I remember during my senior year of high school one of the themes chosen for one of the major events - prom, graduation, etc. - was the lyric from the old Grateful Dead song “Truckin’”: “What a long strange trip it’s been…”
The lyric was fitting for our graduating class. We were leaving several years of familiarity and over the course of our last year in high school we were now saying goodbye to our teachers, each other, and the system we knew. We had even seen the roof of our building be replaced, literally walking down hallways on school days with open sky exposed because of so much damage from long-standing leaks. This project even came with controversy over asbestos in the repairs. Truly, what a long strange trip it had been.
Nearly 15 weeks ago, the majority of us across the United States found ourselves walking through a moment where life as we knew it was getting shut down. The spread of Covid-19 took over the collective attention and consumed the collective anxiety of our culture. Schools shut down. Entertainment and shopping centers shut down. And yes, for us who carry the vocation of pastor, church as we knew it shut down.
Then, on May 25, officers in Minneapolis arrested George Floyd. While in their custody, he was restrained with a knee on his neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds, until he died. The social corridor narrowed again. Demonstrations, protests, riots, and looting all ensued.
And so I’m writing this today for my pastor friends. Because in many ways it feels like we’re walking a social hallway, seeing holes in our ministry ceilings, and perhaps thinking the same theme has consumed our lives. Truly, what a long, strange trip these past 15 weeks have been.
Eight years ago my wife and I moved home to our small town in North Central West Virginia and planted a church from the ground up. We began with about 25 friends on our back porch. Over the course of eight years we’ve watched our church grow - with all the stretching and tumbling and joy and pain that encompasses any growth. Two years ago on Easter we saw 356 people attend our Easter worship services. Last Sunday, three weeks into trying to regather since social distancing in our area had been relaxed, we saw 14 people attend our service. What a long, strange trip it’s been.
I think maybe though, Jerry could have added another adjective to this lyric. What a long, strange, hard trip it’s been.
I know that so much of our social fabric has changed over these past four months. Every sector of our society has felt this. Education, politics, entertainment, civil service, and the list goes on and on. But today, maybe for myself and maybe for someone else, I want to write to my pastor friends. Because Jerry forgot to put the word hard in his lyrics.
Just before the pandemic hit, I remember several news articles covering the deaths of large church pastors who had struggled with depression and succumbed to suicide. It seems like in recent years there have been too many to count. Even during the pandemic, another pastor, Darrin Patrick lost his life in a self-inflicted gunshot wound. To say this as bluntly as possible, I’m tired of seeing those called to ministry taken out by demons of depression.
Which has me thinking… How are we doing in the midst of this long, strange, really hard trip?
Let me speak only for myself.
I spent the first few weeks of Coronavirus shutdown trying desperately to figure out how to “gather” a church that couldn’t gather. I learned more about video editing than I ever wanted to know. I tried live streaming. I tried to understand Google Analytics. I talked about online giving. I talked about fear and anxiety and preached my guts out with no one in the room. A few weeks in I even started enjoying the recording process. I found a new way to do my vocation and then found some joy in it, even though someone telling me church was awesome because we got, “64 likes!'“ made my skin crawl. But then our conversations shifted to how we would reopen. So we spent hours and hours talking about guidelines, CDC research, the potential for spread, masks or no masks, hand sanitizer availability, how to clean properly, and on and on. We made communication efforts about reopening. We tried to be excited but not too excited so those who weren’t comfortable coming back to worship in a building wouldn’t feel guilty. We kept recording videos. We tried to setup live streaming. We talked (more) about online giving.
Then, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd.
And while all these things in the paragraph above were taking place I also started to try to figure out how to preach and teach about racial righteousness and reconciliation in this cultural moment. I targeted my 95% Caucasian town with the truth of God’s desire for justice and equality and leaned into conversations many wouldn’t think were prophetic enough and many others would say were too over the top. Too conservative. Too liberal. Too soft. Too hard. Too much information. Why can’t we just focus on Jesus? All these were things I heard. And felt.
What a long, strange, really really hard trip it’s been.
If I’m completely candid, I feel like my most frequently used phrase right now is, “I don’t know.” Two weeks ago I preached a message called “Brave Enough Not to Know”. Maybe it was because I needed therapy for myself to actually believe that all my uncertainty right now is okay.
I don’t know.
I don’t know what church is going to look like a month from now or a year from now.
I don’t know how to sustain the giving we’ve lost.
I don’t know how to lean into the necessary leaning toward racial reconciliation that we’ve failed at as the Church for too long.
I don’t know how to separate my sense of identity from my work of ministry.
I don’t know how to love my family well and also shepherd a church that is afraid to gather.
I don’t know how to get people to wear masks.
I don’t know a lot of things.
And for those of you who are pastors in this moment struggling with the exhaustion, the depression, the anxiety, the fear, the hopelessness, the grief, the confusion, the uncertainty, and the not knowing, I don’t know how to help.
But I’d like to.
I’d like to say I really do think it’s okay for us in this moment not to know. I think it’s okay to name the strangeness (and the hardness) of this moment. And I think it’s okay to say you need someone to talk to, pray with, and stand beside. We’ve never been here before. So let’s not go it alone.
Maybe on the other side of this we can add one more lyric… What a long, strange, really really hard, and beautiful trip it’s been.
I’m staying hopeful friends. Reach out if you need an ear. Our stories are better together.