Dancing in the Pain

"Smile!" the photographer said. "On three. One … two … " The certificate my wife, Ann, held before us showed that our church's youth group had received national recognition by our denomination. For a small two-point parish in rural Wisconsin, this was quite an honor. But as we posed for a photo for the local paper, our smiles were painted on. They hid what was really happening. "Three!" A click. A flash. It was done. We hadn't smiled much lately. In fact, we cried. Pastoring these two churches for the past eight years, we had poured ourselves into youth work, with some success. But recently our group had taken a tumble. Our strongest leaders had graduated from high school and were off at college. Our upcoming leaders chose not to meet the challenge. Drinking and sexual promiscuity were rampant in our local school. Our church kids' priorities had changed, and we saw less and less of them. At first, I denied that our group was in trouble. As successive events fell short of our expectations, we came up with excuses: "We were in conflict with some school activity" or "We're just off to a slow start this year; things will pick up." When we spoke to some of our hoped-for leaders about their absences, they reinforced our denial by claiming schedule conflicts, but promised to be there next time. Three months into the school year, though, we had to admit the truth: attendance was down, apathy was up, and leadership was almost non-existent. It was then that anger crept in.

Why did it hurt so much?

The anger became more intense following each event. My wife and I were in the habit of reviewing each activity. We looked at what worked, what didn't, and who we needed to involve more. It didn't take long for our discussion to turn toward who wasn't there, the kids' inattention during Bible study, and their lack of ideas when trying to plan exciting events that would appeal to their friends. In hindsight, the issue wasn't so much anger as it was pain—the pain of losing what we had. To hide the pain, we spoke out in anger. "It's not our problem," I would say. "It's up to the Holy Spirit to move these kids." "We can't babysit them," Ann would concur. "We're not their parents." We would feel better—for a few minutes—only to have their faces come flooding into our minds, and with them the pain. I thought back to when we first came to the church. Were drinking and sexual activity problems back then? Or was this just a problem group, an aberration that would someday be a blip in the church's history? I came to realize that things hadn't changed nearly as much as I first believed. In fact, when we first came to Argyle, the group we started with had less going for it than this one. So why all the pain now? Why couldn't we just throw our hands up and walk away? The answer was intimacy. These teenagers we had loved as children in Sunday school and vacation Bible school. We were there for their first communions. We had watched them grow up. We felt like their parents. Our lives had become intimately connected to theirs. When we first started, that anyone showed up was cause for celebration. Now, because we knew them all so well, we were as aware of their absence as their attendance. Our events were marked by the melancholy of wondering where the missing ones were and fearing what they were doing. We were in love with a group of sometimes unfaithful people. This love made it impossible to walk away. This couldn't continue. It hurt too much. We had to do something.

Looking a bit "longer"

Following a great deal of prayer, Bible study, and discussion, Ann and I recommitted ourselves to loving each person in the group. This was easy because we did love these kids. But in committing our love to them, we were accepting the fact that love can be rejected, and at times, the lover is hurt. Pain would be part of our relationship with them. Once we acknowledged that, we asked God for the gift of endurance. Love is long-suffering. True love doesn't walk away when the going gets tough; it gets stronger. Another church in our community began a youth program. It started with a bang, and people were talking about it. We were happy for them. We also knew that a good ministry is not the one that starts out well when energy is high and the future looks bright. A good ministry is one that, through enduring love, builds stability so that when the exuberance of the moment is gone, the group is still marching on. That youth group began and ended in the same year. And we struggled to keep loving ours. We also took a lesson from a hockey coach. Ann and I are hockey fans. We often go and cheer the Monsters, a pro team in nearby Madison. Last year our Monsters were atop the standings as they entered the playoffs. We smelled a Colonial League title! Then, three of our best players were called up to an NHL farm team. It was great for those three players, but for Monsters fans, it was disaster. We limped into the playoffs without our stars, their positions filled by rookies. Our ministry is like that. The previous spring, we had said good-bye to a super class of Christian kids. Now they were off at college. As happy as we were for them, we mourned their loss. But, just as the Monsters didn't fold because they lost their stars, we couldn't fold either. The Madison coach adjusted his lineup, emphasizing the strengths he now had. We needed to do the same. We had to stop comparing this group to our previous one. Yes, our team had lost a lot of spiritual depth and leadership, but that didn't mean the game was over. It only meant we had to do the best with what we had, build on our strengths, and trust God that things would work out. Once we did that, we started loving our team for who they were.

We know the truth about you

Acceptance didn't mean that we approved of everything they were doing. In Mark 10, Jesus encounters a rich man. The man wants to know what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus repeats the commandments to him. The man states that he has followed them from the beginning. Then the Scripture says, "Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, 'You lack one thing … '" (Mark 10:21, NRSV). Jesus goes on to tell him what he needed to do to draw closer to God. Jesus confronted this man not because he didn't like him or because he was angry with his thoughts or behavior. He confronted the man because he loved him and wanted the very best for him. It was out of love that we confronted the group. "I want two things from you," I began. "First, I don't want any of you to take anything we say as a personal attack. But second, I don't want any of you thinking we're not talking to you." Feet shuffled. "Last year, two teenagers were killed in a car crash just north of us here. The year before one was killed just south of us. Both wrecks were alcohol-related. This past summer a family in our church was affected by underage drinking and driving. Let me ask you: do you think you are somehow exempt from that happening to you? Can you do whatever you want and not get hurt?" No one volunteered an opinion. "Soon, someone at school is going to die and everyone at the funeral will say, 'I can't believe this happened.' If we hear you say that, we will confront you, because you knew your friend was drinking." Ann was more even direct. "Do your parents know you're drinking? I'm talking about the party last night outside town." It was then that a few spoke up. They were shocked at how much we knew. When the discussion turned to premarital sex, most in the group were quiet. We talked about how much their lives would be changed by a pregnancy. We spoke honestly about their witness. We challenged them to live to a higher standard. We wondered if we had sent some people packing that night. As it turned out, some were angry that we had interfered in their lives; others were happy the issues had been named. One girl stopped by our house and we had a wonderful and tear-filled talk.

A better battle plan

While we were praying together one day, Ann's frustration started pouring out. "God, I've tried everything I can think of to get these kids together, and I've done everything I know to get them thinking about you. It just isn't working. I can't do it—I give up." She had identified the problem and the solution at the same time. Give up. At that moment we both admitted that we had taken the group as far as we could, and it wasn't nearly far enough. We had depended too much on our abilities and personalities. In addition to our commitments to love without condition, accept where appropriate, and confront when necessary, we also committed to pray for the people we minister to. We used to think that the best way to move youth spiritually was to be with them as much as possible. We continue to spend time with them, but now have added the most important ingredient of all. Prayer is the way to get directly at the soul of each person.

Learning to dance

The final thing that we have learned through this entire experience is to dance! One afternoon after having lunch together and discussing the situation again, I got up from the table. "Now that I am thoroughly depressed, I think I'll go back to work." I walked through the kitchen into the church office, which is connected to the parsonage. After a few minutes, Ann joined me in the office. She turned on the CD player and started to dance. I looked at her like she was mad, but that didn't slow her down. She spun around the desk and encouraged me to do the same. "I don't want to dance!" I told her several times. But soon our laughter was as loud as the music, and I joined her impromptu hop. When the song was over, she looked me straight in the eye. "Dan, sometimes you just have to dance." Ann is right. We forget that ministry should be joyful. At times we will feel betrayed by unfaithful church members, but even then, we can celebrate the certainty of God. Our youth group is still sputtering. Our leaders haven't risen to the task and excuses abound. But Ann and I have changed. With our newfound dependence on God, we enjoy the work and the people much more. And, now and then, we dance.

Daniel L. Bohlman pastors Yellowstone and Apple Grove Lutheran Churches in Argyle, Wisconsin. adbohlman@hotmail.com