“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all those who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Luke 14:14)
The Church Lady at Saint John’s Mamaroneck, NY looked askance at me when I showed up as a supply preacher that Sunday morning. “You’re not Dr. Pfoonmann,” she said.
“Should I be?” I asked.
“If you want to cash the check you’ll have to be,” she replied. “It’s made out to him.”
Oh, boy, I thought. It looks like Pastor
Marv screwed up. He’d arranged for me to sub for him months ago, but he must’ve
forgotten and called another pastor. This was pretty discouraging. I was a
fourth year seminarian and my pecuniary circumstances relied heavily on supply
preaching gigs. Plus, I’d driven all the way up from Philly and paid tolls on
the Jersey Turnpike and the George Washington Bridge. I’d also spent time
writing a sermon which it looked like I wasn’t going to be able to preach. As I
was pondering how much Pastor Marv’s mistake had just cost me, the Reverend
Doctor Pfoonmann[i]
drove up. Church Lady and I explained the mix-up to him. I figured if I left at
that moment I’d have just enough time to drive up to Yorktown Heights and catch
the late mass at my old internship congregation.
“Don’t go,” the Reverend Doc said. “We’ll do the service together. You can preach and I’ll preside.[ii]” Church Lady said she’d see to it that I’d receive a check in the mail. That sounded good to me. After church Dr. P. complimented me on my sermon and gave me a piece of advice. “When you get ordained,” he said, “be sure to get on a lot of synod committees. Get yourself known. This way you’ll be considered for better calls or positions on the synod staff when they open up.”
This sounded like good advice for someone making a career in the Lutheran Church. The only issue with it is I’ve never seen being a pastor as a career. It’s supposed to be a calling. There’s a big difference between the two things.
Some years ago I attended a retirement party for my closest Lutheran neighbor, Pastor Kevin. He was leaving his parish after twenty-four years of service. In those twenty-four years Kevin never did anything sexy. He never wrote a book or published an article. He didn’t create a popular podcast. He didn’t serve on a synod committee. He didn’t found a new social ministry organization. He didn’t serve an underserved population, build a new church building, or get arrested for protesting social injustice. He had no need to blast his own kazoo. He knew who he was and what God had called him to do. He just served his congregation faithfully and well. And they loved him for it.
Kevin had no desire to move up the ecclesiastical food chain, but neither did he grovel in self-deprecating humility. He just had an honest understanding of his talents.
In the Gospel appointed for Pentecost 12, Year C (Luke 14:1, 7-14) Jesus isn’t giving us some magic formula for self-promotion. He’s not saying, “Do this and you’ll get that.” If you think what you do will influence God, you’re practicing superstition, not religion. Someone’s false modesty and self-deprecation is really a drag for the rest of us. We keep having to say polite things to buck up the ego of the person who denigrates themself. Just once I’d like to respond to a Uriah Heap-style comment by saying, “Yeah, you’re right. You really are unworthy. Guess it sucks to be you.”
I think Jesus is calling us all to an honest assessment of our gifts. If we are told, “Friend, move up higher,” it will be because the elevated place is where our abilities and sense of service—not our ego or ambition—calls us. Whether you’re the pastor of the big downtown church or the little country chapel, CEO of a major corporation or the guy who cleans the men’s room, your talent for the service you render is a gift from God. You didn’t choose it. There’s something liberating about honest self-appraisal. It’s a relief when you don’t have to pretend to be important.
Our Gospel lesson finishes up with Jesus’ advice about throwing dinner parties. He tells us here that, should we feed the poor and disabled, we’ll be rewarded at the resurrection of the righteous. Now, who am I to argue with the Lord? But I think our reward will come a little sooner than that. I’ve been invited to some pretty swanky wedding feasts and funeral repasts, and, as the pastor, I’ve always been given a pretty nice seat of honor and chowed down on some very tasty and often expensive meals. But on the occasions when I’ve bought a bucket of KFC to share with homeless folks who’ve stayed in our church basement through the Interfaith Hospitality Network, I’ve felt the satisfaction of knowing I’d done what Jesus wanted me to do. That’s reward enough.
Thanks for reading, my friend. Remember: when you’re baptized, you always have a seat at the table.
[i]
Obviously, this isn’t the pastor’s real name. I forget what it was. It was a
long time ago.
[ii] In fairness to Pastor Marv, St. John’s didn’t celebrate Holy Communion every week. He needed to call an ordained pastor on Communion Sundays in accordance with Church doctrine. I was still in seminary and lacked the authority to celebrate a mass. I guess he forgot which Sunday it would be when he arranged to have me fill in for him.
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