What Pastors Do

2013 has arrived and this column has me thinking of what I shall do with the new year.

 

I am prompted by a question that was asked of me not long ago by my five-year-old daughter Gabrielle. "What do pastors do all day?" Perhaps, dear reader, you have wondered the same.

 

I sought to answer the question for Gabrielle by taking her with me on a pastoral visit to see a friend from church, one of our more elderly, "homebound" members. This is a woman who has long been a member here at Second B, but whose failing body makes it near impossible to come most Sundays. As is often said, "The spirit is willing; but the flesh is weak."

 

As we pulled into the driveway a Lubbock Police Department officer was outside. My friend had earlier been backing her car out of the driveway and had hit a parked car on the other side of the street. "Well," I thought, "this is either incredibly bad or incredibly good timing."

 

We parked and came inside along with the police officer behind us. He was gentle and kind, but not patronizing. He issued the citation, shook each of our hands and then went along his way. Left alone, we now said what must always be said in times like these, "Atleast no one was hurt."

 

We sat down and began to talk about the difficulties of growing old. This was the first wreck my friend had ever been in that was her fault. Neither she nor I said it, but I am sure both thought it - that perhaps accident was another of the tolls of old age. She looked at Gabrielle. "Do you feel good, hon?" she asked, "I bet you do." Gabrielle nodded her head yes. I thought to myself how neither Gabrielle nor I really know what it is to feel bad.

 

Then I looked down at what I had brought with me. In a plain, brown-paper sack I carried the signs of a savior who knew what it is to feel bad - to have a spirit that is willing, but flesh that is week. Inside the bag were the elements of the Lord's Supper.

 

"O, communion," my friend said, "it has been so long since I took it. I am so glad you brought it."

 

I explained to her that in our understanding of the meal we are okay with Gabrielle taking part because she knows that it means something more than a bread and juice - but that it is a sign of Jesus' suffering. "Yes," she said, "I think that's wonderful."

 

We gathered together around a makeshift table and prayed. Then I said the words of institution, "The body of Christ broken for you; the blood of Christ poured out for you." We ate the bread and drank the juice and words from a great hymn came to my mind. I looked at my friend and began to sing,

"One sweet morning when this life is over,

I'll fly away

To a land on God's celestial shore,

I'll fly away

 

Hearing the old, familiar words tears began to well in my friend's eyes. "When you get my age, that's how you feel. You're ready to fly away. I'm ready to fly away. I'm ready to be with Jesus.

 

We sat there in the silence of that holy moment and then I looked at Gabrielle. "Gabrielle," I said, "she's ready to go and see Jesus. Do you want her to tell him anything?"

 

Gabrielle nodded. "Tell him I love him."

 

"I will honey," my friend said, "I'm sure he already knows it; but it will be good to hear it."

 

We said our goodbyes, I gave a parting prayer, and then Gabrielle and I walked out the door. On the way back to the car I paused at the garage and looked down at her. "That, Gabby, is what pastors do," I told her.

 

May our sons and daughters find us all doing what we do best in 2013.