Thanks to FX’s tv show The Americans, I have become completely fascinated by spies. How do agents perpetually inhabit such a morally ambiguous space? And how do they stay in their created personas, particularly when they juggle more than one alternate identity?

Spies are, by definition, impostors. They pretend to be someone different, or to like a target, or to operate under an ideology other than their own, so that they can obtain information they likely wouldn’t have access to otherwise. They sometimes - maybe often - have to remain consistent in their inauthenticity over a period of time to squeeze the most out of their marks.

Impostors, then, have to remember the stories they’ve constructed for themselves if they don’t want to be found out. To combat our own sense of being impostors, how might we remember the realities of our work and the truth of our impacts?

What are our purpose statements in ministry?

What is an image that reminds us of our authentic approach to ministry?

How might we build in regular reflections on what we’ve done?

Who are the people who see and value us, and how might we turn up their volume?

We have not imagined the work that we do and the effects we have on others. We do not have to keep concocted backstories in mind in order to speak and act in character. If we stay attuned to the call of God on our lives, we will be the real deal.

What are touchstones you can build in so that you stay on the trajectory onto which the Spirit has nudged you? Maybe the touchstone is a practice. Maybe it is a photo or a doodle on a napkin. Maybe it is a note someone has written to you. Maybe it’s a smooth stone that you keep in your pocket or a piece of jewelry you wear. Whatever it is, keep it handy to remind you as needed that you are showing up and moving about in authentic ways.

If you liked this post, check out week 1, week 2, week 3, week 4, and week 5 of this series.

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash.

As a kid learning to love basketball as Michael Jordan was emerging as an NBA superstar, I was curious about the Netflix docuseries covering his final season with the Chicago Bulls. I found several aspects of the series fascinating: Jordan’s exaggerated sense of competition, his rise as a cultural icon, his role in making individual endorsement deals as a team sport star commonplace. (By the way, did you know Nike was a small company specializing in track shoes until Jordan signed a deal with it straight out of UNC? I didn’t.)

But it was a quote from a journalist in the last episode that really grabbed me:

“Most people struggle to be present. People go and sit in ashrams in India for twenty years, trying to be present. Do yoga, meditate, trying to get here, now. Most people live in fear because we project the past into the future. Michael is a mystic. He was never anywhere else. His gift was not that he could jump high, run fast, shoot a basketball. His gift was that he was completely present, and that was the separator.”

— Mark Vancil, quoted in the Netflix series "The Last Dance," episode X.

Michael Jordan’s gift wasn’t his athleticism, it was his ability to be present.

That’s quite a statement. It’s also a ray of hope to me. I’ll never have great physical gifts. I’m a decent preacher, but no one will ever call me the GOAT. Sometimes I’m slow to respond in conversation. But being present? That’s something that I - that you - can conceivably do. That’s the real gift, and it’s available to us.

Sure enough, being present is especially tough right now when the demands are greater and our roles overlap in messy ways. That’s also why it’s even more important. If we can be where we are, if we can be with the people around us, if we can stay in the present without worrying about how our leadership will be received or obsessing about what our choices are doing to our loved ones, not only will this time be more bearable, it will also make us better pastors, parents, friends, and citizens.

What do you need in order to be deeply present? Keep it simple: a deep breath, a focusing verse of scripture or image, a ritual that helps you transition from one mode or task to the next.

I wonder what incredible, relational things we might be capable of if we leaned into this superpower.

Photo by Eilis Garvey on Unsplash.

I was seven years old when Daniel LaRusso landed the crane kick on Johnny Lawrence that felled martial arts powerhouse (and bully factory) Cobra Kai in the All Valley Tournament. The Karate Kid was the ultimate underdog story. Scrawny new kid in town, tormented by the Cobra Kai clique and their sadistic sensei, gets taken underwing by a wise karate master and wins his way to an unlikely championship despite injury.

Though there were later movies in the franchise, none matched the entertainment value or emotional impact of the first iteration. I was thus amused when YouTube dipped a toe into original programming with the development of Cobra Kai, a kind of “where are they now?” tv series based on the characters. Several weeks ago the first two seasons moved over to Netflix, and I was no longer amused. I was 100% sucked in. It hit all the right notes for fans of the original movie. Interestingly, though, it did so in completely different ways than the film.

The church has been in the pangs of change for a while, now accelerated by Covid-19 and the creativity the virus has demanded. I think Cobra Kai speaks to the ways in which the church can be in the process of taking tradition into account while becoming something new.

Strike a balance between nostalgia and innovation. The backstory of Cobra Kai is familiar, as are much of the soundtrack and many of the pop culture references. But instead of going heavy on the drama, Cobra Kai leans into the humor of two adult men reliving their teen rivalry. For the church to become something new, it will have to decide what essentials it wants to carry forward and what note it wants to strike, then be willing to experiment with everything else.

Look for ways to reach multiple generations. One of the reasons Cobra Kai works is because it’s a multi-generational story. The Daniel-Johnny storyline speaks to Gen Xers, while the budding conflict among their children and students is relatable for younger audiences. Churches can no longer cater primarily to a single generation just because they pay the bills.

Resist the temptation to make anyone one-dimensional. In The Karate Kid, the director clearly wanted audiences to root for Daniel. But in Cobra Kai, we hear Johnny’s interpretation of the conflict and see him interact compassionately (in his own way) with his proteges. We see how Daniel’s obsession with Cobra Kai negatively affects his marriage and his professional life. Neither character is easily categorized. In church we are too eager to pigeonhole people inside and outside the walls and limit the range of perspectives we’re willing to consider. That’s not just a turnoff for many (particularly younger) people, it’s also a denial of the grace that is key to our faith.

Don’t ignore the outside world. Johnny is a technophobe, but he (and the showrunners, who depend on streaming to reach audiences) gradually understands the need for smartphones and social media. Churches, put a hashbrown on your services and announcements and send them to the internet!

Don’t take yourself too seriously. I imagine the showrunners and actors wondered what reaction a comedic series based on a classic drama would garner. It could have backfired, but they made the gamble. Church leaders, spiritual growth is serious business. That doesn’t mean church has to be serious all the time. Take risks, and create space for joy in the process. People will notice and want to join you.

Make room for people’s growth. In the first episode of Cobra Kai, Johnny is a borderline alcoholic whose temper costs him his job. He spends his evenings watching Iron Eagle in a sparsely-furnished apartment with a six-pack of Coors Banquet. He cares for no one beyond himself, except for his son, whom he has pushed away with this absence. We see Johnny grow, though, as he builds up a dojo full of picked-on kids that he at first mocks but becomes protective of. The show doesn’t work without this arc. The church of tomorrow must support newcomers and long-timers in their development as disciples. Otherwise, what are we here for?

Don’t worry about what the other guy is doing. Daniel, Johnny, and their students’ constant tracking of what the opponent is doing and trying to one-up is what leads to the trainwreck at the end of season two. This despite the fact that the two dojos have very different approaches to martial arts and that there’s room in a big city for both. Church, you do you, not the congregation down the street with a totally different DNA.

Oh, and if you need a bit of self-comfort after this cruel summer, look for Cobra Kai on Netflix.

Photo by Charlein Gracia on Unsplash.

As a child, some of my favorite Friday nights consisted of eating a chili dog and playing video games at the Double Dip Depot (RIP, dear Chattanooga institution). On my family’s semi-regular trips to Gatlinburg in the 1980s and 1990s, the arcade was always one of the highlights.

So I am not complaining that retro arcades seem to be popping up everywhere. Recently I took my 6-year-old, who has not yet been so exposed to modern gaming as to be unimpressed by 30-year-old technology. As we enjoyed our ALL-YOU-CAN-PLAY PASS (!), it occurred to me that these machines might have some wisdom to offer those of us in the vocation of ministry.

Asteroids. Just like those church programs that are no longer effective but you still feel obligated to offer, you only play this game for the nostalgia factor. (I mean, come on, it’s barely a step up from Pong.) Memories are central to who we are collectively and individually, but we don’t need to spend too much time living in them. And yes, I recognize the irony of hating on nostalgia while celebrating the return of retro arcades.

Centipede. Getting a high score on this game means being able to focus on the movements of the centipede while keeping an eye on – but not being too distracted by – the spiders falling on you. Similar to how you have to keep the big picture in front-of-mind even as you plan the details for individual ministries.

Cruis’n USA. Counterintuitively, you don’t finish the race in first by flooring the gas pedal the whole game. You’ve got to ease off in the curves, or else you’ll spin out. Churches often don’t take enough time to breathe and reflect, they just speed ahead and run out of time and energy. Same goes for clergy.

Pinball. There’s a lot of waiting and watching in pinball. The player has to be ready to hit the flipper buttons when the ball heads down the play field, but dynamics largely beyond the player’s control bounce the ball around in the meantime. Beating on the button when the game is out of your hands just wears you out and makes you frustrated. Churches do this a lot by measuring and fretting over numbers they can’t do much about instead of looking for the right opportunity to make an impact.

Ms. Pac-Man. You’ve got to have a plan when you play Ms. Pac Man, or you’ll get yourself eaten in a hurry. Congregations without a sense of direction will devour their volunteers and resources, with nothing much to show for it.

What retro game is your church’s culture most like?

SPOILER ALERT: this post contains plot points of “The Americans” series finale.

They actively undermined the United States government. They killed dozens of people, some of them just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They used sex to manipulate those with power or access. They spat upon faith, calling it “the opiate of the masses.” And yet, I cared about “The Americans” characters Philip and Elizabeth Jennings, longtime Russian spies posing as upwardly-mobile travel agents and parents of two in 1980s DC.

Showrunners Joe Weisberg and Joel Fields made these enemies of the state relatable through masterful storytelling. We saw Philip and Elizabeth’s struggles with ideology and morality. With raising kids born into a culture they were taught to despise. With growing together and apart multiple times, ultimately trusting their partnership despite their diverging outlooks on the state of the world. They were three-dimensional characters. So too was Stan, the FBI counterintelligence agent who moved in across the street in the pilot. Stan was a true patriot and an unfaithful husband, bedding a KGB officer he (thought he) had turned.

So when the series finale aired last month, I was invested. Philip and Elizabeth had been exposed. Would they be able to escape? Stan had realized the truth about the neighbors he regularly shared meals with. How would the inevitable confrontation go? And what about the kids – college student Paige, who had been recruited into the spy business, and high school junior Henry, who had nary a clue about his parents’ true identities?

Stan’s ambush – and ultimate release – of Philip, Elizabeth, and Paige was anxious and heartfelt. For me the real gut punch, though, was the severing of the parent-child bonds. Philip decided Henry’s best shot at a normal life was to abandon him in the only country he’s ever known. In a surprise move, Paige hopped off the train she and her parents are traveling on just before it crosses the U.S.-Canadian border. All of these decisions, so permanent, yet made so quickly out of necessity. I haven’t been able to view the finale again yet. It’s too raw – and this for someone who thinks her feelings.

But maybe my re-watch hesitation has nothing to do with the show. I wonder if it’s actually about the real-time crisis happening on our southern border. Sure, Philip and Elizabeth might never see their kids again. But their children were more or less grown and able to get along on their own. They remained in places familiar to them, where they spoke the same language as most everyone else. They were untethered from their parents’ uncertain destinies by the sacrifice. One of kids was able to choose her own fate. And, of course, they were fictional characters.

None of this is the case for Central American families moving north into the U.S., seeking better, safer lives, many of them engaging the proper channels for asylum. Instead, children – even infants – were being whisked away with no guarantee of when or whether they will see their parents again. (While the executive order means newly-entering families are being detained together, it does nothing to help the children who have already been separated and farmed out to various “welfare” agencies.) Even if you’re not a parent, we were all once small children. Imagine being separated from your mom and dad, held in a cage or an abandoned Wal-mart, put on a plane to another state while no one is really keeping tabs on your location, supervised by people who are forbidden to hold and comfort you in your confusion and distress. It’s traumatizing. It’s inhumane. And if faith doesn’t compel us to action, maybe we are just taking in “the opiate of the masses.”

If I can care about Russian spies on tv, then surely I – we – can have compassion for the flesh-and-blood children of God, coming to our country with hopes of contributing to it, of raising their intact families in it. God help me if I don’t advocate for them exponentially more fervently than I love a tv show that was, at its root, about humanizing the other. May we all be watching – and calling and protesting – the real-life Americans who are causing irreparable harm.

I once had to sit in my office, waiting for the members of my congregation’s personnel committee to invite me into what was sure to be a difficult discussion. A misunderstanding with the wrong person had quickly spiraled out of control, and I was finally going to have the opportunity to engage in a solution-focused conversation. I was excited and anxious and angry and terrified, and I couldn’t go into the room with all those emotions roiling just below the surface. So I made a playlist on my phone, which included “Freebird,” “I Will Survive,” the title song from the musical Rent, and other high-energy, tail-kicking songs. I sang them LOUDLY. I punched the air. The music gave me an emotional workout, after which the endorphins were pumping and my feelings were more defined.

As the mother of a preschooler, these days my playlist is mostly comprised of Daniel Tiger songs. But I have found Daniel’s short, simple ditties very helpful at times: “When you’re feeling frustrated, take a step back and ask for help.” “It’s ok to feel sad sometimes. Little by little, you’ll feel better again.” “When you feel so mad that you want to roar, take a step back and count to four.”

Music can be a powerful motivator, a calming agent, and an empathetic expression of our grief, not to mention a community facilitator and even a force for social change. What needs to be on your playlist when you’re headed into a dreaded meeting, when you’re having trouble focusing, when your heart is weighed down with sadness? How can music help you feel connected and prepared and alive?

My newest pop culture obsession is the Gilmore Guys podcast, which features two men in their 20s discussing each episode of the now-defunct series Gilmore Girls. It is by turns hilarious (though I do need to slap a language warning on this endorsement) and deep with discussions about gender and race, entitlement and selflessness. The hosts, Kevin and Demi, are employed behind the scenes in the entertainment business, so they use some writing and production jargon.

At times Kevin and Demi have noted that some of the minor-but-recurring characters are “underwritten,” meaning the show’s creators missed an opportunity to give them a lot more dimension. That term caught my attention, and I began to wonder where the underwritten characters are in church life. Maybe they’re the folks we call on to help with one particular ministry, even though they have other gifts to share. Maybe they are our antagonists, the people we have trouble empathizing with because we haven’t grasped their deeper motives and backstory. Or maybe we as ministers seem underwritten to our parishioners because they can’t imagine us “out in the wild” (e.g., at a concert, or even in the grocery store).

How then do we flesh out our perceptions of underwritten characters, and how do we let the people in our care see our complexity?

During Conan O’Brien’s week of broadcasts from Comic Con, he shared a video about his origin story. (For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, an origin story is an accounting of the events that lead up to the rise of a superhero.) Aside from getting me laughing, the video also got me thinking.

Most Christians will be asked at some point to share their journey to professing faith in Jesus. I wonder how the origin story framework might shift the perspective a bit. Origin stories often begin before the superhero is born, connecting the hero to a larger narrative. They describe the acquisition of special powers, which generally come from a source beyond the hero. And these backstories often point the hero toward some sense of responsibility – a mission, if you will.

It seems to be that origin story thinking might help us widen our view of what people and events shaped us, what gifts have been ingrained in us, and how those gifts might serve the greater good (i.e., reign of God) than many accounts of our call to faith allow.

What, then, is your origin story?

I am an unabashed fan of tv. I relish the evenings when my husband and I can veg in front of our big (medium?) screen, using our favorite shows as springboards for conversation about the events of the day, politics, or vacation plans

That said, I don’t deal well with series finales. I get attached to characters and to the routine of checking in with them weekly. My chest tightens a little at the thought of only being able to visit them in syndication, a time warp where no new plot lines unfold. Last week’s Parks and Recreation swan song was about as good as a finale gets, though. It gave viewers a heartwarming glimpse into the futures of the characters. Each of the flash forwards reunited the Parks Department team and showed them supporting one another through successes, challenges, and milestones, even though many of them had moved on not just from city government but also from Pawnee.

Who wouldn’t want friends like that? Friends who fly in to share the big moments, who work to maintain a bond that was once a matter of proximity but now takes great effort, who love and deeply respect us in spite of – or sometimes because of – significant differences? In clergydom, however, such friends are hard to find if you don’t already have them from your pre-ministry years. And once you’re living the ever on-call life, it’s tough to tend the friendships you do have. (Believe me, I know.

Soul friendships can’t be forced, of course. But I wonder if coaching can pose awareness-raising questions and offer accountability to people who are looking for life-giving relationships that don’t depend on a mutual love for all things clerical. What makes a true friend? Where might you meet someone who fits the bill? When will you go there? How will you initiate a relationship? How will you know if this is a friendship worth pursuing? How will you cultivate the bond?

It’s hard to step out and make a new friend. But ministry is too hard a road to travel alone.