Thriving in Hard Times

For many decades now, American society has emphasized individual striving and achievement as the path the self-betterment and abundant life. Thanks be to God, we seem, at last, to be waking up. We have discovered that such a philosophy lifts only a few boats, leaving the rest to flounder. The economic crisis has finally brought it home. With the middle-class shrinking, pensions disappearing, 50 million uninsured, and a record number of foreclosures and evictions, we can no longer bury our heads in the sand. Mutual responsibility for our social well-being became a recurrent theme in both presidential campaigns (even though Barack Obama proved far more effective in articulating it than John McCain). We are at last coming to grips with the truth that we truly are our brother’s keeper. His welfare is our concern because our welfare depends on his. As Martin Luther King observed, “We are all caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied to a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly.”
Yet as the realization dawns, the specter of economic hardship frightens us into a defensive posture, clasping what we have to our chest, unwilling to let go. Even as we insist that government and other institutions show greater compassion and generosity of spirit, we as private individuals can turn parsimonious, contradicting with our actions the best hopes of our hearts. Succumbing to such fears only compounds the problem, forcing us to lean on our own devices for support.
Scripture provides ample guidance to direct us away from our fears, giving us a vision of abundance which, had it been heeded on a societal as well as an individual level, could well have spared us the mess we are now slogging through. Here are the biblical principles that should direct us in hard times:

2 Corinthians 8:13b-14: "…but it is a question of a fair balance between your abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance." The primary principle: share what you have. Redistribution of wealth is a basic Christian economic goal. Paul exhorts the rich congregation in Corinth to aid the suffering churches of Macedonia in the name of a fundamental fairness. He reminds them that there may well come a time when the shoe will be on the other foot and they will require the generosity of the churches in Macedonia for their own needs. Citing Exodus, he argues that it is appropriate that the rich not have too much, nor the poor too little.

Matthew 14:20: "And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full." Second principle: you have more to share than you think. At the feeding of the 5000, there were a lot of hungry people, but the disciples had only two fish and five loaves. They were convinced this was far too little, but Jesus told them they had enough. When they listened to Jesus and distributed the food, they discovered he was right. Amazing things happen when we give what little we have. No better illustration of this principle exists than the story of the El Paso church group that decided to take the injunction to feed the hungry to heart and brought a picnic across the border to the ragpickers of Juarez, Mexico. The gesture elicited outpourings of generosity from others and ended up transforming the desperately poor community into one of hope and dignity, as people were moved to address the deeper needs of the ragpickers, building schools, job-training and community centers, and cooperative businesses around the dump where they had once picked rags. There is an abundance hidden in the midst of what we perceive as scarcity, but it cannot be unleashed without action driven by a giving heart.

Matthew 25:25-26a: “'…so I was afraid and went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.' But his master answered him, 'You wicked and slothful servant!…'” Third principle: hoarding out of fear is squandering and leads to diminishment. In the parable of the talents, the steward who simply stashes away what his master gives him for safekeeping, because he is afraid of what might happen if he invested it, is the one the master condemns. We often see this as grossly unfair, since the steward’s intent was simply to preserve what he had been given, not to keep it for himself. Similarly, we tend to grow fearfully cautious with the resources God has given us, all in the name of prudence, when God is in fact calling us to use those resources for the betterment of his kingdom. It is the steward who makes use of those resources who is rewarded. An all-too-common illustration of this principle is the budget-slashing church that strips its ministries of their resources in difficult times, all in the name of fiscal responsibility, only to discover that the demise of the youth group or music program or young adult ministry has caused the church to shrink further. It is the church that places ministry over maintenance that grows.

Acts 2:44: "All who believed were together and had all things in common." Fourth principle: sharing builds community. The earliest Christians were communitarians. They used what wealth they possessed to make sure the basic needs of their poorest members were met. The church created a very different vision of human community that was radical and transformative. The governing metaphor was that of a family or a household. It transcended all barriers, including tribe, ethnicity, and language. No one prior to the disciples had ever conceived of family as based on anything but blood and marriage or a society as based on anything other than ethnicity or imperial power. Even one hundred years after the Church was born, Justin Martyr could assert that “we, who once coveted greedily the wealth and fortune of others, now place in common the goods we possess, dividing them with all the needy.” The communitarian spirit of giving would lead Origen to claim at an even later date that “the communities of God, to which Christ has become teacher and guide, are in comparison with communities of the pagan people, among whom they live as strangers, like heavenly lights in the world.”

How do we thrive in hard times? The biblical witness is as counter-intuitive as it is clear: share what little you have. Perhaps our churches are as anemic as they are because, in times of plenty, we have allowed ourselves to be seduced by the greed and acquisitiveness of the world simply because there was always enough for the individual to thrive on his or her own, and so we have become less connected, less willing to obey the law of Christ by bearing one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). To those who would question how a church can survive by sharing when it struggles to make budget or pay its staff, I offer the words of one the Episcopal Church’s most noted preachers, Barbara Brown Taylor: “How can the church survive that keeps pouring itself into the world? I cannot possibly say. All I know is the gospel truth: those willing to give everything away are the ones with anything worth keeping; those willing to look death full in the face are the ones with the most abundant lives. Go figure.”

Tending to the Temple of the Spirit

Years ago, at a diocesan presentation on the high cost of clergy health insurance, I remember hearing that clergy ranked just above coal miners in the actuarial risk tabulations used by insurance companies. Since the clergy of the diocese were grouped together by our insurance provider, the premiums necessarily reflected that risk. Clergy, the presenter explained, have higher rates of alcoholism and divorce than lay people, tend to be overweight, and, because the number of young seminarians has declined over the years, they are older as well. In addition, their profession has fallen over the past several decades from a high-status, low-stress vocation to a low-status, high-stress vocation. These factors make it difficult to provide reasonably priced health insurance to priests and deacons working in the church.

As a relatively young priest in his first rectorship, I found all this both bewildering and troubling. Why were we so unhealthy? What was it about the ordained ministry that made the profession so fraught with risk? Were we not called, according to our ordination vows, to pattern our lives so that we might be a “wholesome example” for our people? How come so many of us are unable, on one level or another, to fulfill the vow?

As I gained in experience, however, the answers became clear.

I had always been an active person. I loved to run, swim, and ride my bike. In college, I had run on the cross-country team for a time (until I figured out I had no business running with people whose mile splits were just above four minutes!) I had done the Marine Corps Marathon and the Philadelphia Half-Marathon. As a prep school track coach, I had always run with the team at practice. I considered myself fit and thought I had sufficiently integrated the right habits into my routines to keep me that way.

Then came parish ministry. At first, it had only minimal effect. I was an assistant with limited responsibilities. With a young son and another on the way, workouts had to be curtailed a bit. Visits to parishioners inevitably revolved around a plate of cookies or some other homemade treat and it felt ungrateful to refuse to sample at least one… or two. I put on a few pounds, but everything still felt quite manageable.

When I became a rector a couple of years later, however, everything changed. The parish was struggling and I desperately wanted to make a difference. Eager to leave my mark, I threw myself into the work, regularly logging 70-hour weeks. Workouts were limited to an occasional jog in the park. Goodies multiplied on all those pastoral calls I was making, not to mention all those notoriously caloric coffee hours and potluck luncheons.

The church grew and so did I. After five or six years, I had added almost four inches to my waistline and mushroomed to nearly 240 pounds. (At 6’1”, my ideal weight, according to the most commonly accepted measure, is supposed to be between 190 and 200 pounds.) I started having difficulty sleeping. My blood pressure and cholesterol levels spiked. At one point, my wife, anxious for my health, scolded me: “Can’t you see this job is killing you? I don’t want to spend my old age as a widow!” I knew there was a problem, but my habits had become entrenched and the success I had had in the parish only reinforced the habits. Still, I knew something had to change. I figured joining the local community fitness center might help. I started exercising a bit more, but with few fundamental changes to my lifestyle.

Then one day, while jogging on a treadmill, I suddenly grew dizzy. Pain radiated down my left arm. I immediately stopped the machine, convinced I was about to have a heart attack. Fortunately, I was wrong. The pain and dizziness quickly subsided. One thing was clear, however: this was my wake-up call. If I did not alter my lifestyle, I was headed for trouble.

With the help of a few fitness books, supplemented by knowledge accrued as a former coach and athlete, I devised a fitness program I thought could work. I knew it had to be something that was doable, that I could make into a lifetime habit, rather than a crash program. I realized from my reading that at the age of forty, I had to make diet as much a focus of the program as exercise. Metabolism slows as you age, making it progressively easier to gain weight. But I also love to eat, so I knew I had to develop something that I would enjoy.

I cut down the amount of meat I ate, especially fatty red meat, as well as the simple carbohydrates, such as bread, pasta, and rice. I added more vegetables, replaced butter with a heart-friendly substitute, and stopped drinking alcohol with my regular meals. I paid more attention to the size of my portions and never took second helpings. As a rule of thumb, I made sure I had a serving of protein, a serving of fruit or vegetables, and a carbohydrate at each meal, with no helping ever being larger than the size of my fist. I turned away from the dairy-rich, meat-focused recipes of my northern European ancestors and turned to the healthier fare of the Mediterranean world and the American Southwest. I drank a glass of low-fat milk or a protein shake at mid-morning and mid-afternoon to boost my metabolism and stave of cravings. One day a week, I allowed myself an indulgence like wine with dinner or an ice cream for dessert, so I wouldn’t feel deprived.

For exercise, I started getting up early and heading for the gym five or six days out of the week. I knew that high-intensity workouts burned fat faster and were more effective in revving metabolism, but because I was out of shape, I had to start slowly. I began jogging twenty minutes on the treadmill, then lifting weights for another twenty, with an occasional swim in the pool. After about six weeks I felt strong enough to increase the intensity. I started doing speed intervals on the treadmill, gingerly at first, but pushing myself to do just a little more a little faster each week. Since increased muscle mass also speeds metabolism, I focused four days a week on weightlifting, alternating between lower body and upper body exercises, doing four sets of six different exercises each time. This also helped me to avoid the injuries that had often plagued me when I focused exclusively on running, especially after I passed the age of 35.

It worked. The weight started to peel off. I felt stronger and more energetic. I slept better as well. Since nothing motivates like success, my resolve strengthened as I went on. The approach was becoming habitual, a way of life. By the end of that year, I had dropped to 195 pounds, could run a mile in just over six minutes, and could do a chest press of 240 pounds, the first time ever in my life I could lift more than my weight.

My greatest struggle at this point was not maintaining the routine, but justifying the time commitment it required. I felt guilty that it took time away from work or my family. Somehow I felt like I was goofing off or indulging myself when I should have been visiting the sick or doing yard work at the rectory. I waged a constant internal battle to keep myself on track. A few years later I had the good fortune to attend a CREDO conference. CREDO, of course, was conceived by the leaders of the Church Pension Fund as a way of addressing the issue of clergy wellness. Physical health issues are discussed extensively at each conference. At the one I attended, Barbara Kempf, a nurse from St. Paul’s in Indianapolis, led the physical health portions of the program. She pointed out that clergy have more flexibility in their schedules than almost any other profession and most have little or no commute to factor in, so time really should not be an issue when devising a workout regimen. “Make it a part of your workday,” she urged us. “Treat it as something you are doing for the church, as well as for yourself and your family.” When I heard those words, I instantly felt liberated. No longer did I need to rationalize my workouts. They were as much a part of the work I did for the church as writing a sermon. They were acts of stewardship, preserving the body that is the temple of the Holy Spirit for the work God had given me to do. They contributed to my family’s wellness as well, giving my wife a husband with greater energy and less stress and my kids a dad who didn’t always feel so worn out he couldn’t throw a ball around or play a game of one-on-one basketball.

It has been eleven years since I had my wake-up call and, for the most part, I have managed to maintain my regimen and keep the weight off. My blood pressure and cholesterol levels have returned to normal and I have no more sleep issues. Every once in a while, especially around Thanksgiving and Christmas, I add a few pounds and have to spend the spring working them back off. This past year was a bit more stressful than usual, since my parish had entered into merger discussions with another church, and I added a few more pounds than is typical, with my weight surpassing 210, but I managed to take them off again this summer. I still earn a “superior” rating from the periodic fitness tests I take at the gym. And I feel good, with plenty of energy to do what God has called me to do.

Given that health insurance costs for clergy remain one of the most difficult issues for the church, perhaps the single best thing we can do to improve things is to make a commitment to preventive self-care. Scientific studies have demonstrated time and time again that diet and vigorous exercise are the single most effective factors in preventing serious health problems as we age. By developing a doable fitness program and sticking to it, we will not only help the church we love, but the God we serve and the families we treasure as well. There are few better investments of time and energy. It is perhaps the single most basic act of stewardship we can perform. And one I personally have never regretted.