Tinkering

Something struck me as I sat in a Synod meeting shortly on the heels of a Committee on Ministry meeting while getting ready for June’s General Assembly meeting—the shared focus is on restructuring, visioning, and doing so with less money. In short, our institution is trying to figure out who we are, what we are doing, and how we are going to do it in a time and place where institutions are struggling. We also want to be sure we remember that we are a community of faith—with all that such a term implies. 

That last sentence means that a lot of wrangling is being done with a great deal of angst while trying to believe that God is involved, that there is a divine order to all of this, and that somehow we will arrive on the other side somewhere nearer the kingdom of God. 

Truthfully, sometimes the angst wins.

Transition could well be the motto of the presbytery at the moment. Several of our churches are handling changes in pastor or associate pastor. Several more are having true heart to heart conversations about just what the future might hold, touching on even that most profound of topics, Is there a future for us? Still more are trying to adapt their ministries and missions to our 21st Century context, trying to retool a model crafted decades ago. Angst is just part of it. We are not sure what comes next, who comes next, or if it even matters.

An old friend’s father had a fascinating hobby—he retooled trucks from the 1930s. He would buy an absolute clunker from a scrapyard—a 1930 Ford flatbed, for instance. The engine would be beyond frozen, having last turned over somewhere around 1942, forty years before purchase. But he would tinker and toil. He would fiddle and struggle. Somewhere about the six month mark, new paint shining, chrome gleaming, and a glistening engine beneath the hood, he would climb into the driver’s seat, insert the key, and pray. 

That’s kind of where the Presbyterian Church is at the moment. A lot of changes came. Some brand new things have been added to our mix. Some gleaming new faces are in leadership positions. Some people and things are gone. But, by and large, the structure is the same as when it came into being decades ago. A lot is new, but it is the same old vehicle we call the church. So, we sit in our pews, we open the Bible, and we pray.

My friend’s father would turn the key and one of two things happened—nothing—or—there would be a sputter, a cough, a rumble, a wheeze, and then, miracle of miracles, a roar as the engine came to life. 

For this summer’s General Assembly, we are hoping for a roar. At Synod, we want a roar. And in the presbytery, we want a roar. We want to see all of our work blessed. We want to see our hopes fulfilled. We want our prayers answered. 

But I want to go back to my friend’s dad—if his effort met with the deafening silence of still dead engine, he did not slam the steering wheel, ransack the garage, and stomp away, cursing every machinist who ever laid hands on a truck chassis. Nope—instead—and I saw this more times than I can count—he would shrug, sigh, slide out of the chair, lift the hood, and start tinkering again. 

To walk with God is take a long walk. It takes time to see God’s plans unfold for us. Sometimes we are tuned in, get it, and amazing things happen in our communities of faith; but other times, we missed something, and we realize there is still a lot of work to do. So, we need to get back to the praying, the worship, and the Word, tinker some more, and try again. That is simply faith in praxis. Ask Paul the Apostle, ask Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John—they all know. 

We can do this, and do it well.