I Was Not Here

It's a troubling trend in newspaper journalism, if one I've seen coming for a while: a recent article spelled out that many newspapers have eliminated the copy editors as an act of financial survival. Copy editing seems so integral to journalism that  I'm hard-pressed to imagine the one without the other.

It was weird enough when I learned that a newspaper at which I had been a copy editor was farming the work out - that all the copy produced locally would be edited remotely at the larger flagship newspaper in the group, in a city some three hours north. I had left newspaper work for divinity school by then but watched former colleagues make bitter jokes about how those on the copy desk would miss local nuances. "Someone will have to tell them that [Street Name] is two words."

Inevitably, over the last decade, newspapers have moved from remote, central copy editing to none at all. That is: Reporters have to edit their own copy. And, I suppose, write their own headlines. And caption the photos. Not that they are incapable. But the cardinal rule is that you don't edit your own copy, because it's too easy to miss something. It's always good to have another pair of eyes. Another person looking at the material, someone who hasn't already crafted the story, brings a perspective that allows for what editing does.

Which is: to look appreciatively over the crafted material, fixing goofs, questioning incongruities, fact-checking (is that how you spell DiSalvo? Does crumple-horned snorcack get capitalized?). Occasionally moving a paragraph higher in a story to improve the flow. And crafting a headline so that in the few seconds a reader will take, he or she will be interested enough to read the article that follows. It's an art, a craft, a vocation. A calling, even. Not as an antagonist to the reporter, but working side by side, like a pair of headlights.

I used to joke that I had the best job in the world and also the most anonymous: If I did my work properly, no one reading the paper would have any idea of my existence. The average newspaper reader might not be aware that there is such a creature as a copy editor and is often surprised to learn that reporters don't write their own headlines. "If I've done my job, I leave no trace," I'd say.

To a degree, that's what ministry feels like sometimes, particularly the nursing-home chaplaincy that has been my calling for six years. To be sure, I'm much more consciously present in the lives of residents and their families. I leave a trace. But it's ephemeral. When their loved ones have died, and that chapter comes to an end, daughters and sons-in-law, grandsons and nieces - their memories of the last days will include a comforting presence. A quiet and calm listener. Words of comfort. Praying with them, sometimes conducting a graveside service.

Typically, there's no tangible reminder that I walked with them through this part of the family journey. And that's how it's meant to be. My role is not obtrusive. I work at not shifting the spotlight onto me. I'm here to provide an objective, yet loving and respectful perspective. To do what I can to make the moments a little better. And to invite attention to the presence of God.

Just as, with editing stories, I would bring in a response that was objective and respectful; to polish a little where needed; and to cap the story with a headline that would invite attention. And if I'd done my job properly, you'd scarcely know I'd been there. Only that things were as they ought to be.

Back on the Horse

Last week's sermon was a clunker.

Virtually the entire book of St. Paul's letter to Philemon, paired with Moses' exhortation in Deuteronomy to "choose life" and the shockingly difficult message of Luke 14 - whoever does not hate father and mother ... whoever does not take up his cross and follow me ... whoever does not give up all his possessions ... cannot be my disciple.

Somehow, I ended up with at least one and a half sermons awkwardly stuck together. After more than a week of wrestling with it, smote on the hollow of my thigh, I limped to the weekly pastors' text-study group and read it. We all worked at dissecting the thing. There was some good material in there, all agreed, and some wisdom on making one sermon out of it.

I tried again, and this time I felt that the needed truth was beginning to rise out of the text in a way that I could bring to those who would hear it.

And on Sunday, I delivered a sermon. And it was dead on arrival. When I'm with colleagues and we talk about preaching, it seems we all know the feeling of delivering what we thought was a good healthy sermon, only to be painfully aware of the air going out of the room, of the thing dying under us even as we preach.

I use the word delivery advisedly, as a sermon is a living thing. It's dynamic. Creating it is one stage of the delivery, often complexly layered, and part of the role of those who preach is -- after having discerned the wisdom in the Word -- to bring order out of chaos. In a way, it's like baking bread.

After years of practice, most of the time when I bake bread, it rises when it is supposed to, rising a final time in the baking to yield a light, springy loaf with a good crust. On occasion, though, it just doesn't happen. Usually, the dough will communicate along the way: my hands will tell me that something isn't right.

Sometimes, I have a sermon that I'm not thrilled with; it's okay, but it's not great. I think it's going to be dead on arrival. But then the Holy Spirit blows through the pulpit, and the sermon lifts off, rising in the oven, and the ones who hear it are fed and nourished.

So here it is Wednesday - I've had a couple of days to lick my wounds and reflect on why my worst expectations were met for the sermon.

What will the congregation hear on Sunday? They'll hear a new sermon. One based on the lectionary texts for the week. And I'm actually excited about what I've crafted so far and hopeful about how it's shaping up. 

That's the thing about sermons (not exactly breaking news): they keep needing to be created. And once a week is not the maximum for everyone. I don't have any funeral sermons to craft. I don't lead a church that expects new sermons on Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. One a week is usually all that's expected. 

Which means that, regardless of the clunker I delivered on Sunday, I've gone back into the heat of the kitchen and am shaping another sermon, another living, dynamic creation, and praying as always that the Holy Spirit will blow through the pulpit and let it rise.

The knowledge in pain

There's nothing like that cup of coffee in the morning. Unless one jerks backward and slops the stuff because of an insect sting. Welcome to Friday!

The hubs was on the computer, showing me hurricane footage from the east coast of our state, and we were talking about longtime friends who live there, and colleagues ditto. I had just fetched myself a cup of coffee and was about to take a sip when, instead, I hollered and flailed, the usual response to being stung (at least, I think it is).

M. instinctively shushed me, since our son, who worked second shift last night, was still asleep (to be fair, it was also about 4:30 in the morning, our usual rising time). At which point I informed him (a little tartly) that I was being stung.

For the last month or so, we have been unhappy hosts to cicada killers - that's actually their name. They are large digger wasps, part of a group (I found a chart, which I would rather not have seen, showing nine or so flying, stripey, stinging things) that shows up as part of the great circle of life. We've had cicadas this summer, and therefore we have had cicada killers.

It turns out that they rarely sting unless, say, stepped on with bare feet - or caught in clothing. My go-to pajamas are a set I found at Goodwill, a long soft nightshirt and palazzo pants. I usually sleep in just the shirt, and so this morning took the pants off the chair in the bedroom and put them on before going in search of coffee. Next thing I knew, there was one of those things on my pants leg and I was, as described, hollering and flailing.

The hubs played baseball in high school and has gotten very good with the broom, as they are attracted to light, which means they hover around light fixtures once they get in. Probably they get in as we open the back door to let the dogs out and in each morning. Mostly they're relatively easy to kill, and M dispatched both the wasp that stung me and another one on my shirt. He also wiped up the spilled coffee while I went in search of the topical anesthetic. 

Most of the time, I feel vaguely guilty when I kill a bug or insect that is in the house. Sugar ants, begone; stink bugs, spiders, and crickets, allow me to escort you back to the great outdoors. But even before this morning's close encounter, I have been enthusiastic about finding and dispatching the cicada killers, even as their name indicates that they're part of the ecosystem.

How seriously do I take the injunction against killing? I don't go as far as some practicing Buddhists, who trade advice on how to keep sugar ants away without killing them, or some practicing Jainists, who will wear facial masks to avoid accidentally inhaling tiny animals like midges. Do I have any right to feel invaded (it's our home) when they were pretty clearly here first?

Despite the topical anesthetic, the sting still makes itself known. And that reminds me that, like it or not, we all really are in relationship with every living thing. So maybe there's learning in the pain. And that always brings me closer to God.