Pastor Miller

I remember Pastor Miller preaching at Barclay Heights Community Church. We met in the lodge of an old YMCA camp on Esopus Creek near Glenerie Falls. When the lodge became our permanent home, we changed the name of the church to Glenerie Chapel.

I remember Pastor Miller praying; his opening prayers were nearly the equal of his sermons. These were not pithy, punchy, sound-bited perfunctories; his prayers were ten minutes of engagement with God on matters of the day, from local to global.

I remember Pastor Miller’s velvet singing voice. It reminded me of a baritone Andy Williams with a bit of Mel Torme. From where I sat, singing seemed to be pure pleasure for him.

I remember Pastor Miller telling us about Christ’s Passion during a springtime Sunday night service thirty-some years ago. One of the other teens ran out of the lodge, weeping – overtaken by the description of what Jesus had endured for him. I ran after him and listened to his story.

I remember Pastor Miller’s Christianity including humanness. He didn’t try to portray himself as saintly; he wasn’t aloof from his congregation. He wasn’t afraid to laugh.

I don’t remember when Pastor Miller invited me to call him “Bob”. The truth is I never really got used to it. He was simply “Pastor” to me.

I remember Pastor Miller saying he thought I’d become a pastor someday. I didn’t like that, and I fought it for a long time. But over the years, his was among a small number of voices through which God conferred that calling to me. I don’t wear it as comfortably as he did but I try to be true to my legacy.

Today, I’m remembering to remember because it’s the day of Pastor’s memorial service. I wish I could be present. He and his family are very much on my mind. I’m praying they feel the support of their communities as they find their way forward. I’m praying they know they’re not carrying his memory alone. And I’m praying they find grace today to celebrate him with all their might.

soul-sized life

What are the dimensions of your soul? How far can she throw her light? How many close relationships do you have the capacity to honor?

How much art will you render? How many stories will be yours to tell? How many friends will you help to discover their own souls?

As I ask questions like these of myself, the tendency is to swing between overestimating and underestimating the size of my soul. Maybe the oscillation between big and small is what keeps me bending back toward a sane assessment.

For more on this topic, see the post inhabiting littleness, and the comments that followed.

Speak to that rock

When the water dried up in Kadesh, and the people brought their pointed complaint to Moses, God told him to “speak to that rock… and it will pour out its water.” Moses chose to strike the rock twice with his staff instead. Water still gushed from the rock, but Moses lost something by not honoring God.

At times, people in authority over me have seemed like that rock: set in their ways, hardened, difficult to relate to… What if God’s word to me is the same as his word to Moses? Speak to that rock.

There are blessings that can only come through the people God has placed in authority over me – blessings like the water the Israelite community so desperately needed in Kadesh. In order to continue my journey, I need the water that flows from them: wisdom, protection, guidance, compassion, assistance...

When an authority figure has what I need, and I know I can’t go on without it, I'm faced with an age-old impasse: Will I speak to that rock or strike it? Often the temptation to strike the rock is strong. Dishonor takes many forms – some are harsh, some are cold, some are glossed with politeness. All of them make the person in authority over me a little less human.

I'm only just beginning to understand what my dishonoring actions have cost me over the years. Moses lost the dream of taking his people all the way into their promised homeland. He got what he wanted in the moment, but he fell short of his ultimate goal.