The man’s hair is greasy, and his eyes dart around the room as he relates to me the tale of his car accident. “It’s a miracle I’m alive,” he says.

I can smell him, and I wonder when he last showered. His shirt is on backwards, and the front of his slacks is unclasped (the back falls far enough to make plain he’s not wearing underwear).

“It was a quadruple spin that turned into a flip, and I walked away without a scratch, because of Jesus Christ. Because of JESUS CHRIST!” He punches his fist into an opposing palm for emphasis.

He is clearly not well.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t right.

You need trust–like personal trust in competent people to do good work and not foul things up.

You also need structures like rules and procedures to short-circuit the human tendency toward stupidity and short-sightedness.

Trust without structures causes problems. Structures without trust does too.

Tapestry is trying to preserve the trust the leaders have in one another as the basis for our work together, even as we kick around things we need to start doing to ensure quality. Some of us default to trusting one another and don’t need an outline of your retreat talk beforehand. Others default to creating structures and want all talks shared 30 days out. Here we are.

The PC(USA) has been roiled by the discovery that some denominational personnel used church grant money to start their own independent nonprofit. The personnel in question were aiming for “flexibility,” and it’s clear that they trusted each other and had the trust of others in the denomination. But they sidestepped important structures, and now they’re on administrative leave and the value of a terrific movement is now in question. Here we are.

Don’t tell me we need a “balance” of trust and structures. That’s too easy. Isn’t it more the case that we need to discern when one is more urgently needed than the other, and whether or not the urgent need for trust permits looser structures or the urgent need for structure puts trust in the backseat?

Can you have both all the time?

 

My preferred note taking app doesn’t work with the updated version of my phone’s operating system, so I went looking for a replacement. The first one I tried gave me default “Work” and “Home” to do lists, and the moment I looked at them I realized something about my life. Then I deleted the app.

“Work” and “Home” don’t make sense as separate vocational categories for me anymore. The projects I’m working on for my pastoral job do not feel more (or less) important to me than the projects I’m focusing on at home, the events at my daughter’s school or the meals I’m learning to cook at the end of each day.

This is a choice that privileged people get to make. I watched my dad endure a blue collar job for over 30 years, and he lived–absolutely lived–for his leisure time away from it. “Home” and “Work,” for him, were warring parties. That’s the norm for the majority of people.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m grateful for my work and my family.

My church is doing the New Beginnings Assessment, and so we have been learning about organizational life cycles. One version displays the life cycle as a hill. Churches start at the bottom with lots of energy, and they climb by building significant networks of relationships, which give birth to programs, which, of course, require administration. On the decline side of that hill, things fall away in the exact same order; energy goes first, then the relationships, then the programs. In the end, administrative structures are all that’s left.

I’ve been part of new churches and established ones, and this setup seems right.

My far-sighted colleague observed to me that, at our church, we spend most of our efforts on relationships and almost none on energy. We’ve said for a very long time that administration needs to support programs and that programs are only valuable insofar as they incubate meaningful relationships. And we’ve stopped there.

What about energy, then? Where does energy come from? If a people is tired, how do they get rejuvenated? Surely this is a work of the Spirit, but, just as surely, there are things leaders can do to create energetic conditions, right?

15 years ago I was part of an “emergent” church before that’s what they were called, and that place was bursting with energy. Most of the participants were in their 20’s and 30’s (there was a nursery but no youth group), and the pastor was a terrific, thoughtful, musically talented guy. Every gathering created a kind of buzz that took a few days to wear off.

Is that the key? A demographic? A dynamic leader?

Is the creation of energy a leadership competency? If we don’t have it, where do we get it?

Seth Godin is fond of saying, “Just start,” and every time I hear him say it I’m inspired to go start something.

But I often quit.

This week I began taking fitness classes at a nearby gym, and I’m already sowing the seeds of my quitting. I quit running. I quit the Jillian Michaels DVDs. And I could quit this. I can feel it even now.

My quitting is the principled kind. There’s a flaw with the program. There’s a more responsible use for my time. Fitness is vanity. At last night’s class I asked the instructor how to make sure I’m taking the right classes throughout the week, since my availability fluctuates from week-to-week. Her look said, “Oh, you’re a quitter, aren’t you?”

I need to set short term goals with this and resist the urge to critique all of the little things that could, maybe, according to some other set of possibilities, be imperfect about it. When it comes to sticking it out, Perfect has been my enemy more times than I can count.

How much good work do we leave on the table because it’s not perfect and because we can’t see the end from the beginning? And how much of our quitting is a strategy for avoiding judgment: the sideways comment about the superior workout, the rolled eyes at another new beginning, the sneer?

God help us to recognize that for what it is and to keep at it. “Just start,” yes. Every day.

Because my meeting ran over time, I was a few minutes late getting my daughter to school and en route to her play rehearsal.

Because I was late getting my daughter to play rehearsal, I didn’t notice that her pants were wet until we were on the way.

Because her pants were wet, we needed to run home and get her changed.

Because we were going home and not to the theater, I was on Foothill Boulevard west of Dartmouth.

Because we were going home, I also decided to get the right shoes for her costume.

Because I decided to get the right shoes, I texted my wife (while driving–although via voice) for their location.

Because I was texting my wife, I wasn’t paying 100% of my attention to the road.

Because I wasn’t paying 100% attention to the road, I hit something.

Because I hit something, my tire started to make a funny noise.

Because my tire started making that woop-woop-woop noise, I checked it whilst my daughter was changing.

Because I checked it, I found a screw head protruding and heard the tell-tail hissing sound of a tire soon to be flat.

But . . .

Because it’s a high quality tire it wasn’t flat yet.

Because it wasn’t flat yet I had time to run my daughter to play practice before attending to it.

Because I have adequate credit, I am able to own a cell phone.

And because I own a smartphone, I could say “call Foothill 66 Automotive” into the phone while driving to the theater and be connected within seconds to the garage.

Because I got connected to the garage I was able to plead with a mechanic to wait 15 minutes before closing so he could fix my tire.

Because I have a bank account and debit card, I was able to pay the required cost of patching a punctured tire.

Because I was able to pay, the tire was repaired before the shop closed.

Because the tire was repaired, I was able to return home before 5:00.

Because I returned home in time, I was able to cook dinner before my wife got home.

I’m geeking out this week, anticipating the arrival of Android’s operating system update on my phone. Simply called “L” (or “Lollipop”–Google names all of its OS versions on candy), this software update employs something called “material design” that is making tech writers woozy with praise. I. Can’t. Wait.

Android is a mobile computing platform onto which developers of software applications can build their tools. In order to build apps for the platform, however, you have to understand its “Design Principles.” I’ve been intrigued by the metaphor of church as  “platform” for a few years now, and I wonder if “Design Principles” aren’t a good way to think about ministry.

Google tells developers that, in Material Design, “Material is the metaphor. The fundamentals of light, surface, and movement are key to conveying how objects move, interact, and exist in space and in relation to each other. Realistic lighting shows seams, divides space, and indicates moving parts.” Whether you’re making a game or a calendar app, there’s the guideline.

It also wants “The foundational elements of print-based design—typography, grids, space, scale, color, and use of imagery—” to “guide visual treatments.” Whether your app takes pictures or reads email, there’s the guideline.

In Lollipop, “Motion respects and reinforces the user as the prime mover.” That guideline applies to everything a developer might build for Android.

What Design Principles do we have for ministries at our churches? Are there “foundational elements” that guide every prospective worship gathering, educational event, or community-building effort? Who do our activities (and non activities) reinforce as the “prime mover?” What is the unifying metaphor behind all of the ways we express our life of faith together?

What are the church’s Design Principles? Do they change or are they constant across time? Are they contextual or the same everywhere?

I spent last Sunday morning before church at our community farmer’s market, and not at Sunday School. It was a strategic move suggested by my Head of Staff aimed at observing what’s going on out there while we’re all in here.

It didn’t take long for me to begin doubting what I was doing. Not the idea, but me. I was dressed for church, not the market. I didn’t know anyone there. I was gawking. The temptation to ditch it and make for my usual Sunday routine was strong (This, I’m certain, is how people feel when they come to church for the first time).

I’m 38, and it seems I’m no closer to overcoming this kind of self-doubt and uncertainty than when I was 12. The fairy tale that one day I’ll grow out of it and tackle every new challenge with confidence is fading in favor of a story about taking small steps every day (like blog posts).

If we wait until we’re completely sure of ourselves to take meaningful action, we will never do it. Self doubt will probably be with us our entire lives. No matter how many times we succeed, each new venture is a chance to fail, and I can see the failure much more vividly than I can see the success.

As leaders in churches, we should not expect this self doubt to go away. It’s true: you’re not the best-suited person to organize that new outreach experiment, and there are a bunch of ways you could screw it up. But you are a person who can do it. You can ask that new visitor to coffee. You can learn that new song for worship. You can (stay with me here) invite a teenager or two to accompany you in some meaningful work. You can do these things and doubt your ability to do them at the same time. You don’t have to conquer the doubt first.

You can dance with it instead.

If we are working for transformation in the church, then we leaders must subject ourselves to transformation. We must continually die to those things in ourselves and our leadership roles that we cherish as God raises up something new in their place, first in us and then in the church we seek to lead.

This is impossible for us, but with God all things are possible.

The alternative is to recline into titles and programs and maxims in the vain hope of gradual improvement or a lucky break.

I’m increasingly aware that my competencies and knowledge sets don’t merely need expanded but torn down and rebuilt. I need to be born again.