Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Aging sucks.

I am thankful that I have a gracious family.  Recently I went to a well-known hair-cutting establishment to get a haircut.  The hair on the top of my head had grown to the point that it was bothering me . . . I felt as if I was entering into a comb over stage and definitely did not like that I was perceiving my self-image as something resembling the Rudy Giuliani hair dye scandal or (God forbid) a Donald Trump whatever it is on his head scene.  It just didn’t feel right . . . I felt top heavy.  So . . . a haircut it was. 

 

Maybe I should call it “shearing” . . . as in shearing a sheep.  In a matter of minutes, the stylist or shearer had done her thing with the clippers and scissors. What once was there was gone.  In fact, most of it was gone . . . I was mere millimeters from being completely bald shaven.  My head looked like one of those kitchen sink brushes used to wash dishes.  At least it looked that way when I finally got to see the result.

 

When it comes to haircuts. I am helpless.  Helpless because once I take off my glasses I cannot see.  I see shapes.  I see light.  But I cannot see the fine detail of what is taking place above my shoulders.  I am blind and at the mercy of whoever is holding the clipper.  And I sit there . . . motionless and listening to the whirling of the clipper’s blades mowing down my hair.  Over and over.  Whirl!  Whirl! I trust the stylist . . . and then she proclaims she is done.

 

“How does it look?” she asks.

 

Being a nice guy who blind without his glasses, I proclaim, “It feels good.”  As to how it looks . . . well, until I get my glasses on I have no clue.  Putting my glasses on, and once again being a nice guy, I say it looks good even though I really did not look at it.  I paid my bill.  Thanked the stylist and gave her a healthy tip.  Threw my hat on.  And left.  Actually, I hightailed it to the store next door, ran into the bathroom, yanked off my hat, looked in the mirror . . . and gasped in shock! Where had all my hair gone?  Who was that nearly bald person looking back in the mirror at me? 

 

Yeah, you got it . . . I was embarrassed.  And, yes, I know the old saying about the difference between a “good haircut” and a “bad haircut” is two weeks.  In that moment I didn’t want to show myself to anyone . . . thank goodness for hats . . . and gracious people.  The family members all said that it looked fine.  My wife said that she liked it.  The grandkids didn’t say a word because they really didn’t care.  One of the little ones, upon touching my stubbly head called me “Dad”.  “Dad” is in the military and keeps his stubbly short.  They were being “nice”.  I imagined that whenever they left the room they were secretly snickering at shearing—I mean, haircut.  But they were being nice.

 

Since my early twenties, haircuts have been an adventure.  Apparently, I have the sort of hair that barbers and hairstylists either find a great challenge or a disaster waiting to happen.  Whatever the case, I just know that no two haircuts I have received over the years are the same.

 

My hair has issues.

 

Since I was a child, I have been told that I have a “double crown”.  I had to look that one up. That means that there are two points on my head in which the hair grows in a circular formation.  This circular formation is called a “whorl”.  I have two whorls that seem to want to take my hair in conflicting directions, thus making it difficult to cut. It is like two hurricanes or tornados bouncing off each other vying for control while neither gains it.  This makes cutting my hair difficult.

 

I have had a receding hairline since my early twenties on top of the double crown.  Over the years the hairs on my head have been secretly sneaking off to who knows where!  Where there once was hair, there now is none.  Over the years I have gained more forehead as the hair has retreated to parts unknown.  Since it has been going on for so long, I am sort of used to it.  The only problem is that there is a stubborn clump of hair on my forehead that refused to give it up when all the rest of the hair did.  Instead, they have massed themselves as a little island in the middle of my forehead leaving a gap between them and the rest of the hair.  A teenager in a youth group once told me . . . it looks like a fob, and I should let it grow out long and dye it purple.  I never did, but it just won’t give up the ghost and hangs on for dear life.  It is a dilemma for those who cut my hair as they attempt to match it up with the rest of the remaining hair.

 

I am also balding.  It seems that the two “whorls” at the crown of head are losing participants, and the spots up there are getting bigger and balder all the time.  Where the whorls once fought for supremacy, it is now a race to nothingness.

 

All of this makes it difficult to cut my hair.  I have seen the barber and stylist cringe when they look at my head. It is a challenge.  It is an adventure.  I know it.  I have known it for years.  The only real solution, at least in my mind, is to buzz it all off.  Cut it down to the stubble.  But I have resisted.  I guess there is still some vanity left in me, but I have resisted.  I keep telling myself I ought to do it once I completely retire and I am not around people much.  It will be less of a shock to them and to me.

 

Oh well . . . the stylist took that choice away with this recent haircut.  She shaved it all off.  Swoosh!  What once was there was now gone.  I guess she decided what she thought was best and went for it . . . or maybe, considering all the obstacles with my hair, she kept cutting and cutting thinking she could make something work.  Then, suddenly, she realized that she had cut it all off!  Since I couldn’t see what she was doing, what could I say?  It felt good.

 

Several days since the scalping . . . I mean, haircut . . . I can honestly say that it really isn’t so bad.  I have never been one to look at myself in the mirror much, so it is pretty much out of sight, out of mind.  It feels good.  No one runs off screaming when I enter a room.  Children don’t point and laugh. My dogs still love me. My wife thinks it looks good and since she has to see it more than me, that is good to know.  Besides . . . in two weeks it will move from being a “bad haircut” to being a “good haircut” . . . and I have a hat.  Lots of hats.  It is amazing what a hat can do for one’s self-image.

 

In the end . . . I might just have to keep my hair cut like this.  It feels good . . . and good is good.        

Requiem: The Death of a Church

In a couple of weeks, I will be stepping out of my ministerial retirement to preach at the last service of the church I once served for 15 years.  The church made it a hundred years longer than I did.  The church will be 115 years old at its closing.  I guess in a way I will be preaching its eulogy.  I’ve never done a funeral service for a church.  It will be my first and last.

The regional minister who lured me from Nebraska to the church in Montana many years ago was once talking about the state of the regional church at that time.  Basically, we were the congregations within the state of Montana in our denomination.  During this regional minister’s time of service, the region had gone through a lot of change and transition.  Some congregations left the denomination, several closed, a partnership with another denomination failed, and ultimately a new region was formed.  In our conversation this regional minister once told me that the church I was serving would be around long after the two of us were gone.  I believed it.

 

We were wrong.

 

I truly believed that upon my retirement the church would go on in some shape or form.  I figured that the congregation would find a lay, retired, or bi-vocational pastor to continue the ministry of the church.  At the same time, I also knew that my retirement might be a wake-up call for the congregation.  In the end with prayer, discussion, and discernment the congregation voted to close its doors after 115 years.  The reasons were simple enough . . . low attendance, an older congregation, dwindling financial resources, an aging building, and they were tired.

 

I must have the “touch of death” when it comes to the churches I served over the span of my ministry.  In the 40 years of ministry, I served six congregations (seven churches but two were yoked) and only three continue to serve the communities where they are located.  The first church I served in the ministry left the denomination and is now independent.  The second left the denomination, became independent, and eventually folded and closed its doors.  The next congregation joined and partnered with another congregation to combine their ministries, resources, and people while staying true to both of their denominational affiliations.  The next was a yoked parish serving two congregations in different denominations in two different towns—they have folded and closed.  The one I served before coming to Montana continues to push on with a lay minister who was born and raised in that church.  I imagine that it will eventually close when the pastor, who is my age, finally retires. 

 

See what I mean!  The touch of death!

 

It is more common than one would think.  For the past couple of years, churches have been closing faster than new churches can be established.  The rate is three closings to every two openings . . . three to two.  Two steps forward, three steps back.  To use good old evangelical terminology, the world is never going to be saved for Jesus at this rate.  Nope, it is a slow death.  Echoing the words of Billy Joel . . . “I didn’t start the fire” . . . but it is burning.

 

What are the sparks that started the fire?  What are the reasons that the “church” as most of us know it and grew up with is dying?  Let me throw a few out there to consider I suspect will give us some sort of understanding on how the fire started:

•        Less people identify themselves as Christian or even religious.  The pool is growing smaller.

•         Congregations are older and have no youth to replace them.

•         Life happens—people move, people die, arguments happen, division takes place, poop happens, and people don’t come back.

•         Generational change—church became less important as generations were added.  Where grandparents were weekly regular attenders, their children were sporadic, and their children didn’t even go.  It is not important anymore.

•         One of the biggest reasons is that people see “church” as judgmental and hypocritical.  There is a mixing of the political affiliation with one’s practice of faith—they have become one and the same.  This creates disagreements and division.  The church is seen as the moral police for everyone.  Because of that people do not feel accepted or safe—they cannot be themselves.  This is especially true for young people.

•        People don’t feel safe.  Questions cannot be asked.  Doubts cannot be shared.  People cannot be themselves and feel supported.

•         Won’t embrace climate change and other social issues facing the world today.

I imagine the list could go on . . . that everyone could throw another log on the fire based on their own experiences.

The fact is that the “church” and maybe even Christianity is dying.  There will be more church closings before a fork is stuck in this one or a miracle happens to stop this swan song. 

 

I can honestly say that the disbanding congregation I will be preaching at in a couple of weeks can look at that list and agree with several of the “causes” as to why a church die.  For them it does not matter.  They are sad.  They are embarrassed.  They are frustrated.  They are lost.  They are scared.  A church should never die . . . it is the house of God . . . the home of God . . . it is home.  And now it is gone.  No words I could ever speak will make it better or remove the grief.

 

The reality, whether it can be accepted or not, is that the times are changing.  What once was is no longer and all God’s children are scrambling to figure it out.  Unfortunately, I am not of the evangelical or conservative church faction.  For those faithful the solution has always been simple . . . bring more people to the forgiveness of Jesus . . . evangelize!  Remember, Jesus will save us!  After all, that is why he died . . . right?  Jesus didn’t die to “save” us.  God has been in that business since the beginning of creation.  That is the business of God.  Jesus called everyone to come back to God.  Jesus died because he struck a nerve with those who were in power . . . those who were in control.  He was a threat . . . someone who was turning over the apple cart.  Jesus was eliminated, murdered, because what he represented, preached, taught, and lived scared the powerful.  As the scriptures say, Jesus shows us the way.

 

I don’t know if the fire can be extinguished.  It might be too late.  Instead, what needs to be done is those of us who see the fire begin to change towards those things that bring people together in the spiritual journey we are all on.  That we learn to walk together.  That we accept one another.  That we learn to care for one another.  That we talk . . . and more importantly listen.  Listen to the questions, concerns, and doubts.  This is the place of growth and faith.  That we quit thinking that our politics represent our faith.  Stop reviling those who are different than us.  That we quit fighting and start working together.  That we start loving . . . not those closest to us, but those who are outside of the circle, those who are in the shadows.  That we create safe space for all and welcome one another to the table.  I mean, come on, if we are going to take the scripture seriously as the “word of God”, then we must embrace the fact that everyone has been created in the image of God and is worthy of love.

 

That is where we must begin.

 

At this point I have no idea what I want to say to those who gather for the last service of a dying church.  Acknowledgement of the grief . . . hope for the future . . . and the fact that God’s love or that higher being or whatever gets a person through the night is always there.  I hope to create a safe space where in the sadness and grief of the moment everyone can acknowledge the depth of that pain of loss . . . acknowledge one another . . . and find common ground as the children of God.  That none of us is alone.  That there can be laughter in the midst of tears.  That together we can realize that life is lived between a laugh and tear. And maybe, we can discover that it is here that we are called to be community. 

 

And so, it begins . . . new beginnings.