More than The Messenger

When I first took a church job (way back in 1972: I was 19), I published the congregation’s newsletter. It was dubbed The Messenger and was printed on a Gestetner mimeo. I typed the newsletter on a stencil, stretched the stencil over the ink drum, cranked the press by hand, “slip-sheeted” a cardboard rectangle between each copy (to allow the ink to dry without smudging) and then fed the newsletter through the folding machine. Next, I addressed each copy with an ancient Address-o-graph (don’t ask—enough to say it was heavy metal—and I’m not talking about rock music).

At last, I sorted The Messenger by zip code and “invented” a few extra names and addresses (to bring the total to 200—you had to mail 200 pieces to qualify for bulk-rate postage). Many weeks, I sent 20 copies to the church office, addressed to “Hilda Schmutz”—a name I made up that actually referred to an old girlfriend upon whom I once had a crush, but who never had a crush on me. Okay, so I was only 19.

In those days, I imagined that only my mother would read the newsletter. My mom always read everything. But, c’mon, who else would read it? Well, maybe my grandma. I knew that Hilda Schmutz didn’t care.

Thirty-five years later, I still pen a weekly column. But, I still sometimes wonder if anyone besides my mom reads what I write. My grandma died in 1989. Hilda Schmutz still doesn’t care.

But, if I ever doubted that the newsletter is read, my doubts have been relieved in recent weeks. I’ve been getting a lot of feedback from things I’ve writ-ten. And, it’s not always “a good report.” Some take issue with what they’ve read by my hand; some disagree; some have been wounded; some aren’t sure I’m even telling the truth. Ouch.

The concerns expressed are so diverse as to preempt a reply in a forum like this. But, please know that I consider carefully all of the feedback I receive. I care about what others think—in a healthy way, I think.

Some of the correspondence received has been prompted by the sweeping changes we have all felt as we moved to Madison Park. To be sure, there have been some losses with the gains. Losses are real and can be very painful. My wife and I have felt many of those losses deeply; the last year has been especially tough. Because I am (dysfunctionally?) not accustomed to discussing my losses (beyond that Seattle thing I always whine about), I don’t always validate the losses in others lives. For this, I am deeply sorry.

Perhaps, some correspondence has been prompted by things I have written insensitively—not always appreciating the implications of an idea put forward. This is especially true when attempting to illustrate a point by drawing an analogy (which opens the door to all kinds of parallels, intended and not intended). I’m just dense, sometimes. I’m also very sorry for any grief I’ve caused on this score.

And, then, some correspondence may be prompted simply by differing perspectives. I just don’t see things sometimes like the world does around me. Truth be told, after 16 years, I still am sometimes conscious that I am “an outsider”—that my experience in Anderson is not the same as others who have always called Madison County home. I need to be more circumspect sometimes, understanding the limits of my own analysis and perception.

And so, to all those who read the pastor’s column: thanks so much for reading—even when you might find something I have written unnecessarily provocative or bruising. To all those who take the time to read and then also lovingly share your thoughts, thanks to you, as well. I respect and value your ideas, too.

To anyone who has been ruffled, I apologize. I do believe that what I have written is true—at least it is true as seen through the lens of my experience (which is different from objective, absolute truth, of course). Still, I will try to more carefully sort and express my thoughts in the days ahead.

As always, thanks to each one who extends grace—who always believes the best, hopes for the best, and calls out the best. If anybody in this town needs grace, it’s me. I am way less than perfect, on so many fronts. Newsletter columns included.

There are days, honestly, when I long for the simpler life I once knew, standing by the old Gestetner, slip-sheeting The Messenger. I didn’t write so much then; I was not responsible for so much then. I sort-ed the mail—it was not addressed to me.

But, on the other hand, I wouldn’t trade the rich experience of pastoral ministry at Madison Park for any nostalgic “days gone by” in my memory. I have seen too much of God’s good work all around me, in spite of me, to want to go back.

Be encouraged, dear friends. Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing. Thanks for loving, anyway.