In today’s increasingly secular society, the only personal contact many people will have with a pastor is some public occasion: a wedding, funeral, baby dedication or baptism, an awards ceremony. These settings, where clergy are front and center, offer unique opportunities to minister, but as the following article points out, the pastor is most effective remembering where the spotlight will shine.
This article is taken from an upcoming volume in THE LEADERSHIP LIBRARY: Weddings, Funerals, and Special Events.
Most pastoral work takes place in obscurity, deciphering grace in the shadows, blowing on the embers of a hard-used life.
Pastors stay with their people week in and week out, year after year, to proclaim and guide, encourage and instruct as God works his purposes (gloriously, it will eventually turn out) in the meandering and disturbingly inconstant lives that compose our congregations.
This necessarily means taking seriously, and in faith, the dull routines of life. It means witnessing to the transcendent in the fog and rain. It means living hopefully among people who from time to time get flickering glimpses of the Glory but then live through long stretches of unaccountable grayness. This is hard work and not conspicuously glamorous.
But there are frequent interruptions in this work in which the significance blazes all of itself. The bush burns and is not quenched. Our work is done for us, or so it seems, by the event. We do nothing to get these occasions together: no prayer meeting, no strategic planning, no committee work, no altar call. They are given-redolent with meaning and almost always, even among unbelievers, a sense of reverence. These interruptions of the ordinary become occasions of ceremony and celebration: weddings, funerals, baptisms, dedications, anniversaries, graduations, events in which human achievements are honored.
Instead of deficiency of meaning, which characterizes so many lives and for which people compensate in frenzy or fantasy, there is an excess: the ecstasy of love, the dignity of death, the wonder of life, the nobility of achievement.
These occasions burst the containers of the everyday and demand amplitude and leisure in which to savor the fullness. No love was ever celebrated enough, no death ever mourned enough, no life adored enough, no achievement honored enough. People set aside time, clear space, call friends, gather families, assemble the community. Almost always, the pastor is invited to preside.
But when we arrive, we are, it seems, hardly needed, and in fact, barely noticed. One of the ironies of pastoral work is that on these occasions when we are placed at the very center of the action, we are perceived by virtually everyone there to be on the margins. No one would say that, of course, but the event that defines the occasion-love, death, birth, accomplishment-also holds everyone’s attention. No one inquires of the pastor what meaning there is in this. Meaning is there, overwhelmingly obvious, in the bride and groom, in the casket, in the baby, in the honored guest.
The pastor is, in these settings, what the theater calls “fifth business”-required by the conventions but incidental to the action, yet, in its own way, important on the sidelines. This is odd, and we never quite get used to it, at least I never do. In the everyday obscurities in which we do most of our work, we often have the sense of being genuinely needed. Even when unnoticed, we are usually sure our presence makes a difference, sometimes a critical difference, for we have climbed to the abandoned places, the bereft lives, the “gaps” that Ezekiel wrote of (22:30) and have spoken Christ’s word and witnessed Christ’s mercy. But in these situations where we are given an honored place at the table, we are peripheral to everyone’s attention.
Where Is the Spotlight?
At weddings, love is celebrated. The atmosphere is luminous with adoration. Here are two people at their best, in love, venturing a life of faithfulness with each other. Everyone senses both how difficult and how wonderful it is. Emotions swell into tears and laughter, spill over in giggles, congeal into pomposity. In the high drama that pulls families and friends together for a few moments on the same stage, the pastor is practically invisible, playing a bit part at best. We are geometrically at the center of the ceremony, but every eye is somewhere else.
At funerals, death is dignified. The not-being-there of the deceased is set in solemn ritual. Absence during this time is more powerful than presence. Grief, whether expressed torrentially or quietly, is directed into channels of acceptance and gratitude that save it from wasteful spillage into regret and bittemess. The tears that blur perception of the living, including the pastor, clarify appreciation of the dead.
At the baptisms and dedications of infants, the sheer wonder of infant life upstages the entire adult world. The glory that radiates from the newborn draws even bystanders into praise. In the very act of holding an infant in the sacrament of baptism or the service of dedication, the pastor, though many times larger, stronger, and wiser, is shadowed by the brightness of the babe.
At anniversaries and graduations, ground breakings and inaugurations-the various community occasions when achievements are recognized and ventures launched-the collective admiration or anticipation produces a groundswell of emotion that absorbs everything else. Every eye is focused on, and every ear is tuned to, the person honored, the project announced, the task accomplished, the victory won. The pastor, praying in the spotlight and with the amplification system working well, is not in the spotlight and barely heard.
And so it happens that on the occasions in our ministry when we are most visible, out in front giving invocations and benedictions, directing ceremonies and delivering addresses, we are scarcely noticed.
The One Thing Needful
If no one perceives our presence the way we ourselves perceive it-directing operations, running the show-what is going on? We are at the margins during these occasions. No one came to see us. No one came to hear us. We are not at all needed in the way we are accustomed to being needed.
No one needs us to tell the assembled people that things of great moment are taking place. No one needs us to proclaim that this is a unique event, never to be repeated, in which we are all privileged participants. All this is unmistakably obvious and not to be missed by even the stiff-necked and uncircumcised of heart.
So why are we there? We are there to say God. We are there for one reason and one reason only: to pray. We are there to focus the brimming, overflowing, cascading energies of joy, sorrow, delight, or appreciation, if only for a moment but for as long as we are able, in God. We are there to say God personally, to say his name clearly, distinctly, unapologetically, in prayer. We are there to say it without hemming and hawing, without throat clearing and without shuffling, without propagandizing, proselytizing, or manipulating. We have no other task on these occasions. We are not needed to add to what is there; there is already more than anyone can take in. We are required only to say the Name: Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
All men and women hunger for God. The hunger is masked and misinterpreted in many ways, but it is always there. Everyone is on the verge of crying out “My Lord and my God!” if only circumstances push them past their doubts or defiance, push them out of the dull ache of their routines or their cozy accommodations with mediocrity. On the occasions of ceremony and celebration, there are often many people present who never enter our churches, who do their best to keep God at a distance and never intend to confess Christ as Lord and Savior. These people are not accustomed to being around pastors and not a few of them politely despise us. So it is just as well that we are perceived to be marginal to the occasion. The occasions themselves provide the push toward an awareness of an incredible Grace, a dazzling Design, a defiant Hope, a courageous Faithfulness.
But awareness, while necessary, is not enough. Consciousness raising is only prolegomena. Awareness, as such, quickly trickles into religious sentimentalism or romantic blubbering, or hardens into patriotic hubris or pharisaic snobbery. Our task is to nudge the awareness past these subjectivities into the open and say God.
The less we say at these times the better, as long as we say God. We cultivate unobtrusiveness so that we do not detract from the sermon being preached by the event. We must do only what we are there to do: pronounce the Name, name the hunger. But it is so easy to get distracted. There is so much going on, so much to see and hear and say. So much emotion. So much, we think, “opportunity.” But our assignment is to the “one thing needful,” the invisible and quiet center, God.
We do best on these occasions to follow the sermonic advice of the Rebbe Naphtali of Ropshitz: make the introduction concise and the conclusion abrupt-with nothing in between.
Such restraint is not easy. Without being aware of it, we are apt to resent our unaccustomed marginality and push ourselves to the fore, insisting we be noticed and acknowledged. We usually do this through mannerism or tone: stridency, sentimentality, cuteness. We do it, of course, in the name of God, supposing we are upholding the primacy of the one we represent. This is done with distressing regularity by pastors. But such posturing does not give glory to God; it only advertises clerical vanity. We are only hogging the show, and not very successfully, either. For no matter how resplendent we are in robes and “Reverends,” we are no match for the persons or events that gave rise to the occasion to which we were asked to come and pray.
In Golden-Calf Country
But there is another reason for keeping to our position on the margins of ceremony and celebration. This is golden-calf country. Religious feeling runs high, but in ways far removed from what was said on Sinai and done on Calvary. While everyone has a hunger for God, deep and insatiable, none of us has any great desire for him. What we really want is to be our own gods and to have whatever other gods that are around help us in this work. This is as true for Christians as for non-Christians.
Our land lies east of Eden, and in this land Self is sovereign. The catechetical instruction we grow up with has most of the questions couched in the first person: How can I make it? How can I maximize my potential? How can I develop my gifts? How can I overcome my handicaps? How can I cut my losses? How can I live happily ever after, increase my longevity, preferably all the way into eternity? Most of the answers to these questions include the suggestion that a little religion along the way wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Every event that pulls us out of the ordinariness of our lives puts a little extra spin on these questions. Pastors, since we are usually present at the events and have a reputation of being knowledgeable in matters of religion, are expected to legitimize and encourage the religious dimensions in the aspirations. In our eagerness to please, and forgetful of the penchant for idolatry in the human heart, we too readily leave the unpretentious place of prayer and, with the freely offered emotional and religious jewelry the people bring, fashion a golden calf-god-Romantic Love, Beloved Memory, Innocent Life, Admirable Achievement-and proclaim a “feast to the Lord” (Ex. 32:5). Hardly knowing what we do, we meld the religious aspirations of the people and the religious dynamics of the occasion to try to satisfy one and all.
Calvin saw the human heart as a relentlessly efficient factory for producing idols. People commonly see the pastor as the quality-control engineer in the factory. The moment we accept the position, we defect from our vocation. People want things to work better; they want a life that is more interesting; they want help through a difficult time; they want meaning and significance in their ventures. They want God, in a way, but certainly not a “jealous God,” not the “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Mostly they want to be their own god and stay in control, but have ancillary divine assistance for the hard parts.
There are a thousand ways of being religious without submitting to Christ’s lordship, and people are practiced in most of them. They are trained from an early age to be discriminating consumers on their way to higher standards of living. It should be no great surprise when they expect pastors to help them do it. But it is a great apostasy when we go along. “And Moses said to Aaron, ‘What did this people do to you that you have brought a great sin upon them?’ ” (Ex. 32:21). Aaron’s excuse is embarrassingly lame, but more than matched by the justifications we make for abandoning prayer in our enthusiasm to make the most of the occasion.
Our Real Work
Our churches and communities assign us ceremonial duties on these occasions, which we must be careful to do well. There are right and wrong ways to act and speak, better and worse ways to prepare for and conduct these ceremonies and celebrations. No detail is insignificant: gesture conveys grace, tone of voice inculcates awe, demeanor defines atmosphere, preparation deepens wonder. We must be diligently skillful in all of this.
But if there is no will to prayer in the pastor-a quietly stubborn and faithful centering in the action and presence of God-we will more than likely end up assisting, however inadvertently, in fashioning one more golden calf of which the world has more than enough. What is absolutely critical is that we attend to God in these occasions: his Word, his Presence. We are there to say the Name, and by saying it guide lament into the depths where Christ descended into hell, not letting it digress into self-pity. We are there to say the Name, and by saying it direct celebration into praise of God, not letting it wallow in gossipy chatter.
Our real work in every occasion that requires a priestly presence is prayer. Whether anyone there knows or expects it, we arrive as persons of prayer. The margins are the best location for maintaining that intention. Our vocation is to be responsive to what God is saying at these great moments, and simply be there in that way as salt, as leaven. Most of our prayer will be inaudible to those assembled. We are not praying to inspire them (they are inspired enough already) but to intercede for them. The action of God is intensified in these prayers and continued in the lives of the participants long after the occasion. The ceremonies are over in an hour or so; the prayers continue. This is our real work: holding marriages and deaths, growing lives and lasting achievements before God in a continuing community of prayer.
Eugene H. Peterson is pastor of Christ Our King Presbyterian Church in Bet Air, Maryland.
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