? As a ministry developer in formation and service, I have been asking myself this very question. My answer? A resounding “No.”

Yet, despite my “no,” I also have a sense of what a “good death” is. I also see one of my fundamental roles as a ministry developer to be a companion to others experiencing a death as we seek to make it a “good death.” Parishes, ministries, and ministers must engage with death—dance with death--when we acknowledge that we no longer should continue that which no longer brings energy for the people involved. In many ways, we “dance” with death when we engage in making changes of any sort—good or bad—for they involve a grief for what was and what may no longer be.

Perhaps one of the most challenging, yet compelling and beautiful, activities in which we ministry developers engage is that of pastoring others through a change that leads to a good death. We are called to demonstrate that we care, that we will be there as a companion each step along the way, and that we join them in grieving that loss. But the other important part of the journey along the path to and through a “good death” is to assist others in seeing the new birth that comes out of a good death. A good death always leads to a new birth of sorts, for we must till the seeds of death back into the soil and nurture them for them to spring forward into that new birth.

We also must be patient. We must nurture, watch, and sometimes just wait for the new birth to sprout. We then must repeat the process once again.

Yes. That is one of the fundamental tasks of being a ministry developer—being the loyal, patient, caring companion to help open eyes and hearts to what is before and grieve with others the good death from which the new birth may emerge.

Theresa+

The Many “Hats” of Ministry Development

It has been nearly a year since I last posted to my blog. Not out of a lack of interest: I do enjoy writing. But I would guess it is more a matter of my difficulty in determining which hat or hats I am now wearing and whether I can hold on to them long enough to post something before the winds of change blow them away. 

Over the past year in the picturesque mountains of rural Western Maryland, I have experienced the highs and lows of mountaintops and valleys. I have held hands with a dozen or so active parishioners as they decided that they no longer could continue to hold services as a viable independent parish. Exhausted of energy, time and a range of needed talents, the people needed to look elsewhere to develop new church community relationships. We grieved together, but we knew that we needed to say “goodbye” to that which no longer was viable to participate in something new and growing. It was a courageous faith-filled decision, and I was blessed to be one of their companions.

I mourned that change as their parish priest, but I rejoiced in their strength of faith and resilience as they moved on to other parish communities. They have since discovered new interests and activities in their new church homes. Some have explored other new interests now that they no longer have had to be the sole (and soul) sustaining force in their previous community.

And now I rejoice again as I wear my ministry developer and diocesan staff “hat” as I see other church communities look at those same tired buildings and envision new possibilities for those facilities. Imagination—God-centered imagination--is at work as these church communities tour the buildings and suggest new life to be born inside. Like a young butterfly emerging from a cocoon, the possibilities are yet to unfurl.

Yet, I also explore several of the other “hats” that I wear as well. I continue to visit the sick, the dying, the grieving. I listen to their stories. I sit quietly beside them. I coax them to see the possibilities. I invite them to acknowledge God’s presence with them in the times of struggle and of rejoicing. And sometimes—yes, sometimes—I hear them speak of new ways in which to direct their energy as they emerge from loss, sickness or grief. Those are very special moments. I witness new life, and I am invited to the most precious of invitations: to companion them in their grief, fears and sadness.

Ministry development requires many hats and many hat changes. I wonder which hat I will wear next?! I guess I will know better tomorrow.

 

Theresa+

 

Bread of Life in the Midst of Vulnerability and Self-Doubts

We now are in the midst of a series of lectionary readings that dwell on the “bread of life” imagery found in the Gospel of John. Overlapping scripture passages are found in the selected readings, yet we also move forward from physical hunger in the story of the feeding of the 5,000 to spiritual feeding as in the “bread of life” imagery.

All this in the midst of being a ministry developer working with multiple churches and thus dealing with multiple deaths, losses, and changes as the needs cross church and community boundaries. As I call one parishioner to offer a visit and the sharing of the Holy meal, I learn of still another tragedy impacting an additional parishioner. I turn on the television for my weekly one-hour fix with a soon-to-end television series, only to experience another death. The fact that the television program is not reality makes no difference; I still feel the heart pangs of loss.

I live and work and serve within the midst of heartbreak and challenges. I am to be the strong calming influence for those around me. I listen to another tearful story. I pray for wholeness of body and spirit. I seek the strength to listen, be, and support yet another person in need—a person who for that moment needs undivided focus on his or her needs, not the needs of others across the other church communities that I serve.

I encourage parishioners to take care of self; yet, I admit that I struggle to practice what I preach. How do I explain to one church community my need for self care when the community sees only a thin slice of who I am and what I do. They see me only when I am serving them. Are they jealous when I am seen serving others or, even carving out time for myself? What runs through their minds when I have a conflict between my multiple charges and have to “choose” one over the other, even if I made the other commitment first?

All of these are challenges to be sure. I raise them here as part of the sharing of my “diary,” with great risk I know. I am just as vulnerable as each of the persons and communities that I serve. I cry inside when they are crying. I lose sleep wondering how to be a better shepherd on our joint pilgrimage journey; I wonder if I am doing it okay. I am sure that the answers to that last question are as varied as there are people answering.

So I guess it all comes down to this: What does Jesus want? And where that answer is unclear, am I listening for the guidance that I need to hear? I pray that “yes, I am.” I cannot be all things to all people, but I certainly can look to God and let God provide the tools to do that which is life giving and offer the companioning as we seek the “bread of life” that Jesus promises. I must let go; I must let God. Perhaps revealing my vulnerability is not such a bad thing after all.

Theresa

Story-telling, Story-making, Story-listening

In my previous post, I reflected on the importance of our biblical heritage, as well as the importance of delving into history to better understand that past. As I reflected on this a bit more, I realized that exploring our biblical history also offers lessons about the importance of story-telling, story-making and story-listening.

Having been raised in the valley of the Appalachian Mountains and now living in the heart of Appalachia, I know the importance of storytelling. It is a critical component of our lives and of our connections with each other. I find I look forward to my own family gatherings, where we share stories of our past, both collectively and individually.  

But I realize that storytelling and memory are not restricted to family gatherings or even non-church settings. I can still remember the Sunday school building of my childhood with its Victorian architecture. The building’s layout is still clear to me even though the building was demolished when I was not yet a teen. I still remember the many faces and places of my church experience.

But I now am transplanted to new place nearly 200 miles away. The stories of these churches are new to me. I realize the importance of the individual and collective stories of each of these churches and of their people. The stories are critical to my getting to know the people and the churches. The facts and fables that populate the people’s impressions of their churches and of each other make nearly indelible imprints on the maps that they use for being church and doing ministry.

The memories and stories impact the manner in which they engage with the people and places of the other churches in the region. The fables of long-ago-deceased parishioners continue to impact how today’s parishioners engage with each other, and particularly with me. I needed to learn these stories. The stories explain who the people are, who they see themselves to be, and who they may perceive me to be.

I took this realization very seriously. I have asked many questions. I have asked people to share their stories with me, both orally and in writing. More importantly, I have listened. I have learned how different today is for them from the past—both good and bad. People are wistful about the good memories. They want to hold on to those memories. But I also learn of those memories that are less favorable. Those stories also provide bridges for me in learning how to assist them in developing new futures as well as creating new memories.

By and large, people see the good and the bad. On reflection, they find that they are open to changes, even if small or incremental. As we engage with the story-telling, I am finding that I hear a lot less today than I did a year ago, the standard response to many of my earlier suggestions for change: “We NEVER did it that way.”  And that is a good thing, wouldn’t you agree?

Theresa