A Word for Pastor’s Wives

The Winkler case is a terrible tragedy. Although the trial has not taken place, it seems apparent to all that Mary Carol Winkler killed her husband (who was a pastor in the small town of Selmer, TN) and fled with her small children. It should go without saying, that Mrs. Winkler succumbed to events outside her control and will now face the appropriate consequences of her actions. Nothing I say below justifies or removes her from culpability for her actions.

Reading through this article, I was reminded again of the expectations placed upon pastor’s wives. Obviously there are certain demands that a pastor experiences that are specific to that ministry. But I am convinced that the way of a pastor’s wife is even more difficult. There is the physical isolation as the pastor is on call 24/7. But even worse is the social isolation of being in a new environment away from family and friends.

I recall in seminary the loneliness of spouses who moved to Ft. Worth from across the globe. While their husbands were often consumed with new friends and new ideas in the classroom, their wives were often left alone with the children back in campus housing. I suspect that this dynamic plays out on the ministry field all to often.

They must sacrifice time with their husbands and protect their family, all the while living under the microscope of the church community. There is a peculiar expectation placed upon them that they themselves can't act like other women, but must always maintain appearences.

Here is the line that struck me from the end of the article. Mrs. Everitt, was a neighbor of the Winklers and described how difficult it can be for strangers to move into Selmer. She says

“You're not really excluded," she said, "you're just not included."

Add the isolation of having to be a role model as the preacher's wife, Everitt said, and "you just have to feel sorry" for Mary Winkler.

"It keeps her from having true friends. To me, a friend is someone you can call at 2 o'clock in the morning, squalling and bawling your eyes out at whatever trauma is going on. Now tell me, can a minister's wife ever do that?”

I think that very few minister wives can. It is a sad indictment on all of us who call ourselves ministers that there is such an artificial expectation placed upon the pastor’s family. If there wasn’t such a demand on minister families to present trouble free living and plastic smiles, then perhaps the church members would also live more genuine lives at church.

My own dear bride Kadie is an exceptional person and would be a far better pastor’s wife than I would be a pastor. But as we were working through God’s calling on our lives, she clearly felt that God has not called her to be a pastor’s wife.

And being a pastor’s wife is definitely not a job for someone who isn’t called to it!

Fat Studies and "Fat" Ministers II

No, I'm not going to take a shot at obesity in the ministry. (Although I am reasonably sure that I could hit the (rather large) target. In fact, one study demonstrates that the denomination with the highest percentage of obesity is the SBC. Perhaps that's why we have never passed a resolution condemning gluttony, but have passed 74 resolutions on that other thing. And isn't cardiovascular disease the number one killer in North America, especially in the South?! But I digress...)

As I mentioned yesterday, Ms. LeBesco's attitude cautions us against identifying ourselves with our physical size. Most ministers would readily agree with that. But what I think they often have trouble doing is distinguishing between their ministry's size and their self-worth.

It is remarkable how often in ministerial gatherings the discussion shifts to church attendance. I have witnessed (and participated in) a not so subtle game of one upmanship that equates a large ministry with a successful ministry.

I am preaching from my own experience. All too often I located my self worth with the number of people in church the previous Sunday. It could affect (and even effect) my outlook for the following week. In fact, I am thoroughly convinced that God kept us in Lone Oak to relearn this lesson. I still need to learn it.

I am currently working through Henry Blackaby's book Spiritual Leadership: Moving People to God's Agenda. He refers to numbers as an inauthentic measure of spiritual leadership. I think that he is right on this point. Attendance make for an easy measuring stick because it is so easily quantifiable. It is more difficult to quantify discipleship.

So while we write off Ms. LeBesco's attempts to have her self-worth determined by size, we should keep in mind the more subtle variations of that same mindset. After all, (as Saul found out) it isn't the number of sacrifices we make, but rather our obedience that God most desires.

How to Become a Famous Musician

(Thoughts after watching Ray and Walk the Line on successive weekends)

Be born in the rural South.

Work as a sharecropper.

Have a brother who dies in a tragic childhood accident for which you were not at all responsible, but for which you will remain haunted by guilt for your entire life. (I would guess that this would be a typical response to childhood trauma).

Get married, but remain consistently unfaithful to your spouse.

Hang around with other musicians who will one day become famous.

Get addicted to drugs.

Express regret (via rehab) and your legend will be secure.


Despite their similar story arcs, I enjoyed both movies. I am more familiar with Charles' work, but each movie made me I want to listen to these two artists more. Cash is the more intriguing character, and I like the Christian themes in Walk the Line.

Jamie Foxx, Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon (!) were unbelieveably good in these films, but overall Walk The Line made for a better story.

NB: For a raw, painful video that Johnny and June Carter Cash made shortly before their deaths, watch the music video for the song Hurt. It is a remarkable work of art suffused with religious imagery.

Water and Dust (II)

Dust is the other bare component of life in Lone Oak. During the long dry spells, dust would swirl and blow across the hill country. Many of the back roads in the county are unpaved. Going out to visit a member of the congregations, it was routine for your Michelins to trade asphalt for dirt and rocks. A fine layer of dust rests on most everything. Whenever the wind moved hard over the landscape, dust would get into your eyes and hair. It is strange to run your fingers through your hair and it feels coarse and desiccated.
Initially we didn’t like the idea of our children playing outside on the farms because clothes and kids became so dirty. But as the years went by, both ourselves and our girls went more and more native. By the time we left, they were often playing among the cows and goats and running around barefoot.
On a typical weekend we would arrive early on Sunday morning from Waco and spend the day. Occasionally we would spend a Saturday or a Sunday night out in Lone Oak. But I was always struck by how our minivan looked when we returned. It would be completely covered in dust. We would have to wash Lone Oak off the car almost every week.
I went through a phase when I began to pray for God to take us elsewhere; for us to move on. During this time, the dust symbolized the things I liked least about Lone Oak and I would work hard to keep our car (and ourselves) clean. As soon as we returned to Waco I wanted to remove every last vestige of the dust. But God began to soften my heart and the last year we were there was a wondrous time. I will eternally be thankful that God did not answer my prayers in years three and four. Year five was an immense blessing.
It has now been six years since we pastored Lone Oak Baptist Church. During last weekend's visit, our first in many years, one member with whom I tangled on occasion looked at me bemusedly and said “Do you realize you’ve become our beloved former pastor?” I laughed and said that I was sure many wished I had become a former pastor even sooner. But at the end of the weekend, we were sad when we left Lone Oak. Skeeter was two years old when we moved out of Lone Oak. But this last weekend as we pulled out she said “Daddy, are these people our relatives?” Even she felt the affection they graced us with.

I am finding out now that Lone Oak dust can be hard to leave behind.

Dust and Water (Part I)

[This post has been delayed because of events I will mention over the next few days.]

This last weekend, the clan and I went back to Lone Oak Baptist Church. Lone Oak is a small community (population around 250) around an hour west of Waco, right on the edge of the beautiful Texas Hill Country.* It has been over three years since we had visited.

It was/is a small church. On high attendance Sunday we ran around 60. I served there as pastor for five years while I worked through the graduate program at Baylor University. It was my first (and so far, only) experience as pastor of a church. Kadie and I were richly blessed in our time there.

Water and dust and sum up my feelings about Lone Oak. Water and dust formed the raw materials of Adam and also formed the essential elements of life in Lone Oak. Water is the sustainer of life everywhere, but its presence and absence particularly marks life in a rural, agricultural environment. One of my predecessors made the mistake of lamenting a thunderstorm one Sunday morning. One of the farmers scolded him saying “Look here young man, one thing you don’t do in this church is complain about rain!” I learned quickly that as the water runs, so does farming life.

I can remember the ground incredibly parched while farmers wondered whether it would be best to send their cows to the slaughterhouse rather than to ship in hay to feed them. Dry weather also meant that the tanks (for some reason, that’s what they call ponds in Central Texas) would run low and even the horses and goats would suffer from lack of water.

And when the water came, it could be imposing. Thunderstorms beat down upon a landscape that was only “protected” by 10 foot high, gnarled mesquite trees. There is barely enough grass to cover the ground, so often thunderstorms would carve gullies through the dirt and sand and beat upon any edifice that humans have deigned to scratch together.

I recall visiting a new member of the community. He and his wife lived in a 12 by 20 foot shed while they built their home. We went by and exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes while a thunderstorm rolled in. Then the sky opened up and rain began to pelt the tin roof of the shed. We had to scream at each other to be heard. One of my enduring memories of Lone Oak was me yelling things at John like “So how long have you worked at the plant!” and him screaming back “Oh, about 23 years!!!!”

But water was not always pleasant or humorous. It could also break death as well as life. As William Brown has said, sometimes in ancient Israel, the only thing more dangerous than the absence of water was the presence of water. That was true in Lone Oak too.


*Lone Oak is not the real name, and is not on the map. At least, I don’t think it is. Let me hit mapquest and look. Ummm OK, apparently there are SIX Lone Oaks in Texas. Well, this isn’t any of them!

Highway 31

For years I have driven down to Waco, Texas from our home and have traveled part of the way along Highway 31. Our family took a trip down there this weekend and I wanted to share with you some of the pictures.





Our 1998 all white Ford Windstar resemebles nothing more than a marshmellow from the Valley of Eshcol, lumbering across the state. So while the kids watched their DVDs read their Bibles in the back seat of the minivan, Kadie and I feigned conversation and watched the scenery. I will now share some of it with you. (The scenery, not the conversation).


This sign has always caught my eye. It is located outside of Athens

My slogan would be "When those Off the Shelf Hog Traps Just Won't Do."

Some of the Afore-Mentioned Traps

I wonder if you could catch some of these in one? I was unaware that there were hogs this size, ranging across central Texas. These traps are enormous. Our family of five could fit in one. In fact, a cross-state trip might be more comfortable in one than in our car.

After a hard day's driving, you can end your trip with a nice meal at the world's famous

The proprieter indicates that it is filled with Baptists most Sunday afternoons. Umm, trust me, they are not there for the food.

More pix soon!

Chili's Life Lessons

During the four years I attended Southewestern Baptist Theological Seminary in the ewarly Nineties, I worked at Chili's restaurant on Hulen drive in Fort Worth. I had a great expereince there and even toyed with the idea of getting into mangagement for awhile (until God calmly reinforced my calling to the ministry). Recently, Wes Kennedy commented positively on the importance of tipping in Greensboro and got me thinking about those days again.

Things I learned at Chili's:

As noted on Wes' blog, the stereotrype that Christians are really lousy tippers is justified.

Any Spanish that you learn from the kitchen cooks, contains profanity.

When you are cutting onions and the tears well up, if you go into the walk-in freezer your tear ducts will close and you will stop crying. (This works at home too, just stick your head in the freezer). Note: do not try this with your small children.

Food service managers work longer hours for less pay than most anyone I know.

A lot of people break up their relationships at restaurants.

Working a double shift in the smoking section affects your body.

I now know what a triple sec is.

When a patron asks for another straw, don’t carry it out in your bare hand, wrap it in a napkin.

It is possible to carry a two dinner double fajitas orders (plus their set ups) on one hand (with the tray stand in the other).

Drunks are not particularly amusing.

At Chili’s, we had to sweep and mop down the floors and tables every night. It is one clean restaurant.

Sometimes guys tip to try to impress their dates. On one single occasion, I received a $100.00 tip from a guy trying to impress his date.

Top shelf margaritas are REALLY expensive.

If you have a really caked on, burned in stain in the microwave, get a wet washcloth, lay it over the stain and microwave it for 1:30 on high.

You really shouldn’t eat an Awesome Blossom by yourself (It has enough fat grams to last you for 3 days!!!)

If you take a glass mug straight out of the hot dishwasher and fill it with ice and a cold coke, the glass will break and the bottom will drop out of it.

The bartenders have the most interesting stories in the store.


Favorite seminary/Chili’s story:

After working the lunch shift, my manager was trying to get me to work a night shift that evening. He was a muscle builder and had the constitution of an ox. His physically imposing presence made him difficult to turn down. I explained to him that I couldn’t work the night shift because I had to study for a Hebrew test (with Dr. F. B. Huey) early the next morning. He said to me “Dude, don’t you know that the Catholics already translated the Bible a long time ago?”

Drawing the Idiot

(I write monthly devotionals for our Tae-Kwon-Do School. From time to time I will double dip and post one here).

It is hard to deal with idiots.

We all go to work with idiots, go to church with idiots, or maybe even live with idiots. We encounter idiots while driving in a car or shopping at the store. Sometimes I get aggravated at the store because the salesperson knows nothing about the product they are trying to convince me to buy. I think to myself "Good grief, I drew the idiot today" (Fully realizing that they may be thinking the same thing!)

We see real idiots every day and even spend part of our time watching idiots on television. Living amongst idiots makes things tough for us sometimes. We would like to believe that if other people looked at life the same way we do, or acted the same way that we do, or even believed the same way we do, then all of our lives would be so much better.

Unfortunately, the idiocy remains.

But Jesus calls for us to look at people in a different way. He calls us to look beyond the outside of the individual, and to see their special nature. We are called to look at people the same way that God looks at them. How does God look at people? He looks at them the same way any loving parent looks at their child: he loves us. In 2 Corinthians 5:14-16 Paul writes “For the love of Christ urges us on, because we are convinced that one has died for all … From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view”.

What this means is that we are to look beyond the way people act, or dress, or even smell. We are supposed to love each person as a special, specific creation of God. The fact that Jesus died for every person, demonstrates the value of that life. We should not look down upon someone that Jesus has died for.

As C.S. Lewis once noted, the things that seem to last the longest in our world (interstate highways, malls, hospitals, nations, schools) are those things that will one day decay and disappear. While the things that seem to last the shortest amount of time (humans) are the things which are eternal. God has made us to last for all eternity. We don’t have to change in order for God to love us. Paul also wrote in Romans 5:8 that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Jesus died for us all.

Even all of us idiots.

Greensboro

I am not going to Greensboro, North Carolina this weekend. Family responsibilities and summer school have conspired to keep me from making the trip. But while I remain behind, my thoughts and prayers are most definitely in Greensboro. (For a summary of the import of this SBC convention, please see here).

For years I have been out of the SBC fold, largely unconcerned with being active in more than my local church. I had given no further thought to the convention in the years past.

But that changed this year. With the attention of the blogsphere shifting to the next generation of SBC life, I see much good remaining. The blog community has convinced me that there are still good, godly people who have chosen to remain in the SBC. In particular, the work of the International Mission Board is unparalleled in the history of Christendom. So I will pray for the convention.

With some more work, I am becoming increasingly convinced that there is much in the SBC that is still of value.

That is why Carolina is on my mind and in my prayers these next few days.

Tears and Idiots

A recent thread over at Bowden’s blog (I should say ONE of his blogs, the other is here) reminded me of the following event from a few weeks ago before school let out. Scooter (10) was sniping at her sister a lot and finally I told her (in a gentle, fatherly way) to knock it off.

She responded by bursting immediately into tears.

(I then paused a few seconds to try to take it in. I never know how to respond initially to female tears. I have encountered them in numerous situations over the years and in various relationships (friends, daughters, wives, wife, sisters-in-law, co-workers) but I always have the same initial thought: What did I do to cause this?)

So I asked her “What did I do to cause this?”

She replied “You just don’t understand.”

...

Well, she had me there.

After more prodding she continued “A boy called me fat at school today.” My response was immediate and unthinking:

“What idiot called you that?” I snapped.

Through her tears she scolded me. (weep, weep) “Daddy, we don’t call people idiots.” (weep, weep).

"Well, at times we make exceptions."

The conversation degenerated from there.

Why I Blog

One of the great stories in our family's shared memory is the time that my college roommate came over for a family meal. He is a self conscious gent, and was well aware that he was the only outsider present. So as we sat down to eat, my younger brother Bartolo (who continues to have the ability to identify weakness in others) silently regarded Bobby for a few seconds. Bobby, increasingly nervous under my brother's gaze began shifting in his seat and nervously avoiding eye contact. Finally my brother spoke: "Bobby, why are you here?" Bobby still (17 years later)seems a bit crestfallen over the memory.

Years later, Admiral Stockdale would ask that same question in a vice-presidential debate. So I want to try to answer that question in this entry. I have struggled a bit with trying to find my voice over the last few months. On the one hand I have been reenergized by the discussion for the last six months going on among Young SBCers. I was pretty well burned out for the last 10 years by the politicking, but I have enjoyed the signs of life among the coals of the conservative resurgence. But I’m not sure how much I have to add to the discussion.

George Orwell wrote a short little essay called “Why I Write.” In it, he identifies four reasons why people write:

(1) Sheer ego (3) Historical impulse
(2) Aesthetic Enthusiasm (4) Political Purpose

I think that these four reasons would fit most of the blogs I read. Coffeespoons will focus on the initial three reasons. I do want to focus on mostly our lives (ego) but in a compelling (and ideally humorous) way (aesthetic). I would love to write about a character like G. Burlymofo for example!! I also want to keep a record of events around here. But I do enjoy the way that words fit and go together, so perhaps there will be an aesthetic element in here sometimes too (the historical).

So I am returning a bit to the first post, I will write mostly about our little lives here in the deep south. Not because they are exceptional, but because they are so typical. I hope that others can relate. Ultimately, our lives fashion into a testimony of our creator, and I hope to be able to say, like my reformation fathers, Sola Gloria Dei.

Worst Mission Meal??

My new word for the day is hippophagy. (I am pleased that MS Word has a red underline next to it). It means, roughly, the eating of something (not hippos). I encountered this word in a recent book review. It got me thinking, what is the strangest “delicacy” you have ever ingested? I think of three offhand, each of them I "enjoyed" while in foreign missions:

1) I did summer missions work in Moscow and we ate cow tongue, suspended in jellied beef fat. I could simply not finish it. It was the fat, not the tongue. You know when you put roast beef in the refrigerator over night and then you look at it the next morning and it has little jellied fat around it? That is exactly what surrounded the tongue.

2)Also in Russia, this time in St. Petersburg. The church where we worked had become convinced that Spam was an American delicacy. We ate spam soup, spamwiches, and spam borscht. I literally have not had spam in the 17 years since that trip and the next time I have it will be too soon for me. (Perhaps we should’ve been working for the church of Spam?)

3)But the worst was a combination of sardines and scrambled eggs. I encountered this delicacy in southern Brazil on a mission trip. I am proud to say (obviously I am proud, I am a blogger after all;) that I ate every bite. The pastor who prepared it watched us while we ate and we were afraid that we might offend him. The best part was that our team discussed how awful it tasted while smiling and trying to look spiritual. The pastor spoke no English and could not tell that our conversation was more culinary than cross-cultural.

What is the worst you have eaten on a trip, mission or otherwise? (not counting college food, like the 3 "pizzas" for a dollar you could get at Albertsons in the 1980s).

Shaggy Missions

A few semesters ago I stayed up late one Saturday evening to watch an episode of Saturday Night Live for the expressed purpose of achieving insight into the students of today. SNL was the hallmark of popular culture in my day, so surely it still is?

I watched an individual named Shaggy perform. I was struck by his libertine approach and became convinced again that we are living in the last days of Western Civilization. He is a bit different from the Shaggy of my childhood. But the kids like him.

So, I decided that I could still use my newfound cultural knowledge in my classes. In short, I began dropping Shaggy references wherever possible:

In my introduction to philosophy class I said “Shaggy’s song ‘It Wasn’t Me!’ might illustrate Kant’s concerns about a teleological ethic. Discuss.”

Or in my American history class I mentioned that “William Henry Harrison’s rapid rise in popularity would not be surpassed until Shaggy’s recent meteoric charge up the hip-hop charts…”

But students are more discerning than that. I found this out when I recently received my student evaluations. Concerning my references to Shaggy a discerning student wrote “You should not really talk about things you don’t know anything about.”

That certainly imposes a severe limit on my conversations.

It isn't only missionaries who must deal with crossing cultural boundaries. I have to do it as a teacher, but we must also do it as Christians. but all of us have to do it. If we are to be effective in this world, we cannot ensconce ourselves in comfortable Christian cocoons. (A point made recently by others here, here and here)

All who are called to be ministers of Christ (which I believe means ALL Christians) must deal with tremendous gaps in relating to our culture. Being in the world, not of it means always wrestling with these issues of communicating with, but not becoming like, those around us. Even when we risk looking foolish.

Student Small Talk

Conversation with two of my current students (James and Ryan) while walking down the hall.

Me: “James, good to see you, how is the semester going?”

James: “Oh, great Dr. Taran, much better than last semester.”

Me: (Fishing for a compliment, because he was not in my class last semester). “Really! What has made the difference this semester?”

(James thinks long and hard for several seconds as we walk along. Finally his friend answers for him.)

Ryan: “I think it’s mostly his sobriety.”

I need to work on my small talk with students.

Film Memories

The year was 1975.

I was six years old and remember it vividly. I was excited because I was going to the movies. For some reason, my mother and my uncle foolishly agreed to take me to the show. Dad was home with my infant brother.

Going out with my uncle was always a treat, I so much enjoyed being around him. He was a unique individual. He was my mother’s oldest brother and what I most remember about him was his laugh. He was always either telling a joke or laughing at one. He had a wicked sense of humor that I didn’t always understand, but made my mother laugh uproariously. She tells me to this day that my sense of humor reminds her of his.

Mom says that she and her brother used to stay up late into the night watching Johnny Carson. Humor defined my uncle and played an important part of first their, and then later our, relationship. I remember confiding in my uncle about how I felt slower than my friend Chip who lived down the street. My Uncle told me that he was sure I could beat Chip in a race if I just kept working at it. (He was absolutely wrong on that point, Chip always toasted me).

One other thing about my uncle. He was a quadriplegic. He was struck with polio in his late teens as he finished up high school. Before the disease he was tall and athletic and according to family tradition, had a full baseball scholarship to the University of Texas. I never saw his hands strong enough to swing a bat or grip a ball. In my mind’s eye they are always locked in an odd angle, incapable of movement.

So going to the movies was a special treat. Mom got out his wheelchair and picked him up and placed him in it, as she had thousands of times before. We wheeled him in and bought our tickets. The theater marquee had a huge caricature of Jerry Lewis next to the listing of all the films. Inside, where you waited in line for popcorn and a coke, was a mural of a crowd of the Hollywood greats. So you stood there waiting for your Milk Duds alongside the Duke, Groucho, and Marilyn.
We sat in the back of the theater (this was a fifteen years before the Americans with Disabilities Act) with my uncle in the aisle. My mother sat next to my uncle and I sat next to her. I’m sure we talked a bit before the film began, but that is not what I remember most.

The film was the Return of the Pink Panther, starring Peter Sellers as Jacques Clouseau. And I can recall the precise moment, the nanomemory where my love affair with film began. Clouseau was trying to get into the (Notorious) Litton’s home and disguised himself as a telephone repairman. He borrowed a telephone repair van and drove down a hill. The brakes went out and (as I recall) the stick shift came off in his hand. His garbled French and English combined in fright as he hurtled off the street and through a row of bushes. The van then took flight and crashed into a swimming pool where it sank like a cartoon anvil.

It was at that moment that I turned to look at my mom and my uncle and saw that they were each laughing. I laughed too. That image of the three of us laughing is locked in my mind.

Two years later my uncle finally succumbed to polio. I still remember the phone call when my mother told me he died. In recent years I sometimes stop in Emory to visit his grave. I regret that he didn’t get to know my beautiful wife (with a wicked sense of humor herself) or his great nieces. He also missed getting to know the great nephew who would one day bear his name.

But Clouseau is still chasing the Pink Panther diamond. And now I can put the DVD in and watch it with my kids and laugh at the same scene.

I bet that it still makes my uncle laugh too.