from my grandfather by way of my uncle and then my brother, who brought it to me the summer before last.
When my brother and I opened the cab door the first time, I quickly noticed the faint aroma of snuff that my grandfather dipped for nearly seventy years. The flashlight he always kept under the dashboard was in its place, and bolted over the back window was the same old gun rack he removed from and reinstalled in the various pickups he owned, more to hang hats and caps from than guns. Many of my earliest memories are of being in one pickup or another with him; he drove nothing else.
This one was his last. Old enough to be ugly but not old enough to be a classic, it has no frills, no air conditioner, no power steering, and a three-speed standard transmission that shifts on the steering column. It is not a comfortable pickup; it’s a pickup for work.
In the bed is my grandfather’s big toolbox. When I opened it, I discovered many of his tools, not only for his work as the all-purpose maintenance man at our local hospital for forty-four years, but also for working on the truck: a roll of duct tape, a hydraulic jack, a four-way lug wrench, extra bottles of motor oil, an extra radiator hose, an extra fan belt, jumper cables, various wrenches, screwdrivers, and a socket set. Here are the essentials for a man who knew how to work on his own truck.
There’s an old truism among drivers of old pickups that goes something like this: You either drive a truck with everything working or you have a broke-down truck that needs work.
Wrong. Old trucks are driven and need working on at the same time. They are always in need of more work, but you get them going and are prepared for a breakdown wherever you go.
This is exactly why I’ve named my truck Habakkuk, for verse 2:3, which says, “If it seems slow, wait for it. It will surely come.” And it is also why I’m learning patience by driving it. I’m learning that it takes a while to get somewhere, both because the truck is slow and because there is the likely chance that I’ll need to pull over and open the hood and work on it somewhere along the way.
I’m no mechanic, but I’m learning. And that’s why I have my friendly shade-tree garage on speed-dial and know the tow truck driver by his first name. Sometimes I can do the work myself, but most of the time it is beyond me and I need help. But as much as I love this truck, I get tired of working on it all the time. I get impatient that it takes longer than I expect to get someplace and that I need to be open to disruptions and breakdowns.
I’m no mechanic, but I am a pastor. And at this time of year, I see much more in this truck than a cantankerous old vehicle and memories of the grandfather I loved. I wonder, is my pickup preparing me for Advent?
This will be my twenty-fourth Advent with my present congregation. Twenty-four years of preaching these same Advent themes of waiting and preparing and patient endurance. After twenty-four years, I get tired of these same old texts and wonder what I’m going to say this time.
And after all these years, I wonder why my congregation still struggles with the same old things. After all, if I preach something, shouldn’t they go out and practice it? After twenty-four years, shouldn’t they be further down the road than they are?
O Lord, how long?
But I’m learning. Congregations always need work. And congregations never get to the place where they are “fixed” and running smoothly —at least none that I know. There’s always something.
If it seems slow, wait for it. It will surely come.
The old teaching of the church is that if we pray for patience, God doesn’t answer our prayer by miraculously turning us into patient people. Instead, God sends us opportunities to practice patience.
So God made me a pastor. And my grandfather left me an old pickup.
Porching, Friendship, and Ministry
Kyle Childress
A few years ago, when Jane (my wife) and the girls and I were away all summer on sabbatical, members of our church decided to build us a porch. They knew I loved porch sitting, and since our house did not have a porch, they thought it was a great idea to give us one. We agreed.
Since then, our porch has become the major gathering place for any social occasion at our house, none more so than the churchwide Easter potluck, with kids and adults everywhere, food, laughter, a slamming screen door (“You kids make up your minds—either in or out!”), and lots of conversation and stories among everyone lazily rocking back and forth in the rocking chairs and swing.
We all love the porch.
From time to time, I’ll get a phone call from someone saying, “Are you going to be on your porch this evening?” To which I’ll reply, “Yeah, I’ll be there. Probably be out about seven.”
Sure enough, around seven the caller will come walking up and join me on the porch. We’ll visit, catch up on news, likely I’ll tell a story or two, and eventually the visitor will get to whatever it is that’s bothering him or her. We’re not in a hurry; it is porching, after all.
What I’ve learned is that conversation on the porch is important ministry. If the caller comes to my study at the church for an appointment, it is called “counseling.” But if someone drops by my porch and we sit in the rocking chairs, it is just two friends having a conversation. We’re visiting.
Both counseling and visiting are significant ministries, but they are different. Part of the difference is need—sometimes the formality of the church building is more appropriate. But sometimes the difference has to do with different visions of the church and the role of the pastor.
The standard and dominant view is that the office of pastor has clearly defined boundaries and roles. For example, I was trained both in seminary and in college that the pastor should never make friends within the congregation. Having friends, in this view, is fraught with peril at every turn: the dangers of showing favoritism or having cliques within the church, the temptation to break confidences, the undermining of pastoral authority, and so on.
I was taught that the pastor’s friendship is with God, and the rest of the church is on their own. I was taught that relationships of mutuality are different from those of service as a pastor, and that ordination creates a holy distance between the pastor and the people.
Maybe so. But maybe not.
What if the church is understood to be a community of friends? And what if the pastor is one of those friends? What if the hierarchy of the church is not as pronounced and formal as we might think? Perhaps the church is more like the body of Christ, with the different members connected to one another in Christ, but with each member having certain spiritual gifts, pastoring being one of those gifts.
I realize that I’m talking about two versions of the role of the pastor and models of the church in church teaching: Reformed and Anabaptist. But my Baptist polity has long mixed those two contrasting perspectives.
In practice, a new pastor has to earn her or his pastoral credibility within the first year or so. A congregation wants to see whether the pastor visits and cares and shows up. Do you listen to the people, and are you accessible?
They’ll know whether you can lead worship and preach from the day they voted to call you. But will you be their pastor? That’s a question that is answered over time. Beneath the issues of how well you visit and do pastoral care is the question of spiritual gifts. Are you a member of the body of Christ with the gift of being a pastor or not? In that first year, the
