The Three Faces of Ministry
a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the Second Congregational Meeting House on Nantucket Island
Sunday February 3rd, 2002
***
I heard kind of a funny story this past week, and even though it has practically nothing to do with my topic this morning, I just thought I’d share it with you anyway. These two guys are out hunting in the woods, when one of them suddenly clutches his chest and falls to the ground. He lets out a little gasp, then his eyes roll back in his head and he stops moving altogether.
His friend, in a panic over what he has just witnessed, whips out his cell phone and dials 911. “My friend just dropped dead in the middle of the forest!” he excitedly tells the operator. “What should I do? What should I do?”
“Just take it easy,” says the operator in a calm, soothing voice. “I can help. First, go check to make sure that your friend really is dead.”
The phone goes quiet for a moment, then the operator hears the sound of a gunshot, and the guy’s voice comes back on the line. “OK, now what?”
In any event, I’ve been chuckling over that story all week now, and thinking about the trouble we sometimes get ourselves into when we assume too much, or take things at face value. And I’ve also been thinking a lot about the last time I spent a winter in New England, which was over twenty years ago now. I basically lived like a hermit during my final year at Harvard. Actually, I think the word "refugee" would be a more accurate description. I'd already completed all my required coursework, I’d seen the Fellowship Committee, and only had a few electives and my Comprehensive Exams standing between me and graduation. I was chronically short of money, beginning to feel a little homesick for my friends and family in the Pacific Northwest -- and I spent almost all of my time either in my rooms in Winthrop Hall (over at the Episcopal Divinity School), or in a coffee shop called "The Mug and Muffin" in Harvard Square (which has now long since become a victim of retail gentrification): reading, writing in my diary, keeping whatever hours suited me as I counted down the days to commencement and ordination.
I dressed like a refugee too. I’d kind of forgotten how cold it gets out here during the winter, but back then, after three successive winters in New England, I had finally started to figure it out. I had two sets of long underwear which I alternated every few days or so, a red wool shirt from the Pendleton Mills in Oregon, a pair of ragged Levi jeans I'd owned since High School, some waterproof hiking boots, a knit cap, and a huge US Army surplus olive drab field jacket with a button-in arctic lining. There were several advantages to dressing like this: it was warm, it was easy, and, with two or three days growth of beard, it was also a foolproof defense against being mugged as I walked home from my coffee shop late at night through the back streets of Cambridge. In fact, I got to be pretty good friends with some of the "street people" in Harvard Square, many of whom were dressed just like me.
After a while though, I began to resent some of the sidelong stares I received from "respectable" people as I sat in the Mug and Muffin trying to translate Plato's Apology, or rode on the subway into the city to shop at Barnes and Noble. So one day I decided to try a little experiment. I got up early, shaved real close, and put on a pair of pressed flannel trousers, a herringbone tweed jacket, and the clerical collar that I had worn two summers earlier while working as a hospital chaplain in Seattle. Then I walked down to the Harvard Square kiosk and caught the subway into the city. You would have been amazed and astonished at how people's reactions to me changed. On the always-crowded Green line, a little old lady even tried to give up her seat to me! Of course, I knew that I was still the same person as before -- or rather, that I had been the person that they saw now all the time. But because the people on the subway suddenly recognized me as a member of the clergy, their entire attitude toward me had been transformed. No longer did they look upon me with scorn, afraid that I might ask them for some spare change. Instead, they seemed to be more concerned about what I might be thinking of them, and endeavoring to be on their best behavior in my presence.
I love my job, but I've often felt a little awkward and uncomfortable about the response I sometimes receive when people learn that I'm a minister: worried they might offend me, apologizing for their language, reluctant to say anything that might show up as a sermon illustration, or indicate that they may have actually enjoyed doing something at some point in their lives that a clergyman might consider sinful. I've had folks ask me if I was offended by their dancing, or if it was all right to offer me a glass of wine; while, for my own part, I sometimes feel a little inhibited about doing anything myself which might conflict with their preconceived notions of the clergy, whatever those notions may be. We live with a multitude of images of the ministry in this society, stereotypes, actually , that a minister can never really escape: the pious and celibate Catholic Priest, the hellfire and brimstone Baptist Preacher, the good-hearted but ineffectual institutional Chaplain, the opportunistic and hypocritical TV evangelist. These stereotypes, and others like them, may have some basis in reality, but more often than not they manage to take on a reality all their own, rooted in the world of imagination rather than the world of fact. And those of us who practice ministry as a profession must inevitably learn to live with these stereotypes, as we struggle in our own lives to define for ourselves the real meaning of ministry.
In any event, I would like this morning to lift up for your observation and consideration three additional images of the ministry, images which have been particularly meaningful for me in my own attempt to understand what it really means to be a minister, and which may prove useful to you as well as you search for a new settled pastor.
And the first of these images is the image of the Rabbi. I'm not speaking here of a Woody Allen caricature, a man with a long beard and a funny hat who fantasizes about eating ham sandwiches. Nor am I talking about the typical American Rabbi of today, who in many ways is indistinguishable from your run of the mill mainline Protestant clergyman. Rather, I am thinking of the Rabbi in terms of the original meaning of that word: the teacher, a sincerely dedicated scholar who is knowledgeable about a religious tradition, yet who lives and works, not in an academic environment, but in a community of others who share that tradition, and who look to the Rabbi to help them deepen their own knowledge and appreciation of it.
The word Rabbi is not the title of an official office; it is a title of honor and respect. Traditionally, the responsibilities of the Rabbi were little different than those of any other adult Jewish male, and whatever authority the Rabbis had came to them by virtue of their learning, their wisdom, and their ability to interpret the Talmud insightfully to others. With this authority came certain responsibilities. The study of Talmud was the first priority. One read in it daily, discussed and argued its meaning with others, all in the effort to live one's life with a greater understanding of and conformity to the Law of Moses, God's revealed covenant with humankind. Because it is through study that we discover the Creator of the Universe, and through this knowledge grow closer to the Divine.
A second image of ministry which has been meaningful to me is that of the Parson. I am always reminded of 19th century sentimental Victorian novels-of-manners whenever I hear the word "parson" -- I have this image of a simple country rector, tending vegetables and visiting the people of the parish, officiating at baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals, comforting the bereaved, distributing charity to the poor, reading everything that needs to be said out of the Book of Common Prayer, and recording it all in the Parish Register. The term "parson" comes from the Latin persona ecclesiae -- literally, "a person of the church." The Parson is a flesh and blood representative of the idea of the church. Not religion, mind you. But the church. The Parson is someone who speaks aloud the deeply-felt sentiments of the silent many, who by presence alone represents the care and concern of all ones neighbors.
In my mind's eye, the Parson is always a tall, skinny, awkward man; his clerical garb is a little shabby and worn from long use and little mending; he walks along narrow country roads to visit the homes of his parishioners, miles and miles every afternoon, carrying a stick which he throws for his frisky little Terrier to fetch. He's rarely home in time for supper, and no matter how much shepherd’s pie his parishioners thrust upon him, he never seems to put on weight. He's a kind person though, a gentle person, easy-going and not overly concerned with fine points of theological doctrine, but pious nonetheless, in his own way, devoted to the well-being of those souls placed in his care and trust. Such is the Parson -- the person of the church -- nameless, faceless, yet embodying us all as he walks those narrow roads from house to house accompanying his people through the seasons of their lives.
The final image of ministry I would share with you this morning is that of the Bishop -- but again, not the kind of bishops you've seen in movies, or on TV. Rather, I would invite you to look back to the early days of Christianity, when the church was still a small and struggling Jewish sect, not quite yet certain of what it was destined to become. The organization of the early church was far less complicated than it is today. In every congregation you had your deacons -- "servers" -- who were responsible for passing out the bread and wine whenever the congregation reenacted the Last Supper; and you had your "elders" -- presbyters -- who were basically responsible for governing the church, settling disputes, and seeing that everything ran with reasonable smoothness.
Evidently, some of these elders were in time officially designated as "overseers" -- Bishops -- who, with the aid of the council of elders, were charged with the administration of the institutional church. The exact evolution of the episcopate in the first few centuries of Christian history is still a matter of some scholarly obscurity: we simply don't know all the details. But one insight emerges fairly clearly, and this is that the early Christians took the institutional church seriously. It wasn't just a handful of folks getting together on a Sunday night to eat a little bread and drink a little wine. There was a real concern for the organizational integrity and continuity of the group, and the responsibility for this fell primarily on the Bishops. By the middle of the 2nd century, apostolic succession had become the rule within the church: local bishops were approved by their neighboring bishops, who had in turn been approved in an unbroken chain threading back to the original twelve apostles sent out by Jesus. This emphasis on continuity, on accountability, on stability within the community of churches reveals the esteem in which the institution of the church itself was held. Having been ordained by the laying on of hands, into the hands of the Bishop was placed the care of this fragile trust.
Like many in my line of work, I applaud the increasing tendency toward professionalism in the ministry which has taken place in modern times; I think, on some level at least, people find it reassuring to know that their local pastor has just as good and extensive an education as their physician, or their attorney. But one drawback of professionalization is its tendency to sharpen the distinction between ordained ministers and ordinary members of the laity, obscuring the more fundamental, interpersonal relationships which make the ministry what it is. “Professional” ministry has made it easy to forget that anyone who makes a “profession of faith” is called to be of service to that faith, in some manner or another; that, like Rabbis, we are all charged to be both scholars and teachers of our religious tradition; that, like Parsons, we are all expected to express within our own lives the values and sentiments of our church community; and that, like the early Bishops, we have all been entrusted with the care of a fragile institution, an institution which has existed since long before we were born, and, through our faithful stewardship, will endure long after we have died. The minister is here to be your teacher and your guide, a good example and a faithful friend. But the ministry of this church is in your hands -- a sacred legacy which you have inherited from your spiritual ancestors, and which you hold in trust for the generation who will follow you.
***
READING: “What does a Pastor Do?” -- Anonymous
The pastor teaches, though he must solicit his own classes. He is sometimes a lawyer [an advocate, an arbiter, a judge], often a social worker, something of an editor, a bit of a philosopher and an entertainer, a salesman, a decorative piece for public functions, and he is supposed to be a scholar. He heals, though not with pills or knives. He visits the sick, marries loving couples, buries the dead, labors to console those who sorrow and to admonish those who sin, and tries to stay sweet when chided for not better doing his duty. He plans programs, appoints committees (when he can get them); spends considerable time in keeping people out of one another’s hair; and between times he prepares a sermon, and preaches it on Sunday to those who don’t happen to have any other engagement. Then on Monday he smiles when some jovial chap roars -- “What a job -- only one day a week!”
at the Second Congregational Meeting House on Nantucket Island
Sunday February 3rd, 2002
***
I heard kind of a funny story this past week, and even though it has practically nothing to do with my topic this morning, I just thought I’d share it with you anyway. These two guys are out hunting in the woods, when one of them suddenly clutches his chest and falls to the ground. He lets out a little gasp, then his eyes roll back in his head and he stops moving altogether.
His friend, in a panic over what he has just witnessed, whips out his cell phone and dials 911. “My friend just dropped dead in the middle of the forest!” he excitedly tells the operator. “What should I do? What should I do?”
“Just take it easy,” says the operator in a calm, soothing voice. “I can help. First, go check to make sure that your friend really is dead.”
The phone goes quiet for a moment, then the operator hears the sound of a gunshot, and the guy’s voice comes back on the line. “OK, now what?”
In any event, I’ve been chuckling over that story all week now, and thinking about the trouble we sometimes get ourselves into when we assume too much, or take things at face value. And I’ve also been thinking a lot about the last time I spent a winter in New England, which was over twenty years ago now. I basically lived like a hermit during my final year at Harvard. Actually, I think the word "refugee" would be a more accurate description. I'd already completed all my required coursework, I’d seen the Fellowship Committee, and only had a few electives and my Comprehensive Exams standing between me and graduation. I was chronically short of money, beginning to feel a little homesick for my friends and family in the Pacific Northwest -- and I spent almost all of my time either in my rooms in Winthrop Hall (over at the Episcopal Divinity School), or in a coffee shop called "The Mug and Muffin" in Harvard Square (which has now long since become a victim of retail gentrification): reading, writing in my diary, keeping whatever hours suited me as I counted down the days to commencement and ordination.
I dressed like a refugee too. I’d kind of forgotten how cold it gets out here during the winter, but back then, after three successive winters in New England, I had finally started to figure it out. I had two sets of long underwear which I alternated every few days or so, a red wool shirt from the Pendleton Mills in Oregon, a pair of ragged Levi jeans I'd owned since High School, some waterproof hiking boots, a knit cap, and a huge US Army surplus olive drab field jacket with a button-in arctic lining. There were several advantages to dressing like this: it was warm, it was easy, and, with two or three days growth of beard, it was also a foolproof defense against being mugged as I walked home from my coffee shop late at night through the back streets of Cambridge. In fact, I got to be pretty good friends with some of the "street people" in Harvard Square, many of whom were dressed just like me.
After a while though, I began to resent some of the sidelong stares I received from "respectable" people as I sat in the Mug and Muffin trying to translate Plato's Apology, or rode on the subway into the city to shop at Barnes and Noble. So one day I decided to try a little experiment. I got up early, shaved real close, and put on a pair of pressed flannel trousers, a herringbone tweed jacket, and the clerical collar that I had worn two summers earlier while working as a hospital chaplain in Seattle. Then I walked down to the Harvard Square kiosk and caught the subway into the city. You would have been amazed and astonished at how people's reactions to me changed. On the always-crowded Green line, a little old lady even tried to give up her seat to me! Of course, I knew that I was still the same person as before -- or rather, that I had been the person that they saw now all the time. But because the people on the subway suddenly recognized me as a member of the clergy, their entire attitude toward me had been transformed. No longer did they look upon me with scorn, afraid that I might ask them for some spare change. Instead, they seemed to be more concerned about what I might be thinking of them, and endeavoring to be on their best behavior in my presence.
I love my job, but I've often felt a little awkward and uncomfortable about the response I sometimes receive when people learn that I'm a minister: worried they might offend me, apologizing for their language, reluctant to say anything that might show up as a sermon illustration, or indicate that they may have actually enjoyed doing something at some point in their lives that a clergyman might consider sinful. I've had folks ask me if I was offended by their dancing, or if it was all right to offer me a glass of wine; while, for my own part, I sometimes feel a little inhibited about doing anything myself which might conflict with their preconceived notions of the clergy, whatever those notions may be. We live with a multitude of images of the ministry in this society, stereotypes, actually , that a minister can never really escape: the pious and celibate Catholic Priest, the hellfire and brimstone Baptist Preacher, the good-hearted but ineffectual institutional Chaplain, the opportunistic and hypocritical TV evangelist. These stereotypes, and others like them, may have some basis in reality, but more often than not they manage to take on a reality all their own, rooted in the world of imagination rather than the world of fact. And those of us who practice ministry as a profession must inevitably learn to live with these stereotypes, as we struggle in our own lives to define for ourselves the real meaning of ministry.
In any event, I would like this morning to lift up for your observation and consideration three additional images of the ministry, images which have been particularly meaningful for me in my own attempt to understand what it really means to be a minister, and which may prove useful to you as well as you search for a new settled pastor.
And the first of these images is the image of the Rabbi. I'm not speaking here of a Woody Allen caricature, a man with a long beard and a funny hat who fantasizes about eating ham sandwiches. Nor am I talking about the typical American Rabbi of today, who in many ways is indistinguishable from your run of the mill mainline Protestant clergyman. Rather, I am thinking of the Rabbi in terms of the original meaning of that word: the teacher, a sincerely dedicated scholar who is knowledgeable about a religious tradition, yet who lives and works, not in an academic environment, but in a community of others who share that tradition, and who look to the Rabbi to help them deepen their own knowledge and appreciation of it.
The word Rabbi is not the title of an official office; it is a title of honor and respect. Traditionally, the responsibilities of the Rabbi were little different than those of any other adult Jewish male, and whatever authority the Rabbis had came to them by virtue of their learning, their wisdom, and their ability to interpret the Talmud insightfully to others. With this authority came certain responsibilities. The study of Talmud was the first priority. One read in it daily, discussed and argued its meaning with others, all in the effort to live one's life with a greater understanding of and conformity to the Law of Moses, God's revealed covenant with humankind. Because it is through study that we discover the Creator of the Universe, and through this knowledge grow closer to the Divine.
A second image of ministry which has been meaningful to me is that of the Parson. I am always reminded of 19th century sentimental Victorian novels-of-manners whenever I hear the word "parson" -- I have this image of a simple country rector, tending vegetables and visiting the people of the parish, officiating at baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals, comforting the bereaved, distributing charity to the poor, reading everything that needs to be said out of the Book of Common Prayer, and recording it all in the Parish Register. The term "parson" comes from the Latin persona ecclesiae -- literally, "a person of the church." The Parson is a flesh and blood representative of the idea of the church. Not religion, mind you. But the church. The Parson is someone who speaks aloud the deeply-felt sentiments of the silent many, who by presence alone represents the care and concern of all ones neighbors.
In my mind's eye, the Parson is always a tall, skinny, awkward man; his clerical garb is a little shabby and worn from long use and little mending; he walks along narrow country roads to visit the homes of his parishioners, miles and miles every afternoon, carrying a stick which he throws for his frisky little Terrier to fetch. He's rarely home in time for supper, and no matter how much shepherd’s pie his parishioners thrust upon him, he never seems to put on weight. He's a kind person though, a gentle person, easy-going and not overly concerned with fine points of theological doctrine, but pious nonetheless, in his own way, devoted to the well-being of those souls placed in his care and trust. Such is the Parson -- the person of the church -- nameless, faceless, yet embodying us all as he walks those narrow roads from house to house accompanying his people through the seasons of their lives.
The final image of ministry I would share with you this morning is that of the Bishop -- but again, not the kind of bishops you've seen in movies, or on TV. Rather, I would invite you to look back to the early days of Christianity, when the church was still a small and struggling Jewish sect, not quite yet certain of what it was destined to become. The organization of the early church was far less complicated than it is today. In every congregation you had your deacons -- "servers" -- who were responsible for passing out the bread and wine whenever the congregation reenacted the Last Supper; and you had your "elders" -- presbyters -- who were basically responsible for governing the church, settling disputes, and seeing that everything ran with reasonable smoothness.
Evidently, some of these elders were in time officially designated as "overseers" -- Bishops -- who, with the aid of the council of elders, were charged with the administration of the institutional church. The exact evolution of the episcopate in the first few centuries of Christian history is still a matter of some scholarly obscurity: we simply don't know all the details. But one insight emerges fairly clearly, and this is that the early Christians took the institutional church seriously. It wasn't just a handful of folks getting together on a Sunday night to eat a little bread and drink a little wine. There was a real concern for the organizational integrity and continuity of the group, and the responsibility for this fell primarily on the Bishops. By the middle of the 2nd century, apostolic succession had become the rule within the church: local bishops were approved by their neighboring bishops, who had in turn been approved in an unbroken chain threading back to the original twelve apostles sent out by Jesus. This emphasis on continuity, on accountability, on stability within the community of churches reveals the esteem in which the institution of the church itself was held. Having been ordained by the laying on of hands, into the hands of the Bishop was placed the care of this fragile trust.
Like many in my line of work, I applaud the increasing tendency toward professionalism in the ministry which has taken place in modern times; I think, on some level at least, people find it reassuring to know that their local pastor has just as good and extensive an education as their physician, or their attorney. But one drawback of professionalization is its tendency to sharpen the distinction between ordained ministers and ordinary members of the laity, obscuring the more fundamental, interpersonal relationships which make the ministry what it is. “Professional” ministry has made it easy to forget that anyone who makes a “profession of faith” is called to be of service to that faith, in some manner or another; that, like Rabbis, we are all charged to be both scholars and teachers of our religious tradition; that, like Parsons, we are all expected to express within our own lives the values and sentiments of our church community; and that, like the early Bishops, we have all been entrusted with the care of a fragile institution, an institution which has existed since long before we were born, and, through our faithful stewardship, will endure long after we have died. The minister is here to be your teacher and your guide, a good example and a faithful friend. But the ministry of this church is in your hands -- a sacred legacy which you have inherited from your spiritual ancestors, and which you hold in trust for the generation who will follow you.
***
READING: “What does a Pastor Do?” -- Anonymous
The pastor teaches, though he must solicit his own classes. He is sometimes a lawyer [an advocate, an arbiter, a judge], often a social worker, something of an editor, a bit of a philosopher and an entertainer, a salesman, a decorative piece for public functions, and he is supposed to be a scholar. He heals, though not with pills or knives. He visits the sick, marries loving couples, buries the dead, labors to console those who sorrow and to admonish those who sin, and tries to stay sweet when chided for not better doing his duty. He plans programs, appoints committees (when he can get them); spends considerable time in keeping people out of one another’s hair; and between times he prepares a sermon, and preaches it on Sunday to those who don’t happen to have any other engagement. Then on Monday he smiles when some jovial chap roars -- “What a job -- only one day a week!”
posted by The Eclectic Cleric at 2:26 PM
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