Things DO change--Thank God!

What a thrill it was to see my daughter, Christi, commissioned this Wednesday night in the North Carolina Conference! It was a thrill because she is (in my unbiased and correct opinion) such a beautiful, extraordinary, remarkable young woman. What rich gifts she brings to Christ and the church. Yes, it is a twist of irony that after all these years of being such a passionate Duke fan, my Christi would be appointed to a church in Chapel Hill for her first appointment. But every place needs missionaries...

Christi DeSha Dye on her commissioning day June 10, 2007 with her grandfather, Dr. James

A. Shepherd who, in 2009, celebrates 66 years of service as a United Methodist pastor.

The joy of Christi's commissioning was enough to thrill me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. But I have two other thoroughly joyful dimensions to complement the day. One is the rich sense of family heritage that met us in North Carolina. Christi was commissioned by Bishop Al Gwinn...who grew up in a church in the Kentucky Conference which was built by my grandfather. My 87 year old father was able to be present for Christi's commissioning -- witnessing the 4th generation preacher legacy from the Shepherd side of the family.

And I couldn't help but revel in the way things have changed in the church. When I was taking the equivalent step in my own journey of ministry -- in 1975--the attitude and practice in the church was very different. My bishop in Mississippi, Bishop Mack Stokes, spent the night before my deacon ordination with the head of the Board of Ordained Ministry asking how to get out of ordaining me as a deacon (which was, back then, the equivalent step to today's commissioning). My dear friend and mentor, Dr. Prentiss Gordon, told the bishop that he would have to go through with it. And he did. But everything about the atmosphere for women was so adversarial. When people were just uneasy about women preachers, we considered that to be a blessing! North Mississippi had two second career, very devoted clergywomen who had come through the Course of Study track. And what a blessing and inspiration and encouragement they were to me! Being a young woman coming through the seminary track was not a welcome prospect. Formal and informal discouragement and opposition met me at every turn.

What a wonderful change has taken place in the church! Women are carefully screened -- along with male colleagues--but gender is no longer an intractable barrier. Christi sailed through the ordination track credentialing with not even a word of hesitation based on gender. That's a thrill for me that she and other young women have no way to measure. Of course I am proud that she is so theologically astute, wise and articulate. But I also rejoiced in the change of circumstance -- that she could come to ministry on her own merits--that she could step forward into God's calling without the resentment and resistance of the generations before her.

I've prayed and worked for this change for decades. Through the years, I didn't know that working for open doors for women would be a direct benefit to my own daughter. But what an exquisite dimension of joy to see her process unfold in that way--to see her welcomed into the conference and respected and valued. So many times, breaking new ground was discouraging, depleting, disillusioning. So many wonderful women were wounded along the way. To see Christi--and other young women in the commissioning and ordination process--be welcomed and blessed fills my heart to overflowing with a joy that can't be comprehended for those who haven't lived through the hard times. What a sign of hope for me! Persistent, persevering faithful action does make a difference! Things DO change. Thank God! What an extraordinary experience of joy and rejoicing have been able to experience this week!

I remember how many years the

United Methodism's crossroads of conscience

From the beginning, Methodists have been an opinionated people. John Wesley had passionate opinions which he spread with fervor. Spirited debate has characterized our denominational history and, as long as debate is conducted respectfully within the priority of grace and Christian love, the differences of opinion enrich and bless us.
And, to tell the truth, some of our most passionate opinions don't matter much in the grand scheme of things. The exact wording of a name of a group in the connection is not going to have eternal consequences. But there are some subjects that go straight to the heart of faith and whether or not our practices are aligned with Jesus.
We are at a crossroads of conscience place now with proposed constitutional amendment 1. While other amendments deal with the organization of our denomination, amendment 1 deals with the integrity of Christian practice. The amendment doesn't state a new position. The United Methodist Church has always had evangelical fervor that Christ died for the sins of the whole world and calls ALL to repentance, faith and Christian practice. We are -- and always have been--a John 3:16 denomination. Traditionally, we not only welcome all -- we have a burning passion to reach out to all. The open altar is one of the strongest distinguishing Christlike characteristics of our faith.
The clarity of amendment 1 is, in my opinion, a no-brainer. Anyone who professes faith in Christ and takes vows to support the church is welcome. Our history, our theology and our commitment to Scripture makes this, in my opinion, makes amendment 1 a simple restatement of a profound and central teaching of Methodism.
But, as I said, Methodists are an opinionated group. And, while I thought that this amendment couldn't possibly be controversial, U-Tube and media has reminded me that people can argue anything. The opposition/hesitancy about the amendment does not openly oppose inclusivity. But the appeal is being made to the perogative of the local pastor to determine readiness for membership.
I take clergy leadership seriously. But I unequivocally, unapologetically say that there is no pastoral perogative for a pastor to turn away anyone who Christ would welcome. Pastors NEVER have the perogative to do the opposite of what Jesus would have done. And John 3:16 is clear -- God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that WHOSOEVER believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. Now, friends, that familiar verse won't do much good if we can repeat it but not live it. What part of "whosoever" do we not understand?
How could anyone defend the perogative of a pastor to say "sorry, you can't join a United Methodist church" to someone for whom Christ died and gave eternal life?
Does that mean that pastors are to ignore the sins of anyone coming forward? Absolutely not! That's where pastoral leadership has perogative and responsibility. But no pastor requires perfection from anyone who comes forward -- never has. Watching over one another in love and accountability has been another hallmark of Methodism. If the model of Christ means anything, pastors have no authority to lead in moving on to perfection if they withhold the accepting grace of Christ and refuse to allow people to make a commitment of faith to Christ and the church.
We must never compromise the inclusive invitation of Jesus Christ. We must never fail to embody God's invitation to all. Anything less than full welcome distorts the church into a club and tempts pastors to the Pharisees. A Christ-centered church and Christ-centered pastors have arms and hearts open to whoever professes Christ and seeks to serve Him through the church.
Spirited debate is fine as long as it doesn't cloud our thinking or redefine gospel priorities. There is no more basic affirmation than Christ's welcome to all.

Some days you don't forget

There are some things you never forget.


Two years ago today, by this time (6:30 a.m.), I already been at the hospital for an hour and a half. The first ever surgery of my life was one of the most extensive surgeries a person can have. As my daughter said to my surgeon after hearing what was about to take place, "Well, Mom never does anything halfway!"


Four hours later, the surgeon's report that the operation had gone well was welcome news to my family. But the outcome for my life was still hanging in the pathology report from the pancreatic tumor that had been removed. News from the pathology report would take another week.



The thing I remember is not the time in the hospital. The overwhelming weakness, pain and that barely dulled it--those days are all a blur. My physician sister -- who was my guardian-angel-guide/with-me-every-step-of-the way helper--says the blur is a blessing. The surgeon was right. This was very extensive surgery. But it's not the pain I remember. What I remember most was the peace--a deep, pervasive, profound peace.
You can go to a superb hospital, have a brilliant surgeon, the blessing of medications and the most attentive care in and after the hospital -- I am grateful that I had all those things. But that's not the source of peace. The peace I had went beyond that. And the peace wasn't based on an optimistic outcome. I had a mucinous pancreatic tumor -- the type of tumor that causes pancreatic cancer. The tumor was the size of a grapefruit and we had no idea how long I had had it. Nothing about the prospective prognosis pointed toward peace.

But the peace I felt was, truly, the peace that the world can't give or take away. And as I faced this enormous health challenge, I could honestly tell my children and my congregation and my family that I was fine. Long before the discovery of the tumor, I had placed my life in God's hands. And nothing I was facing changed the peace that comes through faith. That's the part I will never forget.

In all the recovery and the many changes since then, the gift of that peace has remained as continual, constant anchor as well as primary blessed memory...something so extraordinary that you never forget.

Good news...

The news about my physical condition was good. The ultrasound showed no sign of "stray" cancerous thyroid tissue. Lymph nodes look good. No roadblocks, new challenges before the July 6 - 10 week of intensive followup tests. Good news on the physical healing front. But I wasn't so pleased with what I learned about my impatient spirit.

Four hours of waiting for four minutes with my surgeon today...
The wait should have been no surprise.
Last fall, when I learned I had a malignancy, Dr. Olson worked me in. I was upset and anxious about the news that my tumor was malignant and I would need to have another surgery as soon as possible. Twice in two years has been a lot. Since Dr. Olson is one of the best endoctrine surgeons in the country--and one of the few who monitors the vocal chords during thyroid surgery-- I waited with gratitude last October. Supremely skilled surgeons spend most of their time in the operating room--not in the office-- and only have clinic one day a week. So of course I had a long wait. We all did. And while we waited, my confidence in this doctor swelled. I waited with people who had, literally, come from across the nation to see him. The next appointment, three weeks after surgery, was another long wait. But, at that time, I felt so relieved that I could talk and the incision was healing that the time didn't seem to matter.

Today, I am feeling great and, apparently, that restored sense of well being hasn't done much for my outlook. I realized that I'm back to my old take-things-for-granted self. Because when I had to wait 4 hours AGAIN today, my patience didn't hold out.

Truth be told, I didn't have anything to complain about. Schedule-wise, I had the whole day blocked out for this 6 month post op checkup. Because of the previous waits, I had brought a bag full of things to do. I could easily have sat another four hours before I would have been out of something to read or write. (I did get to read two the Alban Institute's new publications: Can Our Church Live? Redeveloping Congregations in Decline by Alice Mann and Ending with Hope--A Resource for Closing Congregations by Beth Ann Gaede, editor. I HIGHLY recommend both.)

But, as the afternoon wore on, my patience wore out. And I found myself saying that this long wait was ridiculous. I had things to do (although I had brought them with me). I grumbled that, with all the brilliant minds at Duke, looks like someone could figure out how to schedule patients so they didn't have to wait half a day...

And, at least for awhile, I forgot. I forgot the most important things. I forgot what an extraordinary privilege it is to have a brilliant surgeon who saved my life and my voice. And, sitting in a crowded waiting room with people from all over the country who have traveled to see this surgeon, I forgot how grateful I am that this exceptional surgeon is just two hours from my home -- and just five minutes from where my daughter Christi lives. I lost sight of how grateful I am that the recovery has been smooth and even the followup radioactive treatment was painless and powerful. The long wait brought out my impatient, complaining self. And that's not something I am proud of.

Thinking this through as I drove home, I wondered if the constant stream of complaints in the superintendency has adversely affected me. Maybe it has. Just like with PPRCs, people think the superintendency is the complaint department, not the support department. And, believe me, they complain about anything and everything. But that was true in the local church pastorate, too. We all live in a complaining culture. And, just like I did this afternoon, complaining quickly becomes second nature. We lose sight of what is most important and we do so unnecessarily. I tend to think it is lazy habits combined with our fallen nature and the culture is so complaint-saturated that we don't even recognize what whiners we are.

If this afternoon is any sign, I'm not much of a model for keeping perspective. But, before the day was over, I realized how quickly I degenerated from gratitude to grumbling. I'm embarrassed that, just six months after this amazing surgery, I was already back into my take-health-for-granted mode. And I lost sight of the privilege I was experiencing because I had hoped to get home to get some work done for tomorrow's preachers' meeting. Lord, have mercy.

The loss of a sense of gratitude is the breeding ground for loss of perspective...for individuals and for congregations. I thank God for grace, new insights and new beginnings.

Blessings on every hand...

Mother's Day has been wonderful all my life.
When I was a child and before I became a mother, Mother's Day was the one (and sad-to-say, often only one) day that was dedicated to appreciating my extraordinary, kind, saintly mother. No one has ever had a more wonderful example of Christ's love than my mother. And anything good I have passed on to my children was because of her love for me. Mother's Day was the day that Mother got her due. And I loved it. From the time I was a child, I loved thinking up special things that we could do for her -- small mirrors of the constantly thoughtful things she did for us each day.
Five years ago this May was the last time I held her hand on Mother's Day. Although she wouldn't actually die until the following Sunday, we could feel time running out. Now, five years later, I can reflect with amazement the rich ways Mother has held my life since she died. Going through the section of Mother's Day cards always makes me miss her. But I don't need a holiday to miss her. I miss her every day. And I don't need a holiday to remind her that she is still with me. Every day, I realize that she is still with me. And the communion that we share is, literally, bigger than life. It is a communion of saints (a term that I'd repeated faithfully with the Apostle's Creed but never understood). Her patience, her kindness, her generosity continue to touch my life. Everyone who knew her will understand that she had a Christ-based witness that could not be confined to this life.
And how amazing it is to continually experience the wonder of my extraordinary daughters. They are so much more beautiful -- inside and out--than anything I could have shaped, formed or hoped for. The title "Mother" is a privilege and a continually unfolding joy. Christi will be taking her first pastoral appointment in July after finishing a demanding but rich year long clinical pastoral education experience. Mary Allen has grown into the most extraordinary mother for her two little boys. Their geographically isolated appointment this year has put unusual demands on her creativity and energy -- but she has loved and enjoyed and taught her boys so much more than they will ever be able to verbalize back to her in Mother's Days to come. What a joy to watch!
And, of course, I adore my little grandsons! What exuberant little bundles of unconditional love they are for my life! I understand -- but don't subscribe to that saying "If I had known grandchildren were so much fun, I would have had them first..." No other relationship -- not even the most adorable grandchildren--changes the miracle of your own children. And I couldn't have children who have brought more joy and love to me -- and to the world--than my girls. What great adventures in love God gives us with our families! What blessings!

Connections and Challenges

Although Connor was incredulous that Grammy would want to spend time at the beach reading ("But, Grammy, we're at the BEACH!), I did manage to read a remarkable book, Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy (by Donald B. Kraybill, Steven M. Nolt and David L. Weaver-Zercher. John Wiley & Sons, 2007). The book did more than re-tell the tragic killings of Amish school children in October, 2006. This was the story of the theological principles of the Amish which had steeped them in a tradition of forgiveness. The story of their forgiveness to the murderer of their children and his family was almost unbelievably inspiring. But Amish Grace explains how their beliefs had prepared them for the challenges of the tragedy they faced.
One of the effects of reading the story was to, again, come face to face with the reality that, when we are honest, there is no safe place from violence. If ten school girls in a remote, tight-knit community like Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania could be murdered, that should be a huge red flag to each of us that safety is a blessing when we experience it. But it is not something that we can count on even in our "safe" neighborhoods. Having been so grateful for my "safe" neighborhood in Statesville, reading this story really brought that home.
And then the news reports this week blared the sad news of a shooting at Wesleyan University in Middleton, Connecticut. Ouch. Another safe place--the kind of campus you would never expect a shooting to occur. But it did.
Nearly a century ago, my grandfather, Dr. W. W. Shepherd, was a student at Wesleyan University. I am still amazed at how a farm boy from Kentucky found his way to Wesleyan -- and worked his way through school. But he did. His father died when he was 17 and my grandfather worked on the farm until it was paid off and his mother's situation was secure. Then, he refused her offer to set him up on the farm (which would have been quite a blessing for someone his age) and he began his formal education at Union College Academy...where he served 9 (count them 9) churches on the Barbourville Circuit. The picture I have in my office of my grandfather on horseback is from those days.
When he finished at Union College Academy, my grandfather asked the bishop where the best theological school in the country was. The bishop told him "Wesleyan University in Middleton, Connecticut". So at age 27 with no money and nothing but a determination to get the very best education possible, that's where my grandfather went. While he was there, he had the occasion to be invited to pray for a gathering honoring President Woodrow Wilson. And while he was there, Wesleyan University took the bodacious step of going co-ed...which was not the eternal downfall of the school as some conservatives had predicted.
Since my grandfather made such a sacrifice to go to Wesleyan and since his education made such a formative impact on his life, I felt a personal connection to the news story this week. A shooting, a death and a killer who had hate in his heart. This time, the hatred that the killer expressed was directed toward the Jews.
Dear Lord, forgive us for anything we do that winks at hatred. Or, even worse, for what we do that nurtures or encourages hatred in any of its manifestations. There is no safe place because the human heart can be twisted and full of poison. The only safety we have is the eternal safety that comes from following Jesus' teaching -- amazing discipleship reflecting in the life of the Amish. We should work to prevent tragedy every way possible. But, in the end, safety will only come by living out the transcending teaching of Jesus. If the Amish can do it with the murder of their school children, we, too, can practice forgiveness and have tragedy transcended.

An anniversary reflection

Exactly two years ago this morning, I got a phone call from my doctor.
In a calm, but clearly concerned voice, she told me I needed to come in to the office. When we were face-to-face, she explained that the abdominal CAT scan showed that I had a pancreatic tumor about the size of a grapefruit. Although her demeanor was calm, the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. Six months before, the abdominal CAT scan showed the same tumor -- but it had been misread as a pancreatic cyst. I had a pancreatic mucinous tumor -- the type of tumor that becomes pancreatic cancer. She had already made me an appointment with a gastroenterologist for that afternoon and they had a surgery consultation set.
My daughters came and my sister, knowing the seriousness of what I was facing, drove down from Kentucky. By the time we got to the surgeon's office, we were a delegation.
This was a completely new experience for me. Other than having two babies, I was a stranger to the hospital as a patient. All of a sudden, I was scheduled for one of the most extensive surgies that anyone can have. It was a blur to me. Dr. Iannitti would say something and Ruthie would repeat it to me in understandable terms. Finally, he looked at her and said, "You're a doctor, aren't you?" Taking in that kind of drastic, life-affecting news is overwhelming.
Years of pastoral experience didn't really help me at this point. I had held the hands of members who had died of pancreatic cancer. I had seen how quickly people --like me with no symptoms--could be gone. And we wouldn't know until the pathology reports came back after the surgery whether this was a malignancy or not. If it was a malignancy, it was--literally--a death sentence. If not, a life-saving experience.
I had three weeks to get my life in order.
I went through a whirlwind of labs and tests and pre-op work. I finished my DISCIPLE class, finished up training for Stephen Ministers and ordered the life of the church through the recovery period. I wrote my funeral. I updated my living will and health care power of attorney. We made plans and more plans for the post-op time. No detail was left untended. Since I had never been in that particular place in life, did the only thing I knew to do: I followed the advice I had been giving to people as a pastor through the years. Turns out, it was good advice.
And I went into the surgery with a deep, deep peace in my heart.
I got through the hospital days because my sister was my guardian angel, ever-present physician walking me through it step by step. I got through the recovery because I was surrounded with an astounding outpouring of love from people in my congregation. I will never forget their tender care, their love and their help. And my family stood by me through it all. That's how I made it.
But I had the peace in my heart because of Jesus. Of course I was relieved that the pathology was benign. But the peace in my heart didn't depend on a pathology report outcome. With every fiber of my being, I believed that God was healing me. Whatever form that took, a healing was taking place.
Every day, life is a gift. That's not just a motto for me or a general life truth. It's a precious personal reality. It's a gift every day of my life. And today, as I remember the anniversary of the shocking news, I thank God for the gift of life. I thank God for his medical delivery system -- for Dr. Lackey and Dr. Iannitti and my sister doctor. For medications and procedures and support equipment that made recovery bearable. And I thank God all over again for the outpouring of love from the congregation I served...the scores of people who brought flowers and food, who called me every day, who got groceries, who did yard work and errands of every kind. I got a real shock two years ago today. But I also had the chance to experience a great outpouring of healing love and appreciate life as never before.