There is more to the story
23/01/13 05:18
When I began my career as a pastor, it was typical for a new minister to receive a pulpit in a rural location. The congregations were usually small and the pay was low, but it was common for a parsonage to be provided and the generosity of the congregation was expressed not only in financial donations to the church, but in gifts of food to the pastor. College and seminary debt was relatively low in those days, generally much less than a year’s salary even at the low rates of pay. Most pastors would server three or four years in one of those “starter” parishes and then move on to a larger church with a larger salary.
For whatever reason, the parish where we began our ministry was a bit stronger than some of its neighbors. And the community had more options for young pastors trying to get started. Not long after I began my work as a small town pastor, I started working on the side as a DJ at the small-town, low power radio station. This was before the days of automated radio and the studio required a live person to take the news off of the Teletype machine and read it. Not long after I began working at the station, we got our first satellite dish that allowed us to start broadcasting network news as opposed to the feeds that we received over the telephone lines. The station started to air a popular program featuring Paul Harvey called “The Rest of the Story.” In the business, we referred to the program as TROS. It aired in the afternoon in the beginning. There was an intro, always the same, “You know what the news is. In a minute you’re going to hear the rest of the story.” Then there was a 30-second commercial from the network, followed by 3 minutes and 45 seconds of story. Each story had a unique twist and was supposed to be “verified” to be true. There were some stretches of the facts over the years, but the presentation was entertaining. The stories had a mild political bias, but nothing like contemporary radio and television where journalistic impartiality has gone by the wayside. As a radio station employee, TROS was a pure 5-minute break. It aired long enough to go to the bathroom and get a fresh cup of coffee.
But I have known from those days that despite the popularity of the show, “The Rest of the Story” is never the whole story. News reporters and entertainers (I’m not sure which category best described Paul Harvey) make decisions about what to say and what to leave unsaid. There is never enough time on air and never enough attention from the audience to truly tell a complete story. Reporters are constantly making decisions about what to say and what to leave unsaid.
Some things come instinctually. If you live in a small town, you report the tragic loss of an individual in a car accident, but you probably don’t go into the details of the night of heavy drinking that preceded the accident. You tell about the sale of a herd of livestock, but you don’t dwell on the series of bad decisions that forced the sale. You cover the winners of the school board election, but don’t go into the backroom meetings where a potential candidate was intimidated and “persuaded” not to file a petition to get on the ballot. You report on the new public official, but don’t go into the scandal that preceded the rapid departure of the previous person in that position. After all, you have to live in that town, too. The people who listen to the radio are your neighbors – and in my case the members of my congregation.
There is always more to the story, even when Paul Harvey declares, “And now you know the rest of the story.”
Sometimes I am called upon to tell part of the story of a person’s life. I deliver a dozen or more eulogies every year. Some of the eulogies are for people that I never met face-to-face. Sometimes it is someone whose life I have witnessed for a long time. Last night I held the head of a man I first met 35 years ago as the staff of the funeral home gently laid him on a stretcher to transport his body for preparation for the funeral. I was on my way when he died. I arrived a few minutes after it was over. I have watched as he declined and visited nearly daily. I had been with him less than 12 hours before he died. Still, there is something very final about those moments as you sit with a body and wait for what is to come next.
His widow asked a few questions about the obituary. I started to think about how I would craft the words for his funeral. I’ll be perfectly frank. I know things that have no place in a funeral service. I’ve witnessed moments that I wish I could forget. This man was, like the rest of us, full of brilliance and capable of making bad decisions; brilliant in some moments and stupid in others; compassionate and insensitive at the same time. In a word, he was like all Christians: forgiven.
My work is now focused on a grieving family that, like all families, is complex. A son may not have the same needs as an ex-wife. A brother and sister may disagree or have witnessed different parts of the story. There are some old emotions that appear like landmines on the road of grief. There is unfinished business that needs to be resolved in a less-than-perfect manner.
In the old days, when I finished my on-air shift at the radio station, I would walk down to the City Café to have a cup of coffee and hear the stories of the folks who gathered there every morning. On my way, I’d walk past the office of the man who died last night. We’d often walk to the café together and sit in the same booth. For our town, the real “rest of the story” was never broadcast on the radio – it was learned informally over a cup of coffee.
Whenever the funeral is planned, I won’t be telling the whole story. But I also won’t be pretending that I am some kind of impartial observer. I’ve been a character in the story for 3 and a half decades.
Fortunately I proclaim God who is so invested in our human lives that he became one of us to walk alongside us, to share our common lot and also to conquer sin and death.
Despite everything else, Love wins.
But I have known from those days that despite the popularity of the show, “The Rest of the Story” is never the whole story. News reporters and entertainers (I’m not sure which category best described Paul Harvey) make decisions about what to say and what to leave unsaid. There is never enough time on air and never enough attention from the audience to truly tell a complete story. Reporters are constantly making decisions about what to say and what to leave unsaid.
Some things come instinctually. If you live in a small town, you report the tragic loss of an individual in a car accident, but you probably don’t go into the details of the night of heavy drinking that preceded the accident. You tell about the sale of a herd of livestock, but you don’t dwell on the series of bad decisions that forced the sale. You cover the winners of the school board election, but don’t go into the backroom meetings where a potential candidate was intimidated and “persuaded” not to file a petition to get on the ballot. You report on the new public official, but don’t go into the scandal that preceded the rapid departure of the previous person in that position. After all, you have to live in that town, too. The people who listen to the radio are your neighbors – and in my case the members of my congregation.
There is always more to the story, even when Paul Harvey declares, “And now you know the rest of the story.”
Sometimes I am called upon to tell part of the story of a person’s life. I deliver a dozen or more eulogies every year. Some of the eulogies are for people that I never met face-to-face. Sometimes it is someone whose life I have witnessed for a long time. Last night I held the head of a man I first met 35 years ago as the staff of the funeral home gently laid him on a stretcher to transport his body for preparation for the funeral. I was on my way when he died. I arrived a few minutes after it was over. I have watched as he declined and visited nearly daily. I had been with him less than 12 hours before he died. Still, there is something very final about those moments as you sit with a body and wait for what is to come next.
His widow asked a few questions about the obituary. I started to think about how I would craft the words for his funeral. I’ll be perfectly frank. I know things that have no place in a funeral service. I’ve witnessed moments that I wish I could forget. This man was, like the rest of us, full of brilliance and capable of making bad decisions; brilliant in some moments and stupid in others; compassionate and insensitive at the same time. In a word, he was like all Christians: forgiven.
My work is now focused on a grieving family that, like all families, is complex. A son may not have the same needs as an ex-wife. A brother and sister may disagree or have witnessed different parts of the story. There are some old emotions that appear like landmines on the road of grief. There is unfinished business that needs to be resolved in a less-than-perfect manner.
In the old days, when I finished my on-air shift at the radio station, I would walk down to the City Café to have a cup of coffee and hear the stories of the folks who gathered there every morning. On my way, I’d walk past the office of the man who died last night. We’d often walk to the café together and sit in the same booth. For our town, the real “rest of the story” was never broadcast on the radio – it was learned informally over a cup of coffee.
Whenever the funeral is planned, I won’t be telling the whole story. But I also won’t be pretending that I am some kind of impartial observer. I’ve been a character in the story for 3 and a half decades.
Fortunately I proclaim God who is so invested in our human lives that he became one of us to walk alongside us, to share our common lot and also to conquer sin and death.
Despite everything else, Love wins.