A number of years ago I read a book by one of the leaders in my Christian denomination, the Mennonites. Peter J. Dyck was well-known for his philanthropy and post WW2 legendary presence, helping both victimized and/or guilt laden European Christians deal with postwar trauma including emigration to North and South America. The book is not a detailed review of those years, even though rich in incidents and anecdotes of that time. It is a personal book, Getting Home before Dark (Herald Press, 2000) an account of the author, “Lord, let me get home before dark” to die before age robbed him of his ability to be kind, trusting, loving and generous. It is a book which at first impression might be in category of tame piety, almost devotional – except that it is not. It is an inspirational book of activity by one who could not but do what he had to do.
Once upon a time during the 1980’s I met this gentleman at the airport and brought him to our house for dinner. Edmonton International Airport is some distance from where we lived in the city so these airport trips required a fairly major time block for us city-dwelling picker uppers. I was one of the pastors, one of the planners of a weekend teaching series, and the volunteer to fetch Mr Dyck, our speaker, arriving from Kansas. I remember that trip with my passenger as though it happened yesterday. He was full of conversation and queries, “You are a church planter, I hear?” “No,” I said, “I am just the pastor who was chosen to take leadership of a new congregation emerging out of First Mennonite Church. And that’s what I’ve been doing these last several years.” “You are a church planter.” he said with finality. There was no need for further nuances or philosophical differentiations. Further conversation now moved on to what was going on in Edmonton and of course the weekend series he would be speaking to us about. I was so attracted to this man’s purposeful, engaging, kind and no-nonsense approach.
Why am I still fascinated by this man, whom I encountered in the middle of the best years of my life doing very enjoyable work? It is because of his stupendous legacy of accomplishments and his unassuming realistic presence. That humble confidence made a mark on me, and now in retirement comes to mind almost daily.
My most recent post is a New Year’s reflection thinking about the previous year, obviously aware of things not accomplished; 😐 along with some perspective for moving forward. It’s me thinking and writing as I am wont to. Even while thinking about many things and in absence of considerable NHL hockey games to watch (thanks to PPD corona scheduling), I happened last night upon “Trumping Democracy” on CNN – two hours of intrigue, and a grim reminder of the absolute chaos inflicted on the American people by an outgoing President with an ego so fragile he was unable to accept reality of losing an election. Even more troubling to me as I watched the Trump-incited riot at U.S. Capitol Jan. 6 last, was the fact that those hooligans represent almost 50% of the people who populate that country. Are these ‘citizens’ unable to give their heads a sufficient shake to understand that democracy is a great privilege which can be squandered if irresponsibly used? I am reminded of Jesus’ words some two thousand years ago when similar crowd mentality began showing up, "When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." (Matt.9:36)
Without even intending to, I now have wandered into the incendiary topic of U.S. politics. I have no desire to stay here however - no need to opine with conservative – liberal – republican – democratic assessments of that gong show. Not today anyway! Instead there is something I consider even more important. Mental health is the problem, not only obvious ailment of Donald Trump, but a malady increasingly referenced in newscasts of this pandemic, as though one of two options – virus spread or mental health. It can be overstated like almost everything else, but here I am, need to say my piece about it.I continue with some permission from my readers who have recently demonstrated considerable courtesy and encouragement on said subject. Having been a diagnosed depressive for many years and the son of a depressive my whole lifetime, I am now prepared to say something about the experience of this "thorn in the side." [FYI dear reader, please understand, in my case this is progress. On several occasions I have been asked to do a presentation on depression - and each time refused, kind of pissed because it felt like request to be a zoo animal, a specimen to look at.] Mental illness is no fun; definitely more pervasive than a broken arm or foot,“if it offends you cut it off.”(Mk 9:45). 😔 It lives among clowns and recluses, among neurotypicals and autistics, among scholars and ditch diggers, among drunks and tea totalers, and obviously not among the first things shared when we have ‘prayer requests’ in worship services. Mental illness is a malady cursing almost all manner of beings and becomes especially powerful when avoided.
Donald Trump hates losing. Actually Donald Trump is terrified of losing. Trump the billionaire businessman has provided some of the most titillating and financially profitable Miss America Pageants and other delicious indulgences for the American appetite. The possibility of an ultimate run – the presidency - became the next fixation complete with the gimme slogan of all who think that way, “Make America Great Again.” Not only mental, but this contest took on a spiritual image. After all Mr Trump said so, and to prove that point he showed up in church a few times - with cameras rolling!😏
Anyway, sarcasm aside, I confess I also do battle with possibilities of not making it. When I grew up the eldest of an Old Colony farm family I had the early privilege of discovering new things, also becoming aware of my parents’ deviation from their church by encouraging us, their large brood, to do well in school. In elementary and high school I carved out a niche. Not ‘smartest in class’ but frequently also scoring the coveted A+ or an occasional 100%, I was near top of the class academically. In sports not quite as athletic as several of my siblings, but full participant in hockey, soccer and softball teams, always with ample friends and new possibilities in front of me. I enjoyed pioneering new thoughts, new adventures quite in character of my large, colorful family.
That was me in that family. Self identity, however, is not self esteem. Enter the extra agenda of trying to figure out this matter of religion and Christian faith showing up in rural Saskatchewan along with pretty girls and nice cars. We were part of a large rural community learning new folkways, quite the agenda for a nescheah teenager. Looking back now, I smile at myself in secondary education, first in a Bible School and then undergrad College and University, enjoying occasional high marks, but also a bit unnerved by subjective courses like sociology, history, and a new mysterious one, theology. Grades were not regularly assigned in percentages, moreso by A's,B's, or C's, and sometimes simply placed on the curve. The important thing is you learn to think, so said the professors, 😏 an early hint of what would become even more challenging as my profession took shape.
I was called into pastoral ministry at the ripe old age of twenty-four, and commenced with self-expectations similar to what I had learned in high school – score top marks if possible. I remember some devastating Sunday afternoons in that first small town pastorate, fully aware that sermon of the morning had not been a blaze of inspiration, and even as they were very kind, I knew it had been less than 100%.😓 What was wrong with me? So I worked and slaved – and sort of succeeded - thanks to something learned at home on the farm! I became involved in community life including school bus driving, teaching a special-ed class at the local elementary school, and operating farm equipment for some of the local farmers. Those relational encounters with the teachers, farmers and farmhands obviously became more important than whatever this kid preacher might try to say on a Sunday morning.
The Call, the survival. The relational ingredient entered into that first pastoral experience together with my wife and our firstborn among the opinions, the gossip, the families and the funerals of people in a small town church. I survived certainly not because I provided profound theological truths behind their pulpit! It was in subsequent years of seminary, including clinical pastoral education (CPE), that I learned that ‘good answers’ are never sufficient for pastors trying to do their job. If there is not a relationship with the people it becomes a failure.The irony
for me, which I discovered in the training programs, and in subsequent
positions in hospital chaplaincy and pastoral ministry was that I am
genetically disposed to depression! Fortunately for me, the fear of failure (common
among depressives), manifested itself as a sort of honesty or a transparency which was part
of my weird interesting (?) personality, and declared to be acceptable
among the people. Acceptable to others does not necessarily translate into self-acceptance. To claim it for myself, "Ah there was the rub." Mental health involves BOTH environment and genetics. It did eventually lead
to my mid-life crisis which is now the story of my sojourn. After admitting to
myself that my mental health needed attention I resigned position as pastor of
a thriving congregation. Those
subsequent years of long haul trucking on the interstates of the country
Donald Trump has been trying to control, became the location of new joy, new
faith (I call it new discovery of God). This preacher needed to accept he is better off on certain
medications especially at certain times of the year, and indeed life has its seasons (read Richard Rohr, Falling Upward, Jossey-Bass, 2011). With conviction and considerable gratitude I can now declare
that God is above and beyond national and international boundaries, beyond the ebbs and flows of certain religious organizations and church denominations, and beyond
the ebb and flow of my particular lifetime, and of course beyond the successes
and failures of yours truly. Whew, kind of a relief.
I still smile at Mr Dyck’s pronouncement that I was a church planter. Maybe I was, and to this day I enjoy that reputation. More important to me now, however, is the thesis in that book of this elder brother, that to live the remainder of my days being at least tolerably kind, trusting, and loving is quite important. Also I have learned enough of God in my life to know that I am acceptable, whether in miserable or loving format (Yes Ephesians 2:8-10 once more). But dying would be easier if I’m a nice guy.
Wouldn’t it
be nice if Mr Trump also could take Mr Dyck’s advice, and just take a rest? No need to prove to the world that you
are adequate. Just believe it, man. God can help you with that too.
