Holy Week Pastoral Memories

 

Massey's Chapel during Lent

For the first time in many years, I conducted both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday worship services. The last time I remember doing both, I was pastor of the Rougemont Charge, and each service took place at a different church on the charge. New Bethel’s Maundy Thursday service always began in the fellowship hall with a dinner of baked chicken, green beans, and a roll.  

After Union Grove became a single station charge, they wanted to do a Seder meal for Maundy Thursday – after all, the pastor’s husband is Jewish! I did this with a great deal of trepidation, especially if there were any field education students around. I understand (better than most probably) the reasons for not doing a “Christian Seder,” but the service always turned out really well and seemed a great learning experience for tying Passover to the Last Supper. I’ve attended many Passover Seders (even read one of the Hebrew blessings at one of them), and I tried to do the Maundy Thursday dinners at Union Grove respectfully.

The first year I was at Massey's Chapel, I asked Rev. Jim Rawlings (who affiliates with Massey's) to preach. Right after he started his sermon, one of the congregation passed out, fell over, and turned an alarming shade of gray. We called an ambulance, I said a prayer, and Jim gave the most comforting and theologically right-on talk while we waited for the ambulance (which took 20 minutes!). The member was fine; just dehydrated. 

This year for Maundy Thursday, I read each of the accounts of the Last Supper told in Matthew, Mark, and Luke; Jesus’ “I am the bread of life” scripture from John 6; and Paul’s words about the Lord’s supper from 1 Corinthians. I talked a bit about each (spending rather more time with Paul), and then we celebrated Communion. Cheryl Brown led us in singing several hymns without accompaniment. It was a nice service.  

Good Friday

Aldersgate wanted a “stations of the cross” walk around the building and grounds for Good Friday, which I set up whole-heartedly the first year I was there, somewhat reluctantly the second year, and never again after that. Only two or three people showed up either year. When the church moved out of the building, I think I remember giving the stations-of-the-cross plaques to some UM church who really wanted them.   

The year we moved back inside Massey's Chapel after Covid, against my better judgment I allowed a member to present a Good Friday play. I knew his performances tend to offend ordained United Methodists with their Baptist atonement slant, but he had been asking me for several years to let him do a play. So I read the play and took the evening off. There were many visitors that evening from his active 55+ community, and because I wasn't there to enforce the "no closed doors" rule, someone closed the doors, and the service turned into a Covid super-spreader just in time for Easter. 

All of the Good Friday worship services I have conducted have been services of Tenebrae. This year, I used readings from John’s Gospel. Mostly lay people read the scripture, and they did a nice job. Our new pianist, Suzanne, played the seven Lenten hymns (two verses of each) soulfully and well. It was a moving service.  

I do things a bit differently for the Tenebrae service than I remember my field education church and home church doing them. After the last scripture reading, I do not suddenly whack something like a cymbal (or a metal garbage can lid!) because it always startled the daylights out of me. That’s not the mood I’m going for. I do ask people to leave without speaking, but I do not strip the front of the church. At the end of the service, both those churches had a procession of people carrying items like the pulpit bible, cross, and candlesticks out the door and into the fellowship hall. Now I wonder: Who put them all back? 

One year, I covered everything in a black sheet, then worried one of the wicks might still have a spark left in it, would catch the sheet on fire, and burn down the church. So I turned my car around and drove back to the church and removed the black sheet to discover no burn holes; instead, a clumped mess of melted purple wax.    

This year, I used new beautiful purple votive candles ordered from Amazon that melted too fast, overran their glass cups, and made another seasonal mess. I wonder why I struggle so with candle wax?

After I carried the wax-covered candle racks to my office, I returned to the sanctuary and set up for Easter. I felt still grieved from the Good Friday service but also an emerging sense of joy, knowing Easter was coming. Thank you, God, for the honor of this calling.

Family Scrapbook

 

Eric and Michelle before father-daughter dance

March 2024

Gramps, Mimi, Michelle, Zach at the park

Christmas time with Katherine at Elderberry

Eric, Rachel and kids for Valentine's

The whole family

Eric, Keith, Katherine

Dressed for Mardi Gras 2024

Zach hunting Easter eggs

Worship Service Observations

 

Prerecorded videos had more control than livestreams

I’ve been watching on-line worship services this week for various reasons, paying attention to both the service and the preaching. I watched an old classmate preach at University UMC – ah, his preaching is superb. His delivery was engaging, his humor was delightful (even though I’m not sure the congregation comprehended all of his “funnies.”), and his theology was thoughtful. None of the other preachers I watched came close, and I’m sure I don’t either. I love good preaching.

However, with the notable exception of the guest preacher, the adults who spoke or sang or played an instrument during the service there had stone faces – or worse – most of the time. It’s not a good look.

At the end of the service, Massey’s former vocalist sang what appeared to be OPERA with the stone-faced string ensemble. In another language! I wanted to bang my head on the table.

I watched a livestream of our future district superintendent preaching. Interestingly, her sermon is the only thing that gets recorded at First Church in Graham, so I couldn’t watch the rest of the service. After watching University’s service, I could guess why the sermon is all they record.

Before I watched the future DS, I watched the pastor I mistakenly thought was the future DS preach. The camera at that church wandered around the mostly empty sanctuary, and during the sermon, the camera stayed focused both on the pastor and on the deadest-looking choir I have ever seen. This can’t be our future DS, I thought. Indeed.

I watched some other churches, too, just because I was in the mood for learning what  livestreams reveal. 

Mostly no one can be seen (although they can be heard) in the background of Massey's livestreams. Our sanctuary is so small that people must sit all the way to the front, so the livestream makes it appear the sanctuary is full (of older people, which it is). My observations this week reinforced my opinion that most sermons, including my own, should be no more than 15 minutes. After watching Massey’s livestreams for a while, I have determined that I need to smile a lot more when I sing, so I try to remember this.

In general, I think that livestreams are much more boring than actual worship services. The camera flattens and deflates the experience somehow. It concerns me because God forbid I should ever give the impression that worship of the living God is boring or less than joyful! 

A Second Journal for March 2024

 

Lenten roses are blooming now

This is what I have done as time continues to slip away, and Holy Week is roaring closer like a train.

I met yesterday with two church women who started a lunch group last year called “Getting to Know You Better.” It’s a group of eight rotating people who lunch together in the fellowship hall once or twice a month, in order to get to know one another better. Somehow these two women cajoled most people – members and visitors – to attend one of these lunches last year. I'll be introducing a slightly new format.

I wrote a Wednesday church newsletter article marking the fourth anniversary of the Covid shutdown.

We hired Suzanne as our new pianist. She was raised at Mt. Bethel UMC in Bahama with sweet old Ron Snider as her pastor, which makes me feel old.

Our annual Palm Sunday covered-dish lunch is organized with no help from me, yay.

I’m now prepared somewhat for Holy Week. This means I have all the readers I need for our Good Friday service of Tenebrae, and I have an idea of what I plan to say/do for Maundy Thursday. The new pianist will play on Good Friday, and she starts this coming Sunday.

In terms of preaching for Palm Sunday and Easter… well. Yesterday, one of the women with whom I met about the lunches put me on to Google’s AI for writing. My son has already tried to do this, but it’s gotten a whole lot easier. I typed in: “United Methodist Sermon for Palm Sunday using Mark 11:1-11,” and in 15 seconds up came this dandy little… meditation. It’s far too short to be a sermon, but that’s okay. It’s a good backbone for a sermon. Is this cheating? Maybe.

I did the same for Easter and got a somewhat less satisfactory meditation. We’ll see if AI helps or not.

Today I have signed up for a “forest ramble” in Duke Gardens, and tomorrow I’ll finally play tennis again. Sunday is Eric’s 33^rd birthday, and he has asked me to take him to the 3 p.m. showing of Dune 2 at the IMAX, followed by dinner. We are the only two sci-fi fans in our family.

Yesterday, I received the bishop’s missive on new leadership in the conference, and I will be very sorry to see our current district superintendent go. I sent a one-word email to a colleague: “SCREAM.” He replied, “No worries; retirement is on the horizon!”

A Journal for March 2024

 

Sunrise over Carolina Beach

Time is slipping away. We’re well into Lent now, and this week Massey’s Chapel will hire a new pianist. I do not know who it will be between the two finalists, and I find myself surprisingly not particularly concerned. They are both talented. I am not ready for either Palm Sunday or Easter in terms of preaching, nor am I ready at all for Holy Week.

I got through Ash Wednesday using ashes given to me years ago by a colleague.  I’ve been using ashes from the same filthy plastic bag for at least 15 years. Massey's always has a surprisingly large gathering for Ash Wednesday. 

There are some difficult end-of-life and possible end-of-life decisions having to be made by church members. The husband of a MIA-since-Covid member died last week. The member had made public that phone calls and visits were not welcome during husband’s decline. There will be no service. After his death, she let me know she was too busy even for a prayer over the phone. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but no one (including me) has seen her in years because she refused visits for fear of Covid, even after Covid had run its course. Some members used to view her as a “spiritual mother.”  I'm sure her absence is my fault somehow, but I’m tired of trying to figure out why people act the way they do.  

This is what I have done: Keith and I went to Carolina Beach last week at the invitation of a group of card players at Elderberry. All they play is pinochle, so we played endless games of pinochle while the wind blew so hard we could hardly go outside anyway. We laughed a lot. The house sat right on the beach, so I watched the sun rise each morning over the ocean; also the full moon.

We have unpacked almost completely in our new home in Pittsboro. The peeper frogs and coyotes both make a racket at night, which I don't mind. 

I decided to teach a 5- or 6-week class on the parables of Jesus, probably starting the middle of Lent and ending sometime after Easter. I’ve taught it previously, so I have the notes.

I have plane tickets to and from Little Rock for my niece’s April 14 wedding, and the other Pastor Cheryl will preach and lead worship in my absence.

We have reservations near Gatlinburg for a long weekend in July because that is where my son and daughter-in-law selected for a family vacation.

After much consideration, I have reserved a two-bedroom condo in Blowing Rock for Aug. 5-22.

I have three(!) doctor appointments this month, none of them serious I hope.  

If I didn’t have to help secure a new pianist for Massey’s and ensure a smooth transition, I would be retiring in June. My plans are to retire the following June.

My goal is: One foot in front of the other, do the next right thing, and keep praying.  

The Search for a Pianist

 

Up until last Sunday, the process of hiring a new pianist for Massey’s Chapel was unpleasant and discouraging.

We advertised several ways and snagged a handful of applicants. Massey’s pays a very good salary, and I thought musicians would be beating down our doors, but it hasn’t turned out that way. I was given two names of musicians who have played for churches, but they don’t want to do that anymore. They told me churches overwork and underpay their musicians.

Not Massey’s!, I pleaded. One hour on Sunday! No choir! No second service! No offertory and no postlude! No organ! They would be expected to practice, of course, and we do ask for two "musical offerings” (3-4 minutes) each Sunday from the pianist, but it’s their own choice of hymns ideally played with their own flair.

The musical offerings were favorites of the congregation when Andrew was with us. He made them into his own masterpieces, and the congregation chorused with “Amen!” when he finished. We liked to try to name which hymn he had played, and this made us all more hymn-literate.

We do not expect our next musician to be Andrew; goodness, we’ve talked enough about that!

Pianists have been auditioning (most of them for two consecutive Sundays) during the regular worship service since the beginning of January. Even though all of them have resumes a mile long, they’ve mostly been young men who are unfamiliar with church. One of them did not know what Communion is. Another did not understand the concept of singing verses.

In general, those who have auditioned have trouble reading music in a hymnal because the treble and bass clefs are separated by a bunch of verses. Most of them played too slow, and their musical offerings were straight-up hymns played tortuously slow without the “flourishes” that I requested. The pianists have failed to adapt the musical-offering hymns in their own way, even the jazz musician. Was I not clear?

Most of the musicians attempted to download their music with varying degrees of success rather than borrowing a Hymnal. One of them played four verses of “The Old Rugged Cross” as a musical offering but left off the refrain – because he did not know the hymn.  One of them played two lesser-known Baptist hymns! 

None of them lives in Durham. They have driven in from Raleigh, Greensboro, and Mebane.

Sunday attendance is way down, and no one “amens” anymore.  The worship service lacks its previous uplifting energy.  Up until last Sunday, Massey’s Chapel was getting sullen about the auditions, and they miss Andrew. We all miss him, me most of all.

However, last Sunday, Becky from Mebane arrived. She is more mature and used to playing for churches. She can sight-read hymns. Her playing for congregational singing was just right, her musical offerings were outstanding, and the Amen Chorus began once again. I was giddy with relief and could hardly focus on my part of the service. 

We have one more applicant who will audition the next two Sundays - also from Mebane -- who was raised United Methodist, hallelujah. Becky will return on March 3, and then the Staff-Parish Committee will have to make a decision.  

Here’s what I know: God is with us. My prayer – and the prayer of the church – has been that God will bring to us the right musician.

The Move to Pittsboro

 

A side creek of the Haw River

There has been so much happening the past few months that I could not blog about in a public forum. First was our decision to leave Elderberry. Our given reason was the distance to church and to our children – and that was true, but not the whole truth. Another reason was the slow Internet that turned parts of my job from quick-efficient into agonizing wasted time. That also was true, but not the whole truth.

The whole truth involved the coming of the Moriah Energy Center a mile from our home. This is a facility that will store millions of gallons of liquified natural gas. Isn’t our country supposed to be moving away from fossil fuels? Why yes. But when I look around Chatham Park where we now live and see hundreds of homes being built to use natural gas furnaces, it’s obvious a great deal of money is involved with this.

Of course, Elderberry suspected the reason we really were moving, and there was some amount of grief and hostility directed toward us, which was difficult.

I stayed stressed out and frightened that our home buyer would change her mind, and we would end up with two houses. Why would someone choose to live so close to an industrial facility and its inevitable pollution and possible accidents? She was fully aware of the Moriah Energy Center, but she bought our home anyway and seems to be a good fit for the community.  

There was monumental stress around gaining access to our money to pay for the new house. How is it even legal for an investment firm to hold up money that is ours? Every time Keith phoned the investment firm’s call center (obviously somewhere overseas), it took a minimum of 30 minutes just to get through, and then communicating was difficult. Keith and I also learned a very hard lesson about the difference between wiring money and electronic transfer of money. It all worked out in the end.

Then there was the actual move – stressful under any circumstances.

Ah well. We are now mostly unpacked in our new home. Our neighbors also are moving in; the houses are being built, and so we’re all new. This makes me hopeful I can make new friends. Grocery stores, drug stores, hardware stores, restaurants are all within easy driving distance; walking distance, in fact.

The drive to church is 25 minutes instead of 45. That’s not as close as it should be, but it’s better. I don’t have to use an interstate at all.

Yesterday, Keith and I walked on a trail near the Haw River, five minutes from our home (photo above).

Spring is on the way, and God has been with us all along.

Family Scrapbook December 2023

 

Zach, Rachel, Eric, and Michelle - what a beautiful family

And with Mimi and Gramps

Jonathan, Eric, Rachel, Katherine at the Wendell Christmas lights

Katherine invited me to her home to watch the Taylor Swift movie.

My kind of day!