On Death and Glass

I once cleaned windows for a dead man.

I don’t think I will ever forget the moment when it happened. And it still grips me, even today…

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Several years ago, I was working for Brad’s Window Cleaning out of Rockford (best company I’ve ever worked for, so I am unashamedly promoting them!).  One day, we had a cleaning job for a cottage by a lake. Nothing unusual about this job; a quick exterior power washing and in/out window cleaning. Since I was the crew leader for window cleaning, I headed inside the house to begin my work.

I was greeted by a kind woman, probably in her late 60s, and later met her husband who was sitting in a recliner in front of their television. I don’t remember their names, but the impression of their personalities is engraved on my memory.

It was a lovely cottage. A brightly toned, open living room facing the lake to the East, with large peak windows that needed a ladder to reach. There was a set of French doors that led to a deck, so the whole room filled with natural light.

As with most homes by a lake, most of the window cleaning was done in one or two rooms that face the scenery. So, as I was expecting, I spent the vast majority of my time in that living room – moving my ladder around, handing screens, and moving furniture.

I got to know their family quite well, even though I don’t remember all the details. They had a recently married son who did business somewhere in the South. I believe they also had a daughter who was rather successful in her field. This couple were proud parents, and they expressed interest in getting to know me as I cleaned the dust off their sills.

The television was on most of the time, and the sound was a dull white noise to us. I recall it being Fox News, and the story of the hour was a natural disaster or political upheaval in a foreign country. Something like that.

The main thing I remember was that the conversation between us was cordial and inviting.  I actually missed them as I went to other parts of the house to finish my work.

The following year, I pulled up to their cottage in our work van, and felt excitement at doing this job once again (we had some customers who were… less than exciting to work for. But some customers were a blast to have!).  I was by myself this time, as it was a small enough job that didn’t justify more than one cleaner. I will never forget being invited in and walking into that living room; that sacred space.

This time, however, the recliner was empty. I asked, “Where is your husband?”

“He passed away.”

I remember just standing there, staring at the chair. I so clearly remembered our conversation a year earlier while he sat there, and I was dumbstruck that he would never be there again.

I don’t think I ever paid so much attention to detail as I spent that afternoon working quietly around her house. I even cleaned up the dead spiders and bug carcasses that fell on the ground as I cleaned the garage windows (If you’ve never had to clean a garage window, consider yourself blessed by God. They’re the worst!).

Sometimes, while I’m cleaning windows, I still remember those moments. I learned, then, that even minuscule tasks can be significant. Ever since that day, window cleaning was no longer my job. Window cleaning became my ministry.

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On Writing and Not Writing

A while ago, I noticed that there was a subtle shift in my life. It happened shortly after I moved to Gagetown to begin pastoring the Nazarene church here.  I didn’t expect for this change to occur. In fact, I expected my life to shift in the opposite direction. Regardless of what I expected or didn’t expect, the reality of this change is still something that shocks me…

I stopped writing.

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I do write Bible studies for our Sunday Night study time and the Youth Groups studies, and I write sermons.  But, I stopped writing here; on my blog.  That strikes me as unusual, especially given that I see many pastors regularly publish their thoughts and reflections (many times, this is done by people I know who never seemed too interested in writing before).  Of all the ways that I, as a pastor, can reflect and play with ideas, I thought that my blog would be the perfect place to do so.

I was wrong.

As I was thinking about this last night, I realized why I haven’t written on here in over a year: it’s because I’m a pastor.  I don’t say that as an excuse, nor am I saying it to make anyone in my church feel guilty.  I say it because it’s a matter of fact.

When I write things on here, they are the result of personal study and reflection. I write the things that are going on in my head and heart. Honestly, over the last few months I have really wanted to write about what I’m learning through studying Job, Genesis, and the study of eschatology in scripture.  However, when I sit down to put my thoughts into words, I simply can’t go through with it.

I have found that much of my thoughts revolve around conversations. In talking with people in my church, I tap into new areas of exploration.  I learn more about myself, those around me, and what it means to be a pastor and a Christian. Through these conversations, I ask questions I haven’t asked before, I confront doubts I’ve never faced, and I come to realizations that I’ve never expected.  And that is the heart of why I don’t write.

Almost everything I have thought of writing about are products of personal interactions. They are the result of someone opening their heart to me in the foyer after church, or an ongoing conversation that develops a new chapter every week, or they stem from a discussion that grew out of grief or personal struggles.

What would it be, then, if I took those moments and reduced them to tools in order to publish something? Could I be trusted to maintain confidentiality if anyone I talk with could have their private thoughts put on display just so I could make a point? Certainly, as we all know, I rarely use names or reference specific instances that we could point to and say, “I know exactly what/who Ben is talking about!”  But the person whose conversation is critiqued, or analyzed, or – at the very least – mentioned, would know.

How would I feel if I were reading someone’s blog and ran across a reference to an interaction the author and I had? I’m not so sure I could trust the author anymore, knowing that anything I share with him/her could be used as a writing device for others to see. There would be the constant threat that our private conversations could be reduced to public tools.

I have tried to explore ways of writing that separate me from my pastoral context.  Perhaps if I wrote in a more mechanical manner, it would be easier to avoid bringing my church into the conversation and causing unnecessary collateral damage.  Maybe I could simply quote authors and develop a synthetic framework within which I could explore the applications of my own thinking.

I have tried that, actually. But, I can’t do that. I cannot separate myself from my context. Every time I sit down to write, I impulsively seek out ways of how what I’m thinking/learning/studying could be applied in a pastoral way; “How can these ideas help the people in my church to grow in their relationship with the Lord?” And when I ask those questions, I inevitably bring in specific instances. Suddenly, the writing becomes far less mechanical, and far more intimate.

I begin writing about so-and-so’s personal loss or struggle. I type up the victories that what’s-his-face has experienced. In the blink of an eye (rather, the click of a keyboard), those personal interactions becomes mechanisms for writing. They are no longer the personal complexities, full of emotion and intricacies. They are reduced to a single instance, and the individual behind them is reduced to a 1-dimensional character – created to serve a purpose in a parasitic dialogue; having all of their uniqueness sucked out of them so I can write a conclusion.

Even if I were to remove those personal conversations, I cannot help but wrestle against one of the greatest challenges in writing: “It’s rarely what you say that should concern you, but what people hear.” It’s possible that my conclusions on interpreting Daniel’s visions or interpreting Genesis 1-3 could cause unnecessary chaffing between myself and my people.

Please don’t misunderstand: I am not against conflict. Conflict, in and of itself, is amoral. I enjoy conflict of ideas and perspectives, because it helps bring to light things we may have not noticed before. It forces us to confront our own weaknesses and brings us to new levels of understanding. However, my concern with the impersonal medium of writing is that I could unintentionally push someone away.  For those in my church, or connected to my church, my writing could cause alarm and even make them uncomfortable to be around me. In that case, it would be better to have not written at all.

I know that may sound incredibly overdramatic.  Maybe it’s even a horrible way to think about writing as a pastor. But that’s how it is when I [try to] write. I truly would like to write on this blog again like I used to, but I’m not convinced that is the most pastoral thing I could do. More than not, I actually see it working against my role as a pastor.

Before I became a pastor, it never occurred to me that such would be the case.

 

Maybe I’ll start writing more regularly again. Maybe I’ll find a niche way of writing that avoids the potential pitfalls that I’m concerned about. Or maybe I’ll just say, “Screw it!” and write whatever comes to mind. Time will tell.