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Monday November 1, 2004 Volume VI Number 44

Roger suggested that nearly six years of weekly writing served its purpose.  Every weekend, I think back to what I’ve learned.  Maybe from a book.  Or perhaps a news story.  Or a human interest piece.  Maybe a movie or a song or a diversion that took me on a side road during the course of business.  And every time, I come back to the simple declaration: “It’s Monday morning.  You are a leader.”  I’ve grown to appreciate the thought – the reminder at the beginning of the week that you play a leadership role where you are, and maybe just the thought of it brings some kind of perspective on the to-do list sitting there on your desk – the plan for the week.  Roger suggests that in reminding you, I’m also reminding myself – that it’s Monday morning, and I am a leader, too.

And in the retelling, I bring into some sort of focus a perspective on leadership. I trust that you have found some perspective, too.  In view of the regular responses of gratitude and encouragement I get from you week after week, I sense you have.  But maybe, just maybe, as Roger suggests, the regular process of drawing out meaning and purpose from the mundane has impacted me, too.  Early on, I enjoyed the freedom to select subjects at random, writing about whatever struck my fancy.  It was a challenge for me to attempt to recount even familiar stories in such a way to bring cadence and timing and momentum toward a punch line, a little twist, holding your interest en route, hopefully learning as you go.  Then at the end, the plan is for you to find a satisfying conclusion that will keep you strong this week, and bring you back the next.

More recently, as I write, I find myself drifting toward the pastoral.  The inspirational.  Early on, I deliberately disguised any spiritual agenda.  But now, it’s become more and more apparent, I think.  The foundations of biblical theology and Jesus-centered spirituality have simmered up to the surface in ways I did not design.  It was a kind of friendship, fellow-sojourner evangelism without really saying so.  Now, without apology, I want you to walk in that direction with me.

Writing is more than an aspiration for me now, it’s a habit.  I don’t suppose I’ll kick it any more than I’d give up, say, dessert at dinner time or hot coffee before breakfast.  It’s firmly rooted in the weekly routine. 

But Roger’s right, LeaderFOCUS has done something to me.

Because you keep reading, I keep writing. 

And voila, I’ve been changed.

* * * * * *

You may not be aware of it, but I began my adult career as a Pastor.  I was almost a reverend – I missed my ordination service by about a month.  For nearly ten years, I made by living as a full-time minister.  But like many young preachers, I got myself pretty cynical about the role and the people who support them.

There’s a fair amount of identity crisis to go around for people in the church business.  You’ve got your televangelists who muck up the image of the profession.  You’ve got your denominational wars that make you wonder who’s right.  You’ve got your know-it-all types who make the rest of us look like heretics.  You’ve got your smug pew-warmers who’ll gladly tell you why the church isn’t growing.  You’ve got the slick, smooth talking fund-raiser types who equate monetary success with God’s blessing.   (Then there are the rest who barely get by).  Polity debates keep the saints in combative dialogue, while well-meaning people burn out doing good.  Children grow up angry under the burden of church-going parents who crack the disciplinary whip with vigor and load up the behavior cart with impossible rules and unattainable expectations and perpetual groundings.  Even a seminary graduate with honors ends up a little confused after a few years in the pulpit.

So, it may not surprise you that at the tender age of thirty three, I’d had enough.  I asked God for permission to make my leave, and got it.  Or so I thought.

Now, nearly twenty-two years later, I felt something about ministry I’d never felt before: grief.  Oh, I knew grief - when I lost someone close, like my Dad, and Isaac, too.  But this was a different kind of grief.  I realized that by leaving ministry, I’d lost something less tangible, but just as real.  It surprised me.  For all these years, I’ve had a ready answer for those who asked why I left.  But now, the answer seems so hollow.

Then - more life-altering events hit in the past twelve months: The Paradise Fire.  Holding a grandchild in my arms.  The untimely death of a close friend.  An emerging role in our community church.  The marriage of our third and youngest.  The Passion of the Christ.   These things and others caused me to reconsider that decision I made long ago.  The more I thought.  The more I prayed.  The more I deliberated.  I became a bona-fide contemplative.

By May of last year, I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.  Understand, this was not an exercise in self-pity.  I was not wallowing in regrets.  I was thinking about the next phase, the next chapter.  It was a reflection of Buford’s Second Half (although, let’s face it, this it a little late to call this thing mid-life).  He talks about the redefinition of success – it no longer means “more.”  More money.  More things.  More security.  Buford suggests that there comes a time when significance means more than success. 

He was talkin’ about me.

I shared my restlessness with my mentor, Dr. Ted.

He set me out on a plan that would alter the course of my life.

* * * * * *

About a year ago, a good pastor friend of mine sat down in my office. 

The foundations of his call were shaken.  He wasn’t sure anymore.  He wondered out loud if he ought to be doing something else.  It didn’t seem to be working.  He was tired - bruised by criticism, unclear about his purpose, crushed under a truck-load of expectations.  In response, I launched an eloquent treatise on the importance and value of the pastoral role.  I talked to him about that crowd of needy people stumbling into the sanctuary Sunday after Sunday, all desperate for a word of encouragement and hope.  Those kids arriving in SUV’s, herded into the classrooms, all deserving to know that they are not an accident, but born for a purpose, known by their Creator – known by name.  Teachers are waiting for them with hugs and laughter and warmth and a lesson plan.  All these good people who need to be loved and affirmed in the journey - people who need to sense the presence of the living God; to know his mercy, his grace.  Even in the greeting, the handshake, calling them by name, this is a place to encourage the marriages, enhance the parenting, motivate the giving, create a place to serve.  We’ve got to remember what it’s about, I said.  And you – buddy – you’ve got a pastor’s heart.  I see it.  Even if, right now, you don’t.

He told me he had a hard time telling strangers that he is a pastor.  “It’s embarrassing,” he said.  I remember the same feeling, I told him.  I felt that way, too back then.  But you know what I found out since I left?  All the professions suffer a negative stereotype.  Think about it.  Attorneys.  Accountants.  Financial advisors.  Doctors.  Dentists.  Politicians.  Corporate Executives.  Educators.  You name it.  Pastors aren’t alone.

Just as every profession has its detractors, so does each its admirers.  The best among them meet real and profound needs.  They are trusted.  Valued.  Even necessary.  Not the least among them, Pastors.

We talked more.  We prayed.  I asked God to renew in my friend a deep sense of purpose, and a new appreciation for the power of the Gospel to transform.  I asked for a fresh sense of the reliability of the Word he studies and proclaims Sunday after Sunday.

He thanked me.

What he didn’t know is that in challenging him, I was challenging myself.

* * * * * * *

So that’s it. 

Ted’s plan worked.

As of November 15 of this year, I’ll be a Pastor again.  Last Sunday morning, I was introduced at Richfield Community Church in Yorba Linda, California as the new Pastor of Adult Ministries. 

Carolyn and I got the welcome of our lives.

I couldn’t be more happy or humbled.

* * * * * * *

It’s Monday morning.  You are a leader.

I’m going to take a wild guess that you have a pastor in your life.  (If you don’t – get one –for you and your family.)  You know his name.  You know he’s human.  You also know his heart.  He needs you to remind him that what he does matters.  You need to thank him for taking on the call.  You need to let him know that if he has detractors, you aren’t one of them.

Me and writing and LeaderFOCUS aren’t done.  I’m gunna continue to pester you on Monday mornings – mainly because I believe in you and I believe that what you do needs to be done.  You do it well.  Sometimes, you get tired.  You get confused.  You get frustrated.  Especially on Monday mornings.

Me, too.

So I write.  And now I know.  In the act of bringing an encouraging word, an observation, a smile, maybe even a laugh and sometimes a tear, I’m bringin’ those same things to me. 

Roger was quite right.

I’ve been changing.

Maybe you have, too.

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Posted in Delafield, Wisconsin

© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2004

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