Dave Zuchelli's Blog, page 18

The Parking Lot Committee

Now that I’m fully retired from pastoral ministry, I can sit back and take stock of the things I really miss as opposed to those things to which I will never give another passing thought. One of the latter happens to be administrative meetings. Some folks seem to live for these get-togethers, but I, on the other hand, have no such draw. Other than meeting for worship or fellowship, you can have your summits without me, and I will be none-the-wiser and just as happy. Administration is necessary, even in the church. None-the-less, it is a necessary evil for which I will not pine.

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To tell you the truth, a lot of those church meetings were highly superfluous anyway. Whether you call them the Church Board, the Administrative Council, or the Panel of Deacons, there were other meetings that almost always superseded those official gatherings.

The Real Business of the Congregation

There are unofficial (but highly significant) assemblies that usually happen in the church parking lot. They are impromptu and far more honest than those that occur within the building. They transpire as the participants of the indoor meetings are headed to their cars. The real business of the congregation is handled there, and usually, people like the pastor are excluded. The Parking Lot Committee Meeting is where the conversation following the conversation takes place (if you get my drift).

Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to hold the Parking Lot Meeting until the official, indoor meeting has taken place. The preliminary discussion happens in the authorized meeting to lay the groundwork for the unauthorized one. Then the real business of the church is hashed out in the parking lot. As a pastor, I was never privy to these real meetings (the parking lot ones), but I’m sure my remarks in the earlier confabs were used as fodder to facilitate the later consultations (I hope that’s not too confusing for your understanding).

Who’s Who in My Church?

The Parking Lot Committee is the real mainstay of your congregation. They are not listed anywhere in the offices of the church. Make no mistake, however, they are every bit as influential and effective as any other official body listed on your paper of Who’s Who in My Church. Getting to know who these people are just may be a priority for you if you care about where your ecclesiastical body is headed. They, my friends, are your real movers and shakers.

[image error]Any pastor worth her salt will get to know these folks and will schmooze them as best she can. Ignoring them is highly unadvisable. Crossing them is fatal. Any ministry you thought you had will quickly exit the nearest window, and you will be left with nothing but your clerical collar and your shiny book of polity (neither of which will have any meaningful purpose anymore).

Pontius Pilate assumed he was in charge of the Roman province of Judea. He was merely the figurehead for the Parking Lot Committee who yelled, “Crucify him!” Wash your hands all you want. It doesn’t change a thing.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently resides in Aldie, VA.]

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Suppertime

A lot of people get hung up on titles. I’ve known a lot of clergy types over the years who were like that. If you didn’t call them Reverend, Father, Pastor, Monsignor, or Bishop, they would get all bent out of shape. I suppose it’s a respect thing. Unfortunately, demanding respect is a lot different than earning it. Frankly, once they hang that title in front of your name, that’s when the real earning begins.

[image error]When I was ordained, someone asked me what they should call me now that the deed was done. We were with a small group of people at the time, and I couldn’t help myself. I blurted out, “His Holiness.” I was joking, of course, and got the belly laughs I was looking for. What’s really funny is that, since then, I still have friends who will occasionally refer to me as His Holiness.

Late for Supper

As a matter of course, I try to go by the old saying, “You can call me anything but late for supper.” That seems to work pretty well for me (and for my acquaintances). There are still those folks who can’t bring themselves to call me by my first name, but that’s okay. I’m old school on a lot of things myself—just not in the title department.

In this weird stream of consciousness, my next thought takes me to an old Gospel song I haven’t heard in years. I guess it was the word, supper, that did it. It was written by Jim Reeves and recorded by everyone under the sun. I think my favorite version of it was done by Johnny Cash. The song takes the listener back to the days when Mom would call at the end of a long day of playing out in the neighborhood, “Come home, come home, it’s suppertime.” As the lyrics develop, the song then transitions to what the Apostle John calls, “the Wedding Supper of the Lamb” (Revelation 19:6-9).

“Some days are like that.”

In Revelation, John speaks of a celebration that occurs in Heaven when the Bride of Christ (the church) is invited to come home to a wedding banquet. It’s for that reason (among others) that we in the church often refer to death as “going home.” I remember in my early days as a pastor having a parishioner often say to me, “Dave, I just want to go home.” Some days are like that.

Suppertime is something to which most of look forward. It’s a time of gathering, a time of winding down, and a time of fellowship with the ones we love the most. These days, with much of my family scattered to the four winds, suppertime is a tad less fulfilling than it used to be. I always look forward to those times, mostly on holidays, when the whole family is back together again for a big meal. There’s nothing quite like it. The reunion in Heaven is going to be a doozy. I hear God can really throw a great dinner party.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently resides in Aldie, VA.]

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The Jeep Wave

My usual form of transportation is a Jeep Wrangler. It’s one of those vehicles that has a tradition attached to its ownership. It’s an unwritten rule that, if you ride around in one of those babies, you’re supposed to give a wave to anyone [image error]who goes by in another Wrangler. This is also true of motorcycle riders, and I recently learned that it’s true of Mini Cooper owners as well. If this keeps up, we’ll all be waving at each other in no time.

I find it interesting to see who all lives up to the tradition. I reside in an area of the country where there are lots of Wranglers tooling around, so I’ve done a considerable amount of observation over the past couple of years. The results of my observations are about what one might expect.

They May Not Be Invested

I try to wave every time if possible. Then I intently peer at the approaching driver to see if he (or she) will wave back. About a third of the time, that doesn’t happen. For whatever reason, I don’t get a return wave. That could be for several reasons. They might not see me, they may be distracted, or they might just not want to play nice. I’ve noticed that a high percentage of women don’t bother. My guess is that it’s their boyfriend’s Jeep and they’re just not invested in the tradition.

For the most part, the rest of the drivers give me a wave (including some from the female persuasion). The tradition holds for them. Some are quite enthusiastic about it, some flash the peace sign (do they still call it that?), and if the top is down, many will wave above the windshield.

Then, there are those who are so intent on upholding the tradition that they practically cause a head-on collision attempting to get my attention. I appreciate their zeal, but a little more caution might be the better part of valor there.

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I have to say, I like being part of the club (so to speak). There’s something about being friendly with people you don’t know. Not only that, in this case I’ll probably never know them. It’s quite freeing. No drama, no pretense, just plain affability. Admittedly, it’s really shallow, but that seems to be how many of us live our lives these days.

It’s Not Biblical

That, of course, is really un-Biblical. The Biblical model is based in community. The community we see fostered and endorsed in Scripture is of a very profound nature. A simple wave wouldn’t cut it there. The early Christians were called upon to persevere, but they were never asked to do it alone. They were urged to continue meeting together and to “spur one another on toward love and good deeds.”

Somewhere along the way, we’ve lost a lot of that comradery in the church. Often, we’ve been reduced to ducking in and out of a Sunday service as we give the Jeep wave. Heaven help us. We’ve become ships in the night.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently resides in Aldie, VA.]

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Mary Had Our Little Lamb

The stories of Jesus’ early life are, in many ways, the most fascinating and mysterious of them all. The ones that relate to His mother are particularly rife with human emotion, angst, and devotion. The fact that she played an integral part in the Lamb of God’s human development is often neglected and simply ignored by many of us.

After His birth, we don’t read anything about Jesus until He is twelve years old. You may remember the story. The Holy Family took a trip to Jerusalem along with many other pilgrims of their day. The went there to celebrate the Passover. It was a longstanding Jewish tradition. To this day, Jews all over the world end their Passover Seder Meals with the expression, “Next year in Jerusalem!”

They Were a Nervous Wreck

It was customary for the women and men of the various villages to travel in all female groups and all male groups. The children could travel either with the men or the women. There was no strict custom for them to follow. Because of that, Jesus was inadvertently left behind. Joseph thought He was with Mary, and Mary thought He was with Joseph. After traveling a day, they discovered Jesus was missing and rushed back to the Holy City—probably a nervous wreck.

[image error]When they arrived, they searched three days for Him. Scripture tells us that Jesus was in the Temple conversing with the teachers (who found Him to be amazingly wise and thoughtful). Mary, however, was in no mood to be swayed by a bunch of old men. In typical Jewish mother fashion, she gave Jesus a piece of her mind. Though He thought he was doing what the Lord wanted Him to do, he went with His earthly parents and, apparently, didn’t cause them any more problems. At any rate, we don’t hear anything else about Him until he’s in his late twenties.

At that point, John’s Gospel places Jesus, His mother, and His disciples at a wedding in Cana. I’m guessing you’ve heard the story. The bridegroom runs out of wine and is about to be totally humiliated. Mary cajoles Jesus to do something, but Jesus tells her in no uncertain terms that His time had not yet come. In other words, no miracles today, Mom.

The Same Woman

The same woman who dragged him out of the Temple when He believed He was doing God’s will, now forced His hand to begin His public, earthly ministry—much to His chagrin, I might add. Mary stopped Jesus from ministering when He was twelve and pushed Him back into it when he was twenty-nine.

As Mothers’ Day approaches, I think it’s imperative for us to remember the importance of earthly parents. If Jesus needed them, how much more do we. God the Father used a young woman of humble birth to not only parent His Son, but to direct His footsteps in ministry.

There’s something fascinating about the God of the Universe being vulnerable to this Jewish handmaiden. What’s a mother to do?

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently resides in Aldie, VA.]

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Charlie Blackmon & the Samson Syndrome

In case you’ve never seen Charlie Blackmon, he’s one of the premier players in major league baseball today. Besides being a great hitter, one of his claims to fame is the fact that he looks like a caveman. He has a shaggy mane on his head, but his most prominent feature is his magnificent beard. It’s thick, full, and dark. Most guys would love to be able to sport facial hair like that. Some of us can’t even get that kind of a mop on top of our heads let alone our chins. Very manly to say the least.

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Baseball is one of those games that hangs on statistics. They measure everything. Now they’re measuring Charlie Blackmon’s performance against his facial growth. As it turns out, he has the Samson Syndrome.

Remember Samson?

You may remember the Old Testament story of Samson. He’s the guy whose strength was in his hair. The longer his hair got, the stronger he became. It’s kind of an odd story, but Blackmon is proving the reliability of its historicity.

Baseball announcers and statisticians have gone back into Blackmon’s baseball career and discovered an interesting correlation. The bigger Charlie’s beard gets, the more home runs he hits. One year, he shaved it off and his homer total dropped to one during the subsequent season. Ever since then, he’s allowed it to propagate, and his homer totals have climbed. Last season, he hit thirty-seven. It’s definitely the Samson Syndrome.

Here Come the Judge

The original Samson was a “Judge.” If you read the Book of Judges, you’ll quickly discover that a judge in the ancient history of Israel was not what we envision these days. These Judges were basically temporary leaders in a time when there really were no leaders. Undoubtedly, each family, clan, and tribe were rulers unto themselves. But it seemed that in times when things got exceptionally bad, a “Judge” would arise to help them out of one morass or another. Most of them probably never knew they were judges, but there was no salary attached to the position, so I doubt if they cared.

The story of Judge Samson begins in the context of a forty-year, Philistine occupation which resulted from Israel doing “evil in the eyes of the Lord.” (Judges 13:1) The Israelis were prone to this sort of behavior, so they needed a Judge once in a while to lift them out of a mess of their own making.

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Samson had apparently taken the Nazarite vow. Part of the vow was to never apply a razor to one’s head. Consequently, Samson’s hair grew long, and his body grew strong. He strength was so great that he once tore a lion apart with his bare hands. He also was credited with several other feats that were equally jaw-dropping before his wife (Delilah) betrayed him and cut off his hair. Sans coiffure, he lost his strength and was defeated.

All I’ve got to say is this. Charlie Blackmon, let that beard continue to grow (and don’t get married).

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently resides in Aldie, VA.]

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The End of an Era?

For almost four decades, I have been in pastoral ministry. This morning, I led my final service in my current appointment, and it concluded another era of my life. After today, I will no longer be the pastor of a congregation. After all these years, it’s difficult to imagine what it will feel like to be a free agent. I guess I’ll know soon enough.

[image error]We all go through these sorts of transitional periods from time to time, of course. Retirement is one that many of us look forward to for a long time. For me, it’s finally arrived. Frankly, I think I’m going to enjoy it.

Happy in Retirement

I remember when my Dad was about to retire. He was such a workaholic during his life, I assumed he would be miserable in his retirement years. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He was happier in retirement than ever before. I should be so fortunate.

Being a preacher, however, places me in a slightly different category. My Dad worked in a factory all of his adult life. When he retired, he never went back—nor did he have a desire to do so. Factory life was not his calling. I, on the other hand, have worked in a calling that lasts a lifetime. I will leave the pastorate, but the calling will not leave me.

I’ve heard for years that preachers never really retire. I’m totally convinced of that. I can’t imagine a life devoid of sermon preparation and expounding upon the Word of God. As long as I have a voice and an invitation to fill a pulpit, I’m guessing I’ll continue to preach the Gospel. It’s become a part of me, and maybe it’s who I am.

I’m Down With It

I suppose the reason why we preachers never really retire has something to do with the Apostle Paul’s questions to the Romans. “And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?” Paul was a preacher, himself, so he may have been a bit biased. But he certainly had a high regard for the activity of orally transmitting the Word. Since there’s a strong Biblical admonition to do so, I’m down with it.

[image error]We should never forget, however, that preaching doesn’t require a pulpit. Nor does it require having the term, Reverend or Pastor, in front of your name. Knowing what Scripture says and passing it along to someone else is something any and all of us can do. Sometimes it’s called preaching, but it’s always called witnessing. Every Christian is called to be a witness to the love, grace, and salvation of Jesus. It’s definitely who we are.

Whether or not I ever stand behind a pulpit again, I will be cognizant of the fact that I am a witness to the saving work of Christ. Regardless of where we are or how old we get, our job is to give a good word to our fellow travelers.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently resides in Aldie, VA.]

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Uranus, I Presume

Scientists have discovered that the planet, Uranus, stinks to high heaven. I could inject a lot of crude jokes, puns, and satirical comments here, but I’ll resist that temptation. I’m sure there will be plenty of that without me adding to the ruckus. Apparently, the clouds of the much-maligned planet contain massive amounts of hydrogen sulfide.

[image error] Every chemistry major out there (and a whole lot of us peons who took a modicum of chem in high school) knows that hydrogen sulfide is the perpetrator of the odoriferous smell emitted by rotten eggs. It is also contained in some unpleasant human emissions as well, but I’ll not mention those here.

We Have No Tolerance

If it’s one thing in the western world we detest, it’s a foul odor (or is that, fowl odor?). If you want to clear out a room, introduce something that reeks. It’s almost guaranteed to introduce an evacuation. We just have no real tolerance for malodorous air.

Apparently, this is not limited to the western world, however. There is evidence that other humans in other places and other times have had this predilection as well. There is, in fact, Biblical evidence that this is true.

Almost 2000 years ago, the disciples of Christ were adamant that the tomb of Lazarus not be opened as Jesus had commanded. I’m not sure they had any idea what He was about to do, but they strongly objected to His suggestion that the stone be rolled away from His friend’s place of interment. They left no question as to the source of their dismay. They distinctly stated their reasoning. “He stinketh!” (John 11:39, KJV)

If it had been up to the future apostles, Lazarus would never have been raised from the dead. Their disdain of the cruel stench that accompanies a decomposing corpse would have precluded the miracle that was about to occur. Their olfactory sensations were overriding their faith. I can’t say that I blame them.

[image error]Fortunately, Jesus wasn’t nearly as squeamish as His protégés. At His insistence, the grave was opened, Lazarus was called forth, and the rest is history (as we like to say). Lazarus, once again, walked the streets of Bethany, and all was well.

Did He Need a Good Bath?

I’ve always wondered about the stench on the body of Lazarus. As the disciples pointed out, he had been in the tomb four days. It couldn’t have been pretty. Did the Lord wipe out the smell while He was restoring life, or did Lazarus have to be marched down to the river for a good bath? Inquiring minds want to know. John apparently didn’t see the need to fill us in on that detail, so we’ll never know until we get to Heaven. That’s assuming we’ll even care about such minutiae in Glory.

Now that I think about it, John also tells us that everything was created through Jesus (John 1:3). Jesus already knew about the clouds of Uranus. He spoke them into existence—like everything else. After that, even Lazarus’ emanations were next to nothing.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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0.0–Truth in Advertising

I presume you’ve seen cars with decals that simply read 26.2. In case you’ve never figured it out, these are folks who run marathons (or, at least, try to make us think they do). For the most part, you can find these on autos like the Prius. For some reason, people who run long distances are also fuel conscious. Hence the hybrid cars.

[image error] For those not so ambitious, you might see a bumper sticker sporting the number 13.1 (a half marathon for those of you who are mathematically impaired). These are often found on small cars that don’t use a lot of fuel but are strictly gasoline engines. I’m think detecting a pattern here.

In keeping with the trend, I decided to adorn my Jeep Wrangler with such a magnet for the tailgate. The Wrangler, like most sport vehicles, is not made for limited consumption of petrol. It sucks down gas like nobody’s business, and since my physical mobility is somewhat limited these days, my magnet says 0.0 (truth in advertising).

There was a time in my life when I actually ran a few miles during each turn of the earth. Those days are long gone, however. Therefore, 0.0 is the actual number of miles I get in before I go to work (as well as after I come home—not to mention while I’m on the job).

Believe it or not, I was a sprinter in high school and college. The body has since gone bad, and I doubt I’ll ever see those vigorous days again. One can dream, though. Glory days, and all that…

Some people are counting their steps these days. Well, their electronic bracelets count their steps. I don’t have one of those wrist thingies, and I didn’t want to spend my capital on that sort of contraption, so I tried totaling my own steps. I made it to twelve and lost count. It’s harder than one might think.

I’m Not Poking Fun (Well, Maybe a Little)

It might sound like I’m making fun, but I actually admire those diehards who run marathons. I also tip my hat to the fact that they like to ride around in tiny hybrids. There’s something very Biblical about running a race. The Apostle Paul often compared the Christian journey to a race itself. It was definitely not a sprint he was describing. A marathon probably doesn’t even come close either.

[image error]I once read a piece about s guy who was a whiz at running 100 mile races. I got tired merely reading the article. It seems inhuman to be able to do such a thing (or maybe I should say, superhuman). The idea of such a feat, however, is in keeping with the type of race a Christian needs to run. Endurance is the key word.

Jesus once said, “But he who endures to the end will be saved.” (Matthew 24:13) I’m hoping my spiritual and mental endurance far exceeds my physical stamina. I’m really keen on being saved. Maybe I’ll put a 26.2 sticker on my Bible.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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Somebody Gotta Fight the Injured!

I was watching an old TV program recently when two of the show’s protagonists got into it with a small band of hoodlums. While the real fighter was occupied with most of the gang, his weaker partner punched one of the bad guys in the shoulder. The gang member immediately crumpled into a heap. As it turned out, the thug had a dislocated shoulder.

[image error] Later, as they were walking away from the alteration, the puncher began bragging to his stronger colleague about his knockout blow. His partner shot back, “He was injured!” The braggart immediately replied, “Somebody gotta fight the injured! It’s my niche!”

I laughed out loud at that. Then it got me thinking. Sadly, it sounds a bit like the church.

Laying on the Battlefield

Someone once said that the church is the only group of people that shoots its own wounded. The guy in the TV show wasn’t inflicting extra pain on one of his own, but (all too often) we in the church do exactly that. When someone in our midst stumbles and falls, rather than help, we tend to pile on. Either that, or we leave them laying on the battlefield, alone and defenseless.

There are individuals in the church that perpetuate these things. They call themselves “fruit inspectors.” If one of their brethren doesn’t produce the kind of spiritual fruit these produce examiners deem to be adequate, these fruit police attack them. Heaven forbid they find a flaw in one of those weaker brethren. They swoop in like vultures. Believe it or not, they think it’s their niche.

The obvious byproduct of these actions is, in part, an exodus from today’s church. People are leaving in droves. There are many reasons for the migration, but the attitude of the fruit inspectors is one of them.

The overarching commandment of Jesus was, and is, to love. I realize there’s such a thing as tough love, but some of us get a bit ridiculous about it. For some reason, it seems easy for some folks to get carried away. Being tough doesn’t necessarily require meanness or hostility. These holier-than-thou attitudes are killers.

He was quoting Scripture

The church has enough antagonists without us joining

the battle against our own ranks. Abraham Lincoln once famously said, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” He was actually quoting Scripture when he said that (Mark 3:25). Love and unity are supposed to be watchwords and songs of the Christian gathering. Unfortunately, those central themes of Scripture seem to be lost on many of the fine folks in our congregations.

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I’m not sure what it will take for us to learn our lesson. We cannot continue in our pathetic ways of trashing our own. It’s toxic and suicidal. We certainly have our differences, but (like it or not) we’re all sinners in constant need of God’s unending grace. Maybe we should act accordingly.

There’s an old Black spiritual that says, “I’m Gonna Stay on the Battlefield.” Maybe we should change it to, “I’ve been stranded on the battlefield.”

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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You Can Take the Boy Out of the Country

If you were to ask me what my favorite music happens to be, I’d probably never reply, “Country.” But truth-be-told, it’s in my blood. I was reminded of that once again this morning. I saw the news that Randy Scruggs had passed away, so I began pulling up some of his music on the Internet. It took about four notes of “Passin’ Thru” for it all to come rushing back.

[image error] My Dad’s side of the family listened to polkas, waltzes, and obereks. My Mom’s side was all country all the time. My maternal side won. Even though my parents bought an accordion for me and paid for four or five years of lessons, that’s not where my heart ended up. I could play a mean Beer Barrel Polka, much to my Dad’s enjoyment. But when I turned twenty-six, I bought myself a guitar.

Guitars on my Wall

Today, I have two guitars hanging on my study wall. The accordion is somewhere in a back room. I keep meaning to drag it out to brush up, but I haven’t gotten around to it for a couple of years now. I play the guitars a lot.

To be totally honest with you, if and when I re-polish my accordion skills, it will probably be to play a little Zydeco. Anybody out there have a washboard? We can get together and perform a some Cajun.

Recently, XM/Sirius Radio aired a temporary Southern Rock station called “Free Bird.” If you’re a music fan, you can guess it features the music of Lynyrd Skynyrd. When I’m in my Jeep, I find myself flipping back and forth from the Beatles channel to Free Bird. Even though the Beatles are probably my favorite band ever, I find myself spending more and more time on Free Bird. I’m pretty sure it’s the country influence pulling me like a magnet.

Hey Good Lookin’

My Mom talked a lot about her childhood days. She grew up in a small, Pennsylvania coal-mining town. Aside from listening to country music on the radio, they didn’t have much in the way of entertainment. In the summertime, they used to sit out on the front porch and sing to the neighbors. When they finished a song, one of the neighboring families would sing another song back to them. From what I hear, a lot of those songs were Hank Williams hits (senior, not junior). I wish I had a dollar for every time my Mom sang Hey Good Lookin’ to me while I was growing up.

[image error]I guess it’s true what the Bible says in Proverbs 22:6. “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.” I don’t know if country music is the way to go, but I know I’m spending more and more time listening to it.

I’m sorry to hear of the death of Randy Scruggs, but I’m sure glad for the time he was passin’ thru. He brought me back to my roots once again.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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