The Service Where I Couldn't Stop Laughing

For the first time as a worship leader, I cracked up at the pulpit. I couldn't help myself!

At the 11:00 service, the church tradition is for elementary school kids to acolyte. Yesterday, there were two boys, around ages 8 or 9. The lady in charge of them got them ready and made sure the wicks were plenty long so the flames would stay lit as they processed up the aisle during the opening hymn. However, as the two boys processed, they each gradually made their wicks shorter and shorter. By the time they reached the front row of pews, one of their flames had gone out. By the time they reached the altar, both had been extinguished. The two boys looked at each other, at each other's lack of flame, and tried anyway to light the candles!!!

I love watching the symbolic light of Christ enter the sanctuary and the candles being lit. I also love kids. So each Sunday as I sing the opening hymn from the pulpit, I watch the acolytes and their flames. I started laughing at the point where both flames were extinguished. I put my hand over my mouth to try to restrain myself when they both tried to light the candles without any fire. That's when the rest of the congregation noticed, those who didn't have a clear line of sight to what was happening, because they saw me trying to stifle a laugh, and then everyone laughed!

I had trouble keeping a straight face for the rest of the hymn ("To God Be the Glory"). At the end, I said, "Praise the Lord that Christ is the light of the world who never goes out!" and everyone laughed again. Then we moved on.

Until the end of the end of the service. During the recessional hymn, the lady in charge of acolytes caught my eye and we both cracked up again.

However, after the service I made sure to tell both boys that they did a great job acolyting!

When I Became a Pastor...

When I became a pastor, I started wearing my pearls on a regular basis and not just for extra special occasions like graduations and weddings.

When I became a pastor, I got a new name, pastora, Pastor Heather, kinda like when I became a teacher and overnight became Ms. Willet.

When I became a pastor, I had to start figuring out how to be transparent (which comes almost naturally to me) without talking about myself too much. People want you to listen and relate, but not share too much how you relate. They don't care how you relate. And I held back at the UMW (United Methodist Women) session of griping about husbands. They asked me to contribute, but I really didn't feel it was appropriate for me to do so.

When I became a pastor, I forgot half my knowledge of the Bible. I knew a lot before seminary, then more during seminary, and now when someone asks me where something is, half the time I preface my answer with "I think" or else say, "lemme go look it up." Of course, I also blame online concordances for this - I don't have to remember as much as I used to, because it is easier to look things up now, except when people put me on the spot.

When I became a pastor, Sunday mornings became all-important. I am, and have to be, ON on Sunday mornings. Ready, on the ball, awake and alert, high energy (at least mentally and spiritually, if not physically). I can't miss Sunday mornings. Unless I'm seriously sick, like last Sunday. And I still didn't feel justified in missing last Sunday until the doctor on Monday told me it was good I did. I can't stay out late Saturday night. I have a bedtime on Saturday night, and it is hard to keep.

When I became a pastor, I became expected to know where everything is in the church. This even happened just yesterday - a lifelong member and active volunteer asked me, who has been here just 7 weeks, where something was.

When I became a pastor, I also became a preacher. In fact, I'm referred to as preacher as often as I'm called pastor, at least in English. This hasn't happened yet at my new church, the senior pastor is referred to as the preacher; my first Sunday preaching here won't be til Sept 25. Regardless, I don't like reducing the role of pastor to preacher. It is so much more than preaching.

When I became a pastor, I started a "job" that is just as fulfilling and important as teaching. For the most part, I like working with people. I like building relationships (which is what teaching is, too - how do you think you get students to learn?!). I like making a difference in people's lives. However, that's not the end goal, that's not why I do it. I'm not a pastor to feel good about myself. I'm not a pastor to change lives; that's God's job. I'm a pastor because God called me to become a pastor and my job is to point to God.

Learning through Death

Last week was bookended by death. On Monday, I assisted in the funeral for the son of a church member. On Friday, I was present for my Grandma's burial.

The son of the church member died unexpectedly, at age 52. I had never met him. But I learned about him at his funeral. For one, the church was full. Lots of people came to say good-bye to him. The more interesting aspect I found was the presence of his co-workers. There were two rows full of family members on one side of the aisle; there were two and a half rows full of his co-workers on the other side. They came in together, sat together, and stood together. Eight of them served as pallbearers. There was a row of bright yellow trucks in the parking lot where they had parked together. This man had worked at this same job for 30 years. And his co-workers came to pay their respects. The only thing they didn't do together was pay attention during the service. It was fairly obvious to me which ones were accustomed to being in church and could have prayed the 23rd Psalm along with me and which ones were only in a church for this man's sake. But they all came.

On the other hand, my Grandma lived a long, full life. Her death was not a surprise. It was back in February and we held her memorial service shortly thereafter. However, the ground in NY was too frozen last winter to bury her then, which is why she wasn't buried until last week. I thought I knew my Grandma pretty well, but I learned even more about her in her death. She had planned her memorial service before she passed: chose which Scriptures she wanted read and which hymns she wanted us to sing as well as choosing to celebrate the Eucharist. Grandma was a life-long Episcopalian; the service was at the church she'd attended and been active in for the previous 30 years or so. The recessional hymn, "Faith of our Fathers," written by Frederick Faber in 1849, has stayed with me these past six months. That Grandma would chose this hymn to be sung by her family and friends at her memorial service speaks volumes to me.

Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword;
O how our hearts beat high with joy
Whenever we hear that glorious Word!

Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.

Faith of our fathers, we will strive
To win all nations unto Thee;
And through the truth that comes from God,
We all shall then be truly free.

Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.

Faith of our fathers, we will love
Both friend and foe in all our strife;
And preach Thee, too, as love knows how
By kindly words and virtuous life.

Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.