Life in community
09/11/12 05:23
I didn’t spend much time in the office yesterday. I have days like that from time to time. Actually, a great deal of what I consider to be my job doesn’t happen in my office. I am called to be with the people I serve in the midst of their lives – in their homes, in the hospital, in nursing homes – wherever their lives unfold. But yesterday wasn’t a day of visitation. It was a day that was filled with a variety of different community service activities.
My day began with an 8 a.m. meeting of the Human Rights Committee at Black Hills Workshop and Training Center. I have served on this committee for quite a few years, now and I enjoy the work. It gives me connection with members of our community who are often unseen and unnoticed by many in our community. From there, it was off to United Blood Services where I was able to donate platelets, plasma and whole blood. The experience is always a kind of break in my day because mostly what I have to do is lie still and squeeze my fist from time to time. Donating on the apheresis machine takes longer than just donating blood, so I have time to read a book. Yesterday I had time to read several chapters of a book that we are discussing in our clergy book study group. I had been behind in the reading of that book and it was good to get caught up and even just a little ahead in advance of next week’s discussion.
I checked in at the office and dealt with e-mail and phone messages, ran some errands that facilitate the rest of the week in the church’s life and soon the day was nearly over. I ended my day with a meeting of the Board of Directors of the Black Hills Chamber Music Society. It was after 9 p.m. when I turned my key to lock the church and got in my car to head home. The length of the day was typical for me.
It is often hard to know exactly when I am working for the church and when I am doing volunteer activities in the community. The distinctions are clear in some vocation, but less so in mine. Part of this is due to the luxury of a flexible schedule. I am expected to get my work done, but I do not work according to a time clock. When the job demands extra hours I simply put in the extra hours. When there are gaps in the work that allow for other activities, I take advantage of those gaps.
None of this is unusual and my life isn’t all that different from my colleagues, and it seems hardly a topic worthy of a blog entry, but I have known many who live in a community for years but don’t really become connected to that community. I’ve just finished Josh Davis’ book about the Great Plains and am left with a sense that this young man, who is a brilliant writer, a solid researcher, and a keen observer has ended up writing a book that comes off as a narrative by an outsider. Lots of people live on the plains without becoming a part of the community. This isn’t a book review, but one brief example serves to illustrate. Davis insists on using the technically correct term to refer to some of the plains animals. The critters commonly known as buffalo he calls American Bison. What locals call antelope, he insists should be called pronghorns. He is technically correct. He also creates a barrier between himself an a Harding County rancher who immediately knows that Davis speaks a different language. Insisting on being correct isn’t always the best way to listen to one’s neighbors.
I see it frequently in the many pastors who come and go from our town. Some of them have more authentic credentials as people of the plains than I. I have been a nomad in my life and I can’t really claim to be a native. But I know the language of the people I serve. I understand the ranchers at whose funerals I officiate. I can speak the language of the law enforcement officers when I am offered an opportunity to ride along with them in their work. I have spent enough days working in shops to get along well with the technicians who service my car and have been around sales enough to exchange banter with the sales staff in the front. I don’t say any of this to brag. It is just that I see colleagues who come to serve churches and work so hard to establish separation. They flaunt their educations, enjoy being addressed with titles, and are quick to name tasks that are beneath them. It always distresses me when I hear a pastor say, “I don’t do Sunday School,” as if there could be a church without a culture of teaching and learning. I not only enjoy Sunday School, I’m the one they call to get the toilet plunger when a child tries to flush something that just won’t go down. I have never experienced myself as too good to clean up a mess or too busy to fix something that is an easy repair today and an expensive item if left unattended.
In sort, I am very much like the people I serve. And so I work to keep the organizations and institutions of our community healthy. I give of my time and go to more meetings than I like some days. I roll up my sleeves and show up for the workdays and get out my checkbook when the fundraisers come around. It is not because I am somehow indispensible to the community. It is because it is what we all do. We all share in the life of our community.
As a result I am treated as an equal even though I didn’t grow up in this town. I am accepted as a member of the community even though I came from somewhere else. And someday, when I write a memoir, I pray that it will be of this place and not just about this place.
And Josh, I know you are right. But I have no intention of singing, “O give me a home where the bison roam, where the deer and the pronghorn play . . . “
My day began with an 8 a.m. meeting of the Human Rights Committee at Black Hills Workshop and Training Center. I have served on this committee for quite a few years, now and I enjoy the work. It gives me connection with members of our community who are often unseen and unnoticed by many in our community. From there, it was off to United Blood Services where I was able to donate platelets, plasma and whole blood. The experience is always a kind of break in my day because mostly what I have to do is lie still and squeeze my fist from time to time. Donating on the apheresis machine takes longer than just donating blood, so I have time to read a book. Yesterday I had time to read several chapters of a book that we are discussing in our clergy book study group. I had been behind in the reading of that book and it was good to get caught up and even just a little ahead in advance of next week’s discussion.
I checked in at the office and dealt with e-mail and phone messages, ran some errands that facilitate the rest of the week in the church’s life and soon the day was nearly over. I ended my day with a meeting of the Board of Directors of the Black Hills Chamber Music Society. It was after 9 p.m. when I turned my key to lock the church and got in my car to head home. The length of the day was typical for me.
It is often hard to know exactly when I am working for the church and when I am doing volunteer activities in the community. The distinctions are clear in some vocation, but less so in mine. Part of this is due to the luxury of a flexible schedule. I am expected to get my work done, but I do not work according to a time clock. When the job demands extra hours I simply put in the extra hours. When there are gaps in the work that allow for other activities, I take advantage of those gaps.
None of this is unusual and my life isn’t all that different from my colleagues, and it seems hardly a topic worthy of a blog entry, but I have known many who live in a community for years but don’t really become connected to that community. I’ve just finished Josh Davis’ book about the Great Plains and am left with a sense that this young man, who is a brilliant writer, a solid researcher, and a keen observer has ended up writing a book that comes off as a narrative by an outsider. Lots of people live on the plains without becoming a part of the community. This isn’t a book review, but one brief example serves to illustrate. Davis insists on using the technically correct term to refer to some of the plains animals. The critters commonly known as buffalo he calls American Bison. What locals call antelope, he insists should be called pronghorns. He is technically correct. He also creates a barrier between himself an a Harding County rancher who immediately knows that Davis speaks a different language. Insisting on being correct isn’t always the best way to listen to one’s neighbors.
I see it frequently in the many pastors who come and go from our town. Some of them have more authentic credentials as people of the plains than I. I have been a nomad in my life and I can’t really claim to be a native. But I know the language of the people I serve. I understand the ranchers at whose funerals I officiate. I can speak the language of the law enforcement officers when I am offered an opportunity to ride along with them in their work. I have spent enough days working in shops to get along well with the technicians who service my car and have been around sales enough to exchange banter with the sales staff in the front. I don’t say any of this to brag. It is just that I see colleagues who come to serve churches and work so hard to establish separation. They flaunt their educations, enjoy being addressed with titles, and are quick to name tasks that are beneath them. It always distresses me when I hear a pastor say, “I don’t do Sunday School,” as if there could be a church without a culture of teaching and learning. I not only enjoy Sunday School, I’m the one they call to get the toilet plunger when a child tries to flush something that just won’t go down. I have never experienced myself as too good to clean up a mess or too busy to fix something that is an easy repair today and an expensive item if left unattended.
In sort, I am very much like the people I serve. And so I work to keep the organizations and institutions of our community healthy. I give of my time and go to more meetings than I like some days. I roll up my sleeves and show up for the workdays and get out my checkbook when the fundraisers come around. It is not because I am somehow indispensible to the community. It is because it is what we all do. We all share in the life of our community.
As a result I am treated as an equal even though I didn’t grow up in this town. I am accepted as a member of the community even though I came from somewhere else. And someday, when I write a memoir, I pray that it will be of this place and not just about this place.
And Josh, I know you are right. But I have no intention of singing, “O give me a home where the bison roam, where the deer and the pronghorn play . . . “