The Man In the White Jumpsuit

I was 12 when Elvis died. We were vacationing in our house in the Pocono Mountains when we heard it on the radio. No big deal. I was 12. All I knew of Elvis was what the always-cruel media said about him in those days; that he was a washed-up superstar, overweight, addicted to pills, another Sad Story. I didn't know about Elvis. I didn't know what he'd done. I'd heard his music in the general radio-atmosphere but didn't connect it to him. I didn't know he was much, much more than what the media portrayed in his last days.

Until my daughter fell in love with him.

Sarah was 8 years old when she saw the movie, "Lilo and Stitch," and her favorite song from the movie was "Burnin' Love." I thought it was cute. She tried the Elvis moves and put her whole 8 year old body into singing, "hunk-a, hunk-a Burnin' love,..." So I bought her a CD of his songs. She played it until it wouldn't play anymore, till it was skipping in places. But she played it anyway.
She was 13 when we decided to stop at Graceland on the way home from a Christmas trip to Mississippi. And that was it. She was enamored by the 70's-style rooms, imagining him in them, by the endless frames of gold records, by the jumpsuits on display that she'd seen him actually wear in videos on youtube. She wept at his grave, feeling silly. We listened to his Story, the good and the bad. He was everywhere. We were inundated with his music, and for the first time I really heard it. I felt the power. I, too, was enamored with the power that was in him when the music began. No wonder mothers and preachers thought he was possessed-- he was! But it wasn't evil. He was possessed by Music, and he had a gift that had a power all its own, and no one could understand it or contain it. That kind of power scares us. It made women sob and collapse. It made holy people tremble. But it was FUN. It was music that came from some mysterious place deep inside of a man with a lot of Soul. It took him over, and the world didn't know how to deal with it. And yeah, Elvis didn't know how to deal with it either. That kind of gift and spirit can burn a person up in this crazy world. Especially when we try to contain it, market it, and exploit it.

I love Elvis! And my daughter wants to live in Memphis, anywhere near that place that seems to contain a Spirit that could not be held back, a Spirit that evoked music that made people DANCE....
Joseph Hall is a 20-something guy most recently from Lincoln, Nebraska. I'm not much into impersonators; people who make money being someone else who makes a lot of money. But the first time I saw Joseph Hall perform in Holdrege, Nebraska, my eyes filled with tears in the first few minutes he was on stage. My head went a little numb. It was eerie. If I hadn't been in the balcony, I'd have been down at the stage, reaching for a scarf, hoping for a kiss. I was swept up by the music....

Sarah was skeptical. She didn't want to see anyone mock her beloved. She'd seen images of Elvis impersonators in Vegas-- fat, slimy men with exaagerated hair and sideburns who couldn't sing. I assured her when I got home from the concert that this guy was amazing. That it truly seemed like the guy was channeling Elvis' spirit. It was a tribute. And shoot, when Joseph is on stage, you get the very eerie feeling that Elvis is back in the building.

When I took Sarah to a concert, Joseph started with "How Great Thou Art," one of Sarah's favorite hymns, especially as done by Elvis. I was nervous. Elvis is very precious to her; what would happen? How would she feel? I turned around while he was still singing, and Sarah had long, black streaks of mascara down her face and she was crying. What had I done? Oh God, I thought, she's going to need therapy. But she laughed at my expression, still choking on her tears, and said, "It's ok, Mom. I'm happy."

His fans are crazy, I gotta say. A lot of 60 and 70 year old women who were once those screaming, sobbing teenagers at the feet of the real Elvis, I imagine, are now screaming at Joseph. They're also diving for cologne and sweat-wiped scarves and for flying teddy bears, sometimes grabbing them out of the hands of little girls. They wear Joseph Hall Fan Club buttons and T-shirts, scrambling near the stage for that kiss on the cheek, "I Love Joseph" buttons flashing neon on their breasts. They've been to Branson, at his new theatre. They've collected all of his souveneir mugs, T-shirts, and have tote bags decorated with various pictures of Joseph from all the concerts they've attended. Larry went with us to that first concert, but the absurdity of Joseph's more fanatical fans disturbed him, and he now allows this to be strictly a mother-daughter thing.

We go now, whenever we can, whenever Joseph plays in Grand Island. My daughter is 16, struggling to find her way in high school and the crazy batteground of adolesence. It's hard, sometimes. She's not into sports, she's not interested in the latest fashion or "New Moon" movie. She devours books, writes pages and pages of short stories and poetry, and is passionate about life-- and often gets disappointed with the world and people. Elvis' music gives her joy, hope and a chance to be silly and let loose. She knows his story. She's awed by the power of his gift, and aches at the pains he suffered, the demons he battled. She gets indignant whenever his memory is mocked, his legacy lessened. Elvis gives her a reason to dance.

So I'm personally grateful to Joseph Hall for the gift he gives my daughter. He brings Elvis alive for her for a couple of hours. He channels his spirit, and allows the music to bring the dead alive again for a little while. She knows the difference. She knows that Elvis is off in eternity rockin' with Jesus and Johnny Cash, but sometimes time and eternity intersect as they often do, and it seems like Elvis sends a little of his spirit to help a boy named Joseph. Help him bring a little joy into the heart of a teenager struggling to find the light amidst a dark world, and to hear the music against the din of peer pressure and teenage yearnings.

It's give and take, this life. Sarah wrote Joseph and let him know that what he's doing matters, that it blesses her, gifts her, that he is honoring the King of Rock 'n Roll. Apparently Joseph needed to hear that, and he let her know that she inspired him with her letter, that she made a difference to him too. Great God Almighty, isn't that what it's all about? Thank you, Joseph. Thank you, Elvis. Both of you, thank you for giving my daughter hope. Thank you very much.

Walking On the Edge

I never dreamed I would ever have anything to do with hospice. When I met my husband Larry, he was very interested in hospice and was taking a Death and Dying course in seminary. He was always talking about death-- not morosely, but about his experiences with dying people. I was of the typical mindset that you just don't talk about death. I grew up in New Jersey, and generally people there don't talk about death either. Out of sight, out of mind, and I guess we believed, it was therefore out of experience.

My first major experience with death and loss was when I was 19. Sandie, a beautiful woman of 39 and my mother's best friend, was diagnosed with melanoma. Since we didn't talk openly about such things at home (and in that way we were not unusual), I didn't know much about her experiences through cancer. We lived four hours away. Sandie sent me letters at college about her treatments, her renewed prayer life, the things she was learning through prayer, but she didn't tell me much about the prognosis or her odds of beating it. I adored Sandie. She was so beautiful, full of life and joy, and taught me so much about life and loving. We had just seen her for a long weekend at her house in New York when we got the news she'd died. A week after hugging her goodbye, we were at her viewing and funeral.

That was a devasating loss to me. I went back to college after a really painful summer of despair and depression. I didn't really have anyone to talk to, nor would I have known how to talk about it. My parents didn't talk about it either, and we all just grieved privately. I went on. I dated guys, struggled through college and figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. I floundered. It felt like someone had cut out my heart. But I managed to go on.

During my senior year of college, my childhood friend Donna died mysteriously and suddenly. She was six months younger than me, and that was the first time that death felt possible for someone like me-- it'd been bad enough that Sandie had been so young, but Donna was 22. For a long time, I was afraid that I could drop over any minute. When I lived in my own apartment, I was always afraid something would happen and I'd be alone. I developed a chronic depression, I believe, from two huge losses and unhealed grief.

It wasn't until 2004, 20 years after Sandie's death that I was able to truly express my grief. I was in a difficult position, working in a church where there was a lot of pain, anger and sense of loss, and it all felt like I was hit by a train. I wasn't sure I'd recover. But I invited Chet, Sandie's widower who had since remarried, to come visit. He did. We spent a couple of days talking, sharing memories, sharing tears, telling stories, asking questions, and both admitting that neither of us had had the chance to really grieve Sandie's death. Life scooped us up and didn't stop for our pain. And so it became an ongoing pain, a deep pain that just kept bleeding, despite us both finding goodness in our lives. That weekend was the first time I felt like I could truly feel the deep love and deep pain from Sandie's death. It was a gift from God.

2007 was a very painful and stressful year in my church. We suffered a lot of losses, a lot of sudden and tragic deaths. Halfway through the year, I remember saying out loud, "who's next?" I didn't think I could take any more. Then Karen was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

I had sat by the bedside of many people who were dying during my ministry, but I still felt completely unprepared for what lay ahead with Karen. Many of those people had not been people I knew well, or they were unconscious by that stage and not able to talk. But as Karen neared death, she talked openly about it. I'd never really talked about it, somehow I'd managed to avoid such vulnerable conversations during the year. But during the last two months of Karen's life, we talked for hours, we cried together, we shared fears and questions, it was all out there on the table. Those were days that in my memory now seem suspended in time-- as if I'd stepped out of the world for those two months and was somewhere else, somewhere intangible, surrounded by Light. I was unaware of Time when I was with Karen during those days. I was gifted with a strength I didn't know I had, to keep going back and facing her decline. I loved her so much.

The night she died, I was there with Jim, her husband. The lights were soft, we played CDs for her, and I sat with her. I cried, I sang, I prayed with her. It was a whole nother dimension and reality. The rest of the world did not exist that night. When she took her last breath, Jim and I were held in some unspeakable peace and grace. It was pure holiness. Pure peace. Pure beauty and realness. That journey would change my life.

Now I work in hospice-- I work with the bereaved families of our patients after they die. Some people don't want to talk, and some don't want to stop. Already I've met such beautiful people. I've heard fascinating stories of lives lived and lost. People say it must be depressing work, and it really is not at all. It's hard to explain. The people I work with at hospice are exceptional people. Somehow it seems that people who work with death and dying people all the time, have a connection to another realm, another time. My coworkers are not pretentious at all. They are profoundly loving and deeply connected to the Spirit. We support one another. We laugh a lot, we even cry sometimes at work, but we are never alone. We all know that special calling to work with the dying, to catch glimpses of eternity from this side. The people we've worked with have given us that. Going to the office is going to a place that is bathed in gentleness, love and spirit. We do have bad days. We do have drama and conflict. But it's all in the context of the greater picture of what we do, and we make it through, all sustained by the loving Spirit of God that bathes us daily and prepares us for our work.

I keep a picture of Sandie on my desk, because I carry her in my heart. She was the first to teach me to live and love, and the world where she lives is not so faraway. I believe it is only a thin veil that separates time and matter from the incomprehensible world of eternity. And God keeps reaching through that veil to give us glimpses, so that we don't get discouraged in this life, and can share those visions in the here and now.

I love you, Sandie.

Why I Left the Ordained Ministry

Actually, I'm setting myself up with that title-- I doubt I can summarize all the reasons, all the emotions and struggles of many years that led to that life-changing decision of 2009. But as part of moving on, let me try.

A friend of mine once said that if you're in the ordained ministry and have never once thought of leaving it, you're in serious denial. Quite honestly, I thought about leaving it many, many times from the very beginning. It was in the last two years that it became more and more imperative, and unavoidably clear to me that I would not retire from the United Methodist ordained ministry. A lot of things happened. 2007 was a year of many, many deaths in my church. Not that I hadn't had that many funerals in one year before, but in 2007 there were deaths that were sudden and very unexpected. The year started off with a man in his forties dying of blood clots moving from his legs to his heart. A man I'd come to feel close to in about six weeks of pastoral visits to the hospital. He was an outsider, but he embraced me as his pastor, his confidante. He made me feel like what I did mattered. After that, we lost some dear pillars of the church, again, suddenly. There were accidents, a suicide, and cancer. Just when I thought I could not take any more tragedy, my friend Karen was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. That was a hard hit-- I knew that story never ends well. I didn't feel up to the challenge. Especially the challenge of being the pastor having to comfort everyon else through this loss while having my own heart break.

Death and grief have a way of stripping away all pretenses from your eyes, like scales falling away. Maybe it's like cataract surgery. Honesty becomes essential. I hungered for REAL, and encountered it in a devastating way through those last days with Karen. And I saw more to my job than I cared to see.

A pastor has no job description, no contract that we sign agreeing to certain hours and duties. It is wide open, and therefore, you have as many supervisors as you have members of your church. All with different agendas, different needs, and therefore different images of what a pastor should do. A pastor is expected to be an exceptional preacher, inspiring worship leader, a crisis counselor, grief counselor, Bible scholar, administrator, conflict resolution expert, and mind reader. A pastor is expected to know when people need a phone call or a visit, without anyone telling them. A pastor is expected to relate to little kids, youth, young adults and old people all equally well, and to know how to reach all of them in their interests and entertain them. They are on call 24/7. They are supposed to be always available, day or night. They are expected to be calm in every situation. They are expected to inspire new members to come in all the time, particularly young families, but do that without upsetting the older people.

The pastor's family is always on display. They are not supposed to have any problems, and when I was growing up, the pastor's wife was suppposed to be fulltime assistant to her husband without pay. It's preferable if she plays the piano, is willing to be president of the UMW, keep an immaculate house just in case a parishioner shows up unannounced, lead Bible Studies at the church, and be the perfect mother. She is expected to make the pastor look good.

But the pastor is not allowed to have friends, unless they are other clergy. If the pastor has friends in the congregation, they are accused of having favorites, and the pastor is expected to love everyone equally. They are supposed to attend all the sports games at the school, all the musical programs, and still visit everyone in the nursing home. They are not supposed to ever get angry or depressed. People rarely ask the pastor how they're doing and really want to know, but everyone is surprised when a pastor gets sick or suffers a crisis that makes the incapable of doing their job. Pastors don't trust other pastors, especially in the UMC, because they could one day be their D.S. And if a D.S. knows some weakness of yours, they can send you to a backwoods church where no one else wants to go.

A pastor, when they are ordained in the UMC, agrees to go wherever they are sent "without reservation." Which means that a pastor cannot ever choose where they want to live, how much money they want to make, or what schools their children will attend. They cannot choose what house they will live in. When you live in a parsonage, you cannot make decisions about the house you live in. You have to humbly make your requests to a committee of people that generally think that a pastor should live in poverty, it's part of the call. The general value of the pastor him or herself is called into question. Is she worth a new carpet? Does she really need pipes that don't leak? Can't we just patch that linoleum in the kitchen that was put down in 1960? Back East, the church even furnished the parsonage, you didn't have your own. And the parsonages were usually furnished with pieces from parshioner's basements-- the furniture that was not good enough for their houses was somehow fine for the pastor's house. It's that poverty thing again. Besides, a pastor should not be concerned with such worldly things as furniture that matches.

My father didn't want me to be a pastor, and for a long time I was angry about that. Now I understand. He didn't want me to experience the pain that he had. It is acceptable to freely and sometimes brutally criticize the pastor. My oldest brother used to say that people went to work and got dehumanized by their own bosses, so they'd come to church and take it out on the pastor. Things people wouldn't say to their worst enemy was ok to say to the pastor-- after all, they're supposed to be so holy that they can take anything. They can be criticized about everything from the kind of car the pastor drives, what he/she wears, what kind of music they like, how they keep the house, what restaurants she/he goes to, who they're friends with, how they raise their children, how many times they visit the nursing home, what hymns they choose and how many, how fat or thin they are, etc. It's all free game.

My father experienced it, and inevitably so did I. That person who for some reason unknown even to them, hates the pastor. So they openly criticize the pastor in meetings, behind her back, or block any efforts they make to get something done. And others, even those who disagree, choose not to speak up. The pastor is on his own. One person can bring down a pastor, much less a church. I've seen it happen again and again.

You may think I exaagerate these things. I grew up in the Church as a pastor's kid and lived in parsonages all my life. I saw my father and mother go off into a room and lock the door to "dialogue" about things that were happening in the church that they wanted to protect me from knowing. I saw my father suffer great pain at the hands of parishioners who decided he wasn't Christian enough, didn't bring in enough new members, or thought he was soft. I saw my mother suffer alone in the midst of ongoing conflicts in the church without a friend she could confide in. I felt the tension of making Dad look good to his parishioners and all four of us kids couldn't live up to the ideals of the perfect kid.

I went into it because I was called into it. I went through much of the same things that my father went through and more. I ran into conflict with the Church of Scientology-- who'da thunk? I had an SPRC committee ask me to pay them for the Sunday I missed while being bedridden during my pregnancy when I was bleeding and I was interrogated as to how much time I expected to spend with this coming baby and would it interfere with my church work? I served a church where my predecssor had an affair with a parishioner and the church was angry that he was removed, and took that anger out on me and my co-pastor husband. More than once I was sent to a parish where I made less than a full-time salary and had to leave that situation to avoid bankruptcy. I even lived in a parsonage that had snakes in the living room sometimes.

I still believe God called me into ministry back in 1989-- the experience was undeniable. I pray that my work was fruitful and inspired by God. But I also believe that God called me to a different form of ministry, that God led me out of the Church. My years in the Church are still a huge part of who I am, and I hope to write more about the good parts, the good people and the images of God at work that I did experience. I often used to joke that it was hard to be a pastor and a Christian at the same time. But I knew it wasn't a joke. I finally had to get out of it in order to save my own soul, my own relationship with God. In the last couple of years I knew it was killing me. It's an impossible job.

When I left I didn't know if I could ever be a part of any church, but I know that my relationship with God is too much a part of me to be discarded. I doubt I can be a United Methodist again, but I am a child of God, and I will continue to allow God to lead me in ways that I can serve God and nurture my faith in ways that give life. If I'd stayed, I'd be bitter. I'm not bitter. I'm ready to live honestly and generously and fully.

It's a new year.