A good lay leader is such an asset to a congregation and a blessing to the pastor. They can provide a trusted sounding board for the possible, a breath of the Spirit’s guidance, and a faithful confidant. They function as a bridge between the pastor and the parish, serving on all church committees, and are in a position to be an effective communicator with members and friends of the congregation.

“Should I go visit so-and-so?” I’d ask Jim.

“Yeah, that would be a good idea. He is the second cousin of so-and-so, you know.”

Good to know. Vernon Lee, a mentor, saint, and denominational leader had counseled me early on to make it a point to learn the people’s history better than any one person knows it themselves. Jim was always willing and able to help me connect the dots, fill in the blanks.

Jim was an exceptional lay leader when I served the United Methodist Church in Palmyra. He was a confirmed bachelor, who lived with his aging, widowed mother. He did all the shopping, taking her to her doctor appointments, watching over her like a hawk. His car was recognizable where ever he went, a tan Bonneville, I seem to recall. He was also the village mayor, a person whom the general public endowed their stewardship and trust. 

Jim walked everywhere throughout the village. It gave him a feel for the grass roots of the community. He’d wave and greet everyone he met or passed by. Be they a kid on a bike or an elder on the front porch, Jim had the gift of being a good neighbor. He’d stop to talk with anyone on a wide range of topics – can you fix that pot hole at the corner? Or, What’s up with the fire department budget? Or, thank the police chief for bring back my lost cat. Jim was a man about town.

Though he easily exceeded ten thousand steps a day, we’d often walk the village together after dark. We’d be done with church meetings, or, he’d have the village board meeting behind him. We both needed to unwind, to talk out the stress, and wear off some shoe leather. We’d inspect the village water works, streetlights casting long shadows around the parameter. Jim and I would visit the combined village and town gas pumps and check for open doors at the village DPW. We walked the village cemetery, taking notice of fresh graves, straw, and grass seed. 

Sometimes we’d walk along the railroad right of way, pausing when a distant train whistled it’s approach. We’d step behind cover and experience the passing thunder from a safe distance, watch the color lit signals reset and go dark. Our conversations ranged from the informative to the sublime, from humorous to the tragic, from superficial to profound theological questions that plumbed the depths of the human condition. 

Mostly, I appreciated how Jim held a reverential respect for silence, the ebb and flow of sacred space between us, where thoughts freely came and went, or where nothingness became a welcomed familiar. A respected seminary professor once taught us that when you don’t know what to say, “keep your mouth shut.”

Presence speaks louder than words. Showing up; that’s what the Lord expects, laity and Ordained alike. Be the embodied presence of our loving and merciful God.

Silence.
Presence.

Just show up. 

___

We know who we are. Lap swimmers are creatures of habit, predictable, trustworthy, locker room mates of few words. Goggles and towel separate us from our pickleball and weight room cousins. Words would be wasted when an eye and nod of the head will do. I see you. I respect you. 

We look for each other. When absences occur, it is impossible to help but wonder. Are they okay? Did something happen that disrupted their schedule? Are they on the way to some distant vacation? If so, good on them. 

Windows on the south side of the pool give brief glimpses of the larger world when the crawl stroke takes me down the lane. Returning eastbound, I see a familiar, disinterested lifeguard, watching the clock for fifteen minutes to drip down the drain, anticipating relief from another guard rocking flip-flops and the red cross.

Hourly workers tend to watch the clock. 

Yesterday’s blowing snow is replaced this morning by a beautiful sunrise, west Texas orange and red, the cosmic sphere rising in the dawning sky. Spring is in the air, and, boy, does it ever smell good!

Today I ask to share a lane with an unfamiliar face. “Sure,” he smiled. “No problem. Do you prefer a side?”

This give and take is an important social lubricant, under the guise of reducing the risk of collision.

“Naw,” I replied. “I’m slow on both sides of the lane.” We share a smile in the moment. He heads out in front of me. I wait to give him a head start. 

Silence is a beautiful thing.

We are silent partners, sharing a common space and time. Unlike my walks with Jim, we remain obscure and unknown to each other. Is he a person of faith? I wonder. Children? Grandchildren? What did he do for a living? He left before me and vacated the locker room before I finished my shower. Yet, his face and kindness remained, as a whisper of potential for meeting again, perhaps, some day. 

Silence is good. For waiting. For wondering. For dreaming. For praying. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of silence, and for the ability to share your silence with a friend. 

___

Silence isn’t naturally comfortable, at least in my case.

The scenery around the retreat center was Rio Grande brown and flat, wind swept, with few natural trees, bookended with stunning sunrises and sunsets. Our group was a cohort of younger pastors from around the country, each paired with a denominational leader or seminary professor, a mentor who would help shape our life, call, and career.

Chapel was a shared experience, with devotions multiple times a day. Early in this post-graduate program, a worship leader invited each in attendance to enter into five minutes of sitting in silence. One would think a bunch of pastors wouldn’t have any problem sitting in silence.

You’d be wrong.

I sat and stared at my wristwatch. The sweep second hand took forever to work its way around. My weight shifted, from one cheek to the other. There was an itch on my nose. Someone coughed. The pew on which I sat cracked. Thoughts raced though my head. Tangents, snippets, randomness, questions that couldn’t be answered. There is a sound of undisciplined silence, and I discovered it is as deafening as tinnitus.

“Five minutes is up. Let’s talk about what just happened.”

The debrief revealed a shared experience, and it wasn’t good. Distrust. Uncertainty. A space filled with anxiety, anger, and justification. The troubles of the world filled our spiritual containers, yet the drain was clogged and all the flotsam and jetsam overflowed. Like innocent bystanders with mouth agape, watching the train wreck of the soul in slow motion, unable to control, slow, or stop the flow.  

Is it possible to just be? This was uncharted waters.

Put a crimp on thinking. Throttle thoughts and distractions. Breathe; deeply breathe. Listen. Dial in the hearing. Narrow the eyes, just enough to welcome the shadows yet ward off the temptation to sleep.

Become one with the silence.

For me, silence has become God’s gift ready for me to claim.

___

Betsey was a colleague, twenty-five or so years my senior, a contemporary of my father (and his generation). She and Dad were buddies, hanging together at clergy gatherings and conferences. Years later she reported, after the daily session they’d sometimes go out and have a beer. Or two. Or three. This was in spite of his promise to my mother that he’d never drink again.

A resentment arose from me after hearing of Dad’s alcoholic transgressions, but, over time, and with greater understanding of his traumatic younger life, I’ve forgiven his flaws and let go of these harmful thoughts.  

My first encounters with Betsey were not positive. When I visited annual conference, usually supporting camping and retreat ministries, I observed that Betsey was one often at the microphone, asserting her case, advocating for justice, calling out hypocrisy. She was a bra burning, tie dyed, anti-war feminist, Selma marcher of the first kind. She was obviously no friend of the bishop. Yet, neither were they foes. Other female clergy members of conference loved her and often rallied at her side.

Women clergy seemed to have a thing among themselves. It was mysterious; a secret bond, or so it seemed, unknowable to men. It made other male clergy and me jealous.

As a co-chair of the Board of Ordained Ministry, I had to deal with Betsey when I came through the ordination process. When all was said and done but the bishop’s laying on of hands, I got a note in the mail with her return address. It looked like it was written in pencil on a piece of brown paper torn from a grocery bag. The note informed me that, in lieu of the traditional ordination gift from the conference, the Board of Ordained Ministry decided to make a gift to Africa University, in our name. 

Without our permission. Without our input. Gee, thanks for asking. The message I heard was, take it, new guy, and like it. Welcome to the union. And, oh. I wasn’t worthy of a decent piece of paper, or the effort of a typewriter?

Though her loud-and-proud presence repelled me, and the resentments I harbored from the gift I didn’t receive continued to gnaw away at my serenity, there was something more about Betsey that caused me to pause, to wait, to watch and listen for the Spirit to move. God was using Betsey to catch my attention, lassoing her into my sphere of friends with the invitation for us to become friends. 

We two could not be more unlikely friends.

In time, we got to know each other. Social circles began to overlap. I witnessed Betsey weave her means of grace serving as defense counsel to clergy charged in church trials, one in our conference and another in a neighboring conference. Though guilty of dishonoring the office of the Ordained, every defendant deserved competent counsel. And Betsey gave it her best effort. 

Betsey was not afraid to call any bishop on the phone, day or night, and demand an accounting. She’d stop in the conference office un-announced and request the treasurer go over with her the budget and pension numbers for the ensuing year. She served a minimum of one week per summer at one of our camp sites, ensuring kids had a chance to have a personal relationship with a female clergy person. Being a role model was important, and her actions spoke louder than words. 

The church calls forth strong, independent clergy women, and it’s past time for us men to pay attention. I loved it. 

Betsey was a butterfly at annual conference. One clergy, one laity, parity in decision making, gather for three days of annual conference, usually at a regional college or conference center. We worship and learn together, celebrate retirements, honor the dead, conduct ordinations and consecrations, pass resolutions, and debate a proposed budget. Passing a budget means sharing the burden equitably among local churches.

I was Ordained in the former Central NY Conference, centered in the Finger Lakes region. Consolidations over the years led to the North Central NY Conference, and, to the Upper New York Conference (when Western, Troy, and Wyoming conferences were added). Think of it this way: Big meeting, chaired by the bishop, produced by conference staff. It is time to socialize, caucus, and toe the line defined by Robert’s Rules of Order. Attendees grab free pens and tchotchkes from vendor tables, drink bad coffee, and gather for terrible meals.

In later years, I learned to lodge with local clergy colleagues, instead of grabbing a hotel room. This allowed us to show up to conference late in the morning, and leave early in the afternoon. Attend only to be seen. Keep under the radar.

We learned nothing we could say or do would impact the agenda or momentum of legislation, so why bother? For the colleagues and I who ran in the same social circles, annual conference was a three day affair to gather around an evening camp fire, talk about the challenges we overcame the prior year slugging it out in the parish, to catch up on family and friends, and to reminisce with embellishment past escapades of pastoral ministry. Often, cigars and alcohol were involved. Nuff said. 

Over the years Betsey circled into these gatherings for annual conference. We’d meet and stay at the local home of one of our colleagues, or at our family cottage on Bradley Brook. We’d sing. We cried. We shared responsibility for preparing meals. We had some of the finest steaks off the grill. We ate, drank, and smoked until we fell into our respective beds to sleep the night away, waking the next morning to do it all over again. 

We’d sit in silence around a campfire.

When Betsey’s husband died, we all showed up. Nothing need said. We gathered from across the state, just because that’s what we do. She bought the bar that day. By this time, I was living sober (thankfully so).

In her retirement, Betsey was surrounded by a close knit family she loved to take on worldly travels. From Iceland to Antarctica. It was ironic that I received news of her sudden, unexpected death while I was with my family in Alaska, exploring faraway lands, glaciers, and seas. Though unable to attend her funeral on the opposite side of the continent, the silent space between us was powerful, and brought me to tears. It still does.

Silence makes room for the Spirit to fill.

Over the years our numbers diminished. What is left of our dwindling group of clergy colleagues gathered last year for the annual conference memorial service. Betsey was one of many of our colleagues being remembered that day.

Betsey was something more to us. We honored her memory. We are grateful that we shared the journey together. Her name was read, and the bell was rung. We bowed in reverence to the loving God of our experience. In the silence, the pause, the in-between, we whispered “thank you.”