Good Neighbor Policies - Christianity Today

There goes the neighborhood. By now you’ve heard the news: Mister Rogers has recorded his last program after 30 years on public television. The show will continue in reruns, but Fred’s announcement reminded me how much I miss our visits.

When my daughters were preschool age, I welcomed the cardigan-clad Presbyterian minister to our home almost every day. Or more accurately, we were invited into his house and, by a short train trip through his living room wall, into the Neighborhood of Make Believe. There I found that, thanks to puppets King Friday and Prince Tuesday, the message of Sunday was enacted all week long for a petit flock led by a serene shepherd in gym shoes.

In fact, looking back, I can say that (almost) everything I needed to know about pastoring I learned in that pre-kindergarten. Mr. Rogers taught me much about life in my own neighborhood—er, congregation.

“It’s you I like”

Mr. Rogers always reminded his viewers that he likes them just the way they are. It was something his Grandfather McFeeley used to say. While other family members discussed young Fred’s introverted nature, his praise-worthy qualities were celebrated by someone he esteemed.

I needed that reminder in my first church. Early on, a few vocal critics challenged my adequacy as a spiritual shepherd. It was painful. I didn’t feel loveable or loved. But when I heard Mr. Rogers telling my daughters “I like you just the way you are,” it felt good—to them and to me. People could like me, just the way I was. Mr. Rogers said so.

I began to take the power of affirmation more seriously. As hard as it was, I determined to focus on the positive qualities of my detractors.

If the puppet-residents of Make Believe could find something likeable in the wicked, self-centered, bulbous-nosed Lady Elaine Fairchild, then surely I could like the head of my church’s mission society. Everyone has something worthy of appreciation, right?

To my amazement, when I celebrated aspects of their personalities I genuinely liked, their attitude toward me was less critical.

One neighbor does not a neighborhood make

Even though it was called Mr. Rogers’s Neighborhood, Fred’s program was not a one-man show. John Costa arranged the music and led the jazz ensemble, Betty Aberlin sang and interacted with the puppets, and Mr. McFeeley delivered the mail. There were many more regulars, both on camera and off. From what we read about the Neighborhood, they had much fun working—and playing—together.

During the years I was watching children’s TV with my kids, I stumbled into the basement of clinical depression. A major factor in my fall was my attempt to do most of the ministry myself. I burned out. That’s when my own neighbors surrounded me.

On Sunday mornings I sat on the front row with my wife while Martin gave the announcements, Clyde read the Scripture lessons, Judie led the music, and Bill took the offering. During the week, church members assumed leadership of visitation, small groups, and pastoral care.

Not only did I regain my emotional health, Jim, Carl and Bette Lou received affirmation for use of their ministry gifts. Church became community, and neighbors became teammates and friends.

True leadership is not pulling strings

Fred Rogers disappeared about half-way through each show, then returned just in time to change out of his sweater and sneakers and wave goodbye. While he stayed in the “real world,” he sent viewers into the Neighborhood of Make Believe, where the puppets lived. Mr. Rogers was never seen there.

What most kids didn’t know was that Fred was under the castle supplying the hands and voices for the king and queen. Fred never seemed to care that to many kids the puppets were as much the stars as he was. He was in cramped spaces, willingly working shoulder to elbow with other puppeteers to bring fantasy to life.

As one who enjoys the limelight, I learned the lessons of behind-the-scenes service somewhat reluctantly as unofficial custodian. We paid Jake and Cam to put the chairs away after a meeting in the Fellowship Hall, but that didn’t matter on Saturday evening when the chairs were still standing and the only one around would rather be nailing down an elusive third point to Sunday’s sermon.

Actually, I discovered an inner sense of satisfaction doing such things “as unto the Lord.” It didn’t matter that nobody knew the pastor had come to the rescue. On Saturday mornings when a few guys cooked breakfast for the rest of the men, I discovered scrubbing pots and pans while others visited wasn’t all that bad.

Some aspects of pastoring, like Mr. Rogers’s puppetry, are not about pulling strings, but instead getting involved up to your elbows, whether anybody knows it or not.

The value of ugga-mugga

One of my favorite residents in the Neighborhood is Daniel Striped Tiger, a shy, threadbare puppet with a scratchy little voice, like a three-year-old with a two-pack habit. There was only one person with whom insecure Daniel confessed his fears—the lovely, human Lady Aberlin. She knew the tiger’s flaws and loved him anyway. Often after he unloaded his heavy heart, Lady Aberlin would rub his nose and say “ugga-mugga.” I think it meant, “I care about you and you’re going to be okay.”

When I was wrestling with depression, I needed someone to do that. Not the nose-rubbing, but the listening and appropriate offering of assurance.

Every pastor needs a confidant who is also free to confront with difficult truths. I had that in a therapist for a time, but once my therapy was ended, I decided I wanted what Daniel had all the time. I needed a friend to hear me, challenge me, and sometimes console me. I sought out a another pastor by the name of Doug. Over coffee he listened and urged me to stay alert to my tendencies toward discouragement and an unhealthy need for attention.

“It’s such a good feeling to know you’re alive”

Mr. Rogers wrapped up every show with this upbeat song. Every day is special, and even as one visit ended, he anticipated the next. And based on what I’ve read about Fred, he believed what he sang. He unwrapped each day’s show as if it were a personal gift from God, because according to his theology, it was.

Although I share his belief, I haven’t always shared his positive practice. Unmet expectations or poorly attended events quickly chauffeured me to the nearest pity party. Whenever my congregation didn’t share my excitement about a project to the degree I thought they would, my joy evaporated. But when I got ready for bed and looked in on my three healthy little girls fast asleep under their covers, I realized that in some way, every day is a good day. And like Mr. Rogers, I’ve learned to anticipate the next one as a “snappy, new day.”

I’m glad Mr. Rogers lives on in reruns, even if he isn’t taping any new shows. I’ll look in now and then. Like when I’m doubtful that I’m making a difference (how many four-year-olds wrote him thank-you notes?). Or when I need coaching in consistency (same time, same station, same shoes, same sweater, same smile, five days-a-week for 30 years).

But especially when I need to see what ministry looks like out in the neighborhood.

Thanks, Mr. Rogers.

Greg Asimakoupoulos, a pastor for two decades, is now director of creative ministries at Chapel of the Air in Carol Stream, Illinois. AwesomeRev@aol.com