Two more, unconnected, bits from the book that never was; Deaths and People.

Deaths

I had been dreading that phone call. Every time my phone buzzed or pinged for about a week I was nervous. I knew he was sick. I knew he was really sick. I knew he was sick enough to possibly never come out of hospital. I knew that setting my phone to ring loudly if his family called even when on silent mode meant that a call at 01:30 was ever only going to be one thing.

Still, instinctively I reached out and silenced it as you would an alarm. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but part of me wanted it to be my 05:00 alarm. Looking back I think this was my last grasp of deniability: “This isn’t happening” kind of thing.

I woke enough to see that it was his wife who had called and my stomach dropped. There was no seminary class about this. What do I do? I hastily typed a message: “Did you mean to call?” By now I was clutching at the thin air where deniability used to be. The reply came. “James, it’s [him], he’s gone…”

So off I went to the hospital at 02:00. When I got there, I really didn’t want to go upstairs. What on earth was I going to say? Do I even say anything? Would my silence be misconstrued as not caring? There was no seminary class about this. What do I do?

Talking about it all a week or so later with a wiser, more experienced minister I was greatly encouraged when he basically said to me that ‘every time is different’. There is no set pattern. There is no class to take on this. There is no paper to write or exam to take on this. You will never know what to do or say. This is not like a visit to the hospital when someone has had a baby: arrive, smile, complement, offer any kind of assistance the family may need, pray, and leave before outstaying the welcome of tired new parents. My ministerial mate said, paraphrased, that to a certain degree ‘you’ve just got to be prayed up and then be comfortable making it up’ every time someone dies because every time will be different.

Honestly, whilst this might sound contradictory to everything I’ve just said, we need to view that call as a privilege. I wish I had really understood and internalised that before taking that call (even if I did my subconscious best not to actually take that call). I now know that being asked to be there in the lowest moments of people’s lives is a profound privilege. Being there, praying, helping, and generally just doing whatever needs to be done is a profound privilege.

I remember talking to a pastoral pal of mine a little while ago about being in an ICU room whilst family members said goodbye to someone on life support. I told them I felt woefully inadequate. He said (loosely), ‘Good, because you are. You should feel like that. But, never forget that Jesus is not’.

If I were to try and pass on one thing about ministering to those who are dying or to the families of those who have died it would be this: you are woefully inadequate in that moment and it is perfectly acceptable to feel so. You don’t need to take more classes. You don’t need to read more books or listen to more podcasts. You need to pray and go in there and be the hands and feet of our Lord. You have the profound privilege of physically representing Jesus at some of the lowest points in people’s lives. Be there for them and be there representing Him. Just be there.

People

I had been told many times (loosely) that “People are the best and worst thing about ministry”.

For a while I really didn’t know what this meant. I loved people (most of the time). I loved (and love) going to church on a Friday and seeing people. We would chat, worship, pray, spend time in the Word together, (sometimes) drink foyer coffee together, and then go break bread together. All in all, I can genuinely say that being a Christian in church did nothing to quash my enthusiasm for people.

Even when I began to start consistently serving in church nothing changed. I was the guy that played the piano in the music team and I loved being that guy, and I loved the people that I spent time with as a result of that. Again, nothing to get close to diminishing my love of people.

Then, when I took over the coordinating and leading of that ministry things began to change ever so slightly. People now wanted things, needed things, and had things on their minds to share. Not everyone, but some people. It was as if I had gone from being a magnet that sticks to other magnets, to the pole that pushes others away. Maybe that’s too strong, but at times that’s what it felt like.

Instead of arriving to church and thinking “Great, this/that person will be there” I was thinking things like “Wait, I wonder if this/that person will be there”. A subtle shift in thinking, but a larger shift in how I found myself relating to people. I can’t put my finger on any other reason than my taking on of leadership responsibilities. Now I had a small influence over how things went, things like song choice, key choice, scheduling of musicians, and song arrangements, I found that people were not as simple and straightforward as I had naively thought.

Then, as I gradually and over a number of years took on more responsibility, made more decisions, and had more less-than-ideal interactions with people I began to see a small kernel of truth in that sage statement, “People are the best and worst thing about ministry”.

Thinking of the things that people do that are counted amongst the most frustrating things about ministry, one or two examples come to mind.

At the end of 2 John and 3 John, we read this:

Though I have many other things to write to you, I do not want to do so with paper and ink, but I hope to come visit you and speak face to face, so that our joy may be complete.

2 John 1.12, (NET)

I have many things to write to you, but I do not wish to write to you with pen and ink. But I hope to see you right away, and we will speak face to face.

3 John 1.13-14, (NET)

In both instances we read of John’s desire to speak face to face. This is honestly, in my experience at least, a principle not shared by the majority of Christians. It seems far easier to shoot off an epically long email that would rival Beowulf or Macbeth for drama and confrontation that it does to sit down, perhaps over a cup of tea or coffee, and have a calm conversation. Honestly, I would do well to take my own advice here too.

Almost like a customer service manager, as the pastor you will receive (often in the non-verbal medium of writing) the vast and varied inner thoughts of some profoundly complex people that have honed in on something very specific and feel that you are the person to fix their problem. Rather than sitting, in person, and talking about what is on their heart or mind, a written word that often sounds anywhere from slightly accusatory to outright scathing will calmly cross your path and nine times out of ten, do its best to ruin your day.

This will, in most cases, not have been the intention of the sender, but when reading the written word the interpretation of tone and intention are left solely to the reader, are they not? In person, it’s all there to see and to be interacted with. In writing, it’s just there: frank and stark words on a paper (or screen more likely nowadays).

Rather than people themselves, perhaps it is more accurate to say that people and their peculiarities, one being their apparent lack of thought for how their words (or actions) will be received, is quite possibly one of the worst things about ministry.