What Is a Sabbatical?

ImageDear Readers:

I will be on sabbatical from June 8 through August 2, taking some much-appreciated time away for rest, travel, and study.  It’s the policy of Richmond’s First Baptist church to grant sabbatical leave to its ministers in the seventh year of their tenure.  I think it’s an excellent policy, and so does Thom Rainer, President of LifeWay Christian Resources and former Billy Graham Professor of Evangelism at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.  Take a look at this article from his own blog:

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The word “sabbatical” has different meanings depending on the context in which it is used. It has one meaning in the academic community, another meaning in its biblical usage, and still another in many secular settings.

For the purpose of this article, I define sabbatical in simple terms. It simply means time off for rest and/or study. The time can be a few days, a few weeks or, on rare occasions, a few months. The pastor is given paid leave for rest, rejuvenation and, perhaps, deeper study. I would love to see churches of all sizes provide this requirement of their pastor, even if it’s only for a few days.

I have the opportunity to work with lay leaders and pastors. I have a pretty good view of both perspectives. And I am convinced that more lay leaders need to insist their pastors take regular breaks even beyond vacations. Allow me to provide five reasons for my rationale.

1. A pastor has emotional highs and lows unlike most other vocations. In the course of a day, a pastor can deal with death, deep spiritual issues, great encouragement, petty criticisms, tragedies, illnesses, and celebrations of birth. The emotional roller coaster is draining. Your pastor needs a break—many times a break with no distractions.

2. A pastor is on 24-hour call. Most pastors don’t have an “off” switch. They go to sleep with the knowledge they could be awakened by a phone call at anytime of the day. Vacations are rarely uninterrupted. It can be an exhausting vocation, and a sabbatical can be a welcome time to slow down.

3. Pastors need time of uninterrupted study. It doesn’t usually happen in the study at church or home. There is always the crisis or need of the moment. Church members expect sermons that reflect much prayer and study. The pastor’s schedule often works against that ideal. The sabbatical can offer much needed, and uninterrupted, study time.

4. Pastors who have sabbaticals have longer tenure at churches. Though my information is anecdotal, I do see the trend. And while I cannot prove a cause-and-effect relationship, I feel confident that pastors who have sabbaticals are much more likely to stay at a church because they are less likely to experience burnout.

5. Pastors who have sabbaticals view the time off as an affirmation from their churches. I have heard from many pastors who share with me a sentence similar to this one: “I know my church loves me because they give me a sabbatical.” Pastors need affirmation. Sabbaticals can accomplish that goal.

I estimate that only about five percent of churches offer sabbaticals. In almost every case where I am familiar, the relationship between pastor and congregation is very healthy. I do think at least one of the reasons is the sabbatical.

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I hear you, Thom.  I know my church loves me because they give me a sabbatical.

Right back at you, church.  I love you, too.

See you August 3!

Jim

 

Is this Man the Best Liar in America?

ImageShhhhh! Donald Davis is telling a story.

Actually, you don’t have to shush anybody when Davis is at work: his stories do it for you. The listeners lean forward, heads cocked in the direction of his voice, straining their ears for every word, and the words they hear often cause them to gasp, to sigh, or to laugh out loud.

Donald Davis is a storyteller, but he hasn’t always been. For twenty years he was a Methodist minister. But he couldn’t seem to keep the stories out of his sermons, not only the great biblical stories like Noah and the ark, David and Goliath, and Daniel in the lions’ den, but also the stories about his own eccentric family members and some of the odd neighbors he had known through the years.

“I didn’t learn stories, I just absorbed them,” he says as he recounts tales and more tales learned from a family of traditional storytellers who have lived on the same Western North Carolina land since 1781. Davis grew up hearing gentle fairy tales, simple and silly Jack tales, scary mountain lore, ancient Welsh and Scottish folktales, and-most importantly-nourishing true-to-life stories of his own neighbors and kin.

It was Uncle Frank, a man who “talked in stories,” who helped Donald capture the real and daily adventures of life…and it was Uncle Frank who gave him the creative courage to tell about them.

Davis remembers, “I discovered that in a story I could safely dream any dream, hope any hope, go anywhere I pleased, fight any foe, win or lose, live or die. My stories created a safe experimental learning place.”

His congregation loved his sermons, but nobody dared call him a storyteller: in Western North Carolina if somebody said you were “telling a story” they meant you were telling a lie.

And you wouldn’t want to call your preacher a liar.

But Davis was good at it, so good that he eventually retired from the ministry to take up full-time storytelling. At the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee, where Davis has been a regular for decades, crowds pack the tent where he is telling. A fellow storyteller admits, “It is not a stretch to say that Donald is the top draw for the nearly 10,000 people who come to the National Storytelling Festival each year.” His books and CD’s always sell out first in the resource center, leading some to wonder:

“Is this man the best liar in America?”

Richmonders will have a chance to answer that question for themselves May 30 – June 1 when Davis comes to town for “America’s Best Storytellers,” a weekend festival to be held at the Byrd Theater in Carytown and the historic First Baptist Church at the corner of Monument and the Boulevard. Barbara McBride Smith, a champion storyteller from Tulsa, Oklahoma, will also be featured at the festival, along with Virginia storyteller and accomplished banjo picker Rex Ellis.

Festival organizer David Howell has recruited local radio and television personalities to emcee the event, and invited local storytellers to audition for a slot in the Sunday afternoon lineup. Maybe the best liar in America is right here in Richmond…

…just waiting to be discovered.

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Tickets are $35 for the weekend; $10 for Friday or Saturday evening only. To register or simply to get more information visit http://www.thebeststorytellers.com

Let’s Start a Campaign…

Whoa3

The first Sunday after Easter Sunday is often called “Low Sunday.”  It wasn’t meant to be a reference to attendance, but it might as well be.  Typically, half the people who were in church the week before come back the week after.

Sometimes it’s less than that.

So, let’s start a campaign, using all the social media at our disposal, to turn “Low Sunday” into “Go! Sunday.”  Let’s invite our Facebook friends to join us in church on April 27, let’s tweet on Saturday night, “Going to church tomorrow!” and then tweet again the next morning, “On my way!”  Let’s use Pinterest, and Tumblr, and blog posts, and cardboard signs stuck in the yard: “Go to church on Sunday, April 27!”

If everybody who came last week came back, we’d have overflow crowds this Sunday.  If half those people came back and brought a friend, we would also have overflow crowds.  Ask yourself, “Did Christ NOT rise from the dead?  Did he NOT conquer sin and death?  Should we NOT celebrate for a full fifty days?!”

Let’s do it.  And let’s tell our friends:

If Jesus Christ
Can rise from the dead,

Surely you
Can get out of bed…

and come to church on Sunday!

 

Radical Hospitality

Radical Hospitality

Yes. This is what I think radical hospitality looks like: a gathering of international students from VCU at the home of Louis and Linda Watts, with other graduates of the Ralph Starling School of Radical Hospitality (including Ralph Himself) proudly present and…having a wonderful time. Who knew bringing heaven to earth could be so much fun?

Come Celebrate a Miracle

BrailleIn the post below, guest blogger Phil Mitchell, Associate Pastor of Christian Worship at Richmond’s First Baptist Church, tells the story of a real-life miracle, and invites us to come and celebrate it with him on April 27.  Read the story, save the date, and then come…celebrate a miracle.

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This year, we have been challenged by our pastor to partner with others in bringing the Kingdom of Heaven to Richmond, VA. The initiative is called “Kingdom of Heaven Times Two” (KOHx2), and it’s all about bringing heaven to earth through partnerships. Here is one way we are seeking to do just that:

Two years ago, our church procured the new Celebrating Grace Hymnal. It has turned out to be a wonderful worship resource for us, full of the old and the new, brimming with countless ways to express our faith. Our pew racks are full of them. They are within an arm’s length of everyone who has gathered for worship. All you have to do is open the book to see the rich possibilities for singing a “new song unto the Lord.”

Unless, of course, you are blind.

Lewis Myers asked me if we were going to provide Braille copies of the new hymnal for our blind members. Honestly, I had never thought about it. None of us had thought about it until Lewis wanted to know how members like Mark and Melody Roane were going to sing the hymns from the new hymnal. I spoke to the editor at Celebrating Grace who said he was sorry, but there were no plans to produce a Braille version.  “Well, then,” I thought.  “If no one will do it for us we will do it ourselves!”

But how do you do-it-yourself when it comes to a Braille hymnal?

Robbie Hott, a computer genius in our church designed a template to input all the texts into a database. Anyone, could go to the site and enter texts (using some basic guidelines) so we could build an electronic resource that would eventually become Braille.

We contacted Brian Barton at the Braille Circulating Library, just down the street from the church, and they volunteered to produce the Braille version for us, at no cost. We are almost to the final product. Two years of really hard work and scores of volunteer hours later, we are about to have the Braille edition of our new hymnal in our hands.

You can learn more about the fascinating process by viewing the video below.

So, here is a partner in our neighborhood who is seeking to do the very thing we have been called to do: to make our neighborhood a little more like God would want it to be—accessible, hospitable, and full of praise. Together, we are doing that.

I tried to imagine a way to bless the Braille Circulating Library in the manner that they have so generously blessed us. It came to me that the perfect person to facilitate this blessing would be Ken Medema. Ken is a long-time friend, a blind singer-composer whose concerts are full of prepared and spontaneous stories set to music—much of which is composed on the spot! He has been to our church before and is always a smashing hit.

So I have invited Ken to present a benefit concert at Richmond’s First Baptist Church on Sunday, April 27 at 7:00 p.m. Tickets are $10 each and all proceeds go directly to our neighbors, the Braille Circulating Library. It is a win/win. We get to experience an incredible concert and we can bless the Braille Lending Library with a generous gift to support their ongoing ministry in Richmond.

You can buy tickets at the church during the week or on Wednesdays and Sundays. You can also buy them online simply by clicking HERE.

Join me in supporting this concert and watching the Kingdom come ever closer as both the blind and the sighted sing praise to God.

–Phil Mitchell

Baking and Taking to Some Really Sweet Seniors

ImageEvery other month the Bake and Take team comes together to fellowship and bake goodies to distribute to members of our community. One member suggested that during the month of February we bake for our Seniors . . . everyone agreed this was a great way to bring some sweetness to KOH2RVA.

After finding out how many Senior classes there were at FBC (11) and the number of Seniors in each class (total of 235), the group went to work, baking and bagging cookies so that each member would receive their very own bag of treats.  These were distributed to each class on February 16 by an amazing group of Bakers.

Here are some of their comments:

“I always think of the Seniors of our church as the founders or backbone because of their years of service and dedication to the church.  When asked to bake for the seniors, it was a very humbling moment for me because I felt I could show them how much they are appreciated and loved even if only with a small bag of valentine cookies. The looks on their faces when I presented my “bit of sweetness coming from the Kingdom” was priceless and made my day as well as theirs. They all confessed to “not minding being a senior if it meant getting sweet treats like these” (Susan Bethel).

“I made heart-shaped sugar cookies with red sprinkles and chocolate chip cookies and wrapped them in treat bags decorated with hearts.  The seniors were so surprised that everyone in their class received an individual Valentine treat bag of cookies.  I got a lot of questions and many were amazed that the “Bake and Take” team made treats just for the seniors.  Some did not realize we had a “Bake and Take” ministry.  I told them that we have made cookies and cupcakes for others groups, including:  fire departments, local businesses, church neighbors, and homeless shelters”  (Jeanne Hechler).

The Sunday School classes that I took cookies to were so happy that someone brought them cookies.  I attached a heartfelt valentine card to each box. It was a wonderful experience to give a box of “God love” to folks that have given so much of God’s love to us in so many ways.  It was a heart warming blessing.

P.S.  While I was baking on Saturday morning, my husband sat in the kitchen and did not move. He watched as I baked each batch of cookies, took them out of the oven, counted them one by one. When I realized he was watching my every move I poured him a cup of fresh coffee and served him some fresh baked cookies. He was happy as a kid in the candy store. (Debbie Hott).

–Story by Vicki Nicholau, head baker and taker

 

The Story of a Life

Dad

Here’s the story of my Dad’s life that I shared at his funeral last Thursday. My brothers have their own versions of his life story, but this is mine and I’m sticking to it (smile).

To the best of my knowledge, these are the facts:

James Somerville (no middle name) was born on June 17, 1931, in Cross Hill, South Carolina.  As his father would remind him repeatedly in years to come, his birth brought on one of the hottest spells they’d ever had in those parts.  When I close my eyes I can almost picture his tiny mother, Hattie, laboring in a stifling upstairs room to bring him into the world as her husband, Walter, a Presbyterian minister, walked the floors and prayed for a cooling breeze.

Little Jimmy, as he was called, was the sixth son and the seventh child born into that family.  There aren’t many pictures of him.  In one, he is standing with his brothers and sisters wearing shoes with a single strap across the top—“girl shoes”—as we later teased him, a description he didn’t care for at all.  In another he is staring out of the frame wearing wire-rim glasses: his yearbook picture.  He looks so serious, so studious, that you almost have to look at the cartoons he drew for that yearbook before you can see the twinkle in his eye.

He went to King College in Bristol, Tennessee, where word got out that he thought Mary Rice Whiting—“Ricie” as they called her—was the prettiest freshman on campus.  He approached her as she was gathering up her music after playing the piano at a campus event to ask her to the dance.  He had broken his jaw playing football, and had his teeth wired together.  He mumbled, “You wouldn’t want to go to the dance with an old bum like me, would you?”

But she did.

Eventually he asked her to marry him, and she said yes.  But then she began to have second thoughts.  She wanted to be a missionary in China, or maybe Mexico.  She tried to break things off with him while he was away in graduate school but he got in the car to come and talk her out of it.  They went for a drive, and parked the car, and when they had made all the arguments they could it got quiet, and in that silence Ricie was fairly sure she heard God say, “There’s your mission field.”

And so they married, on August 31, 1954, at Bethesda Presbyterian Church in Camden, South Carolina.  The bride was stunning.  The groom looked slightly undernourished, with a bristly flat-top haircut and black horn-rimmed glasses, but happy to be marrying the prettiest girl in South Carolina.  They went to Decatur, Georgia, where he finished up his studies at Columbia Theological Seminary, and then on to Troy, Alabama, where their first two sons, Eddie and Scotty, were born.  From there they moved to Hayneville, Alabama, where little Jimmy was born.  But it was while they were in Hayneville that Jim was invited to say the opening prayer at a meeting of the White Citizens’ Council, formed to resist segregation following the Brown vs. Board of Education decision in 1954.  Dad was fairly sure Jesus would NOT say the opening prayer at the White Citizens’ Council, and therefore declined.  Not long after that the Ku Klux Klan burned a cross in his front yard, and his only comment when he came in from looking at the ashes was, “Sure was a little one.”  But the elders of his own church began to get nervous, and when he got a chance to make a move they encouraged him to take it.

Jim, Ricie, and their three boys moved to Wise, Virginia, where he served as pastor of the Gladeville Presbyterian Church.  It was there that Greg and Gray were born, and there that Jim began to feel called to work with the poor.  In late 1966 he resigned from the church and took his family to Blowing Rock, NC, where they spent the winter in his mother-in-law’s unheated summer cottage.  Jim would build a blazing fire in the fireplace each school day and bang on the brass fire pole, saying, “This is the day The Lord has made.”  His three school-age sons, sleeping in the loft above, were supposed to say, “Let us be glad and rejoice in it!”  But only Scott ever did, leaping out the door of the loft and squeaking down the brass fire pole in his underwear.

The family moved to West Virginia in early 1967, and Jim went to work for the West Virginia Mountain Project—an initiative of the United Presbyterian Church focused on ending poverty in Boone County, West Virginia.  He worked toward that goal for years, living at the poverty level himself and moving his family up and down the Big Coal River Valley—once because the boys accidentally burned down the rental house they were living in while building a volcano in the back yard.  The family settled in an old white farm house on a hill near Racine, West Virginia, where they spent ten mostly happy years.  It was there that Billy was born in 1976, the last of six sons.  But it was also there that Ricie began to feel the return of her missionary fervor, and asked her husband when he had last talked to someone about Jesus.

Not long after that Jim considered following a lifelong love of nature and studying forestry, but he had a vision of Jesus asking him, as he was in the library, “What are you doing here?”  And so he renewed his commitment to ministry, left his work with the poor, and became the pastor of Clothier Presbyterian Church.  Two years later, after his own father’s death, he seemed to feel free to resign not only from the church, but also from the ministry.  He ended up in Buckhannon, West Virginia, in nursing school, which he loved.  After graduation he worked as a rehab nurse in Asheville, North Carolina, and then as a pediatric home health nurse—a visiting grandpa—who made his rounds in nearby Madison County.

When he retired, he and Ricie moved to Montgomery County, Maryland, to be near their children and grandchildren, and for a while at least he was almost a full-time grandpa to the large and loving Somerville clan.  A few years later he and Ricie moved to Summerville, South Carolina (no relation), which felt like home to both of them.  But it was there, while stripping a piece of furniture in his tool shed, that Jim apparently inhaled enough toxic fumes to alter his brain chemistry, sending this robustly optimistic and enthusiastic man spiraling downward into a state of severe anxiety and depression.  He struggled with it for years, but it wore him down in mind and body until he ended up here, in Hospice care at Pendleton Manor.  But it was also here that the prayers for his peace of mind were finally answered, and when he took his last breath—just a few days ago—he took it in a state of perfect peace, with no pain at all, and his wife by his side.

Very few people die so well.

But the story of his death is not the story of his life:

  • I have seen this man roll naked in the snow, just to convince his boys that it wasn’t too cold to walk to school.
  • I have watched him fly a hang glider off a sand dune at Kitty Hawk.
  • I have seen him laugh till the tears ran down his cheeks and he slapped the table.
  • I have watched him roll the dice in a game of Monopoly and say, “Seven come eleven, baby needs a new pair of shoes!”
  • I have hiked with him on the Appalachian Trail.
  • I have floated with him down the Big Coal River.
  • I remember the smell of his Old Spice cologne, his Wildroot hair tonic, and his Kiwi shoe polish.
  • I have watched him lather up with Barbasol and puff out his cheeks to get an extra-close shave.
  • I have heard him identify nearly every plant and tree in the woods, and call out the name of every bird that sang.
  • I have heard him sing, “Life is like a Mountain Railroad,” when he headed out to do his chores, or “I’ll Fly Away,” or that Moe Bandy classic,” It Was Always so Easy to Find an Unhappy Woman.”
  • I have seen him work a team of Clydesdale horses.
  • I have heard him clap his hands and say, “OK!” when he was ready to move on to the next thing.
  • I know the sound of his snore and the sound of his sneeze.
  • I have watched him split logs, and chop firewood, and make kindling thin as a matchstick.
  • I have been pinned to the ground, helpless, as he wrestled five of his sons at the same time.
  • I have seen him hug my mother close, and kiss her on the lips.
  • I have run six miles with him on a hilly, West Virginia, road.
  • I know the smell of his sweat.
  • I have heard his voice break when he was doing the funeral of a friend.
  • I have felt the bone-breaking strength of his hug.
  • I have stood beside him in church, both of us trying to outdo the other in hymn-singing.
  • I have seen him look with wonder and love on the face of a newborn grandchild.
  • I have heard him clump up the stairs to my room and say, “It looks like a mule died up here!”
  • I have seen the look in his eye when he says, “I love you,” or “I’m proud of you.”
  • I have heard myself say the same to him.

It’s true: I love you, Dad, and I’m proud of you.