cheerio

As we all know, times is hard. People are being laid off in every sector and in my little corner of the world we’ve spent the last few weeks imaging and re-imagining every possible disaster scenario in an attempt to ward off what we’ve come to see as inevitable. We went through a vicious round of lay-offs in late spring, and we were told that this terrible thing was happening to regain sound financial footing. Furthermore, we were told that there would be no second round of cuts. As God is my witness, there will be no second round of cuts. Thank you, Scarlett.

Of course, if you know the story, once she is past the worst of her crises Scarlett doesn’t ever go hungry again but she pays an awful price for satiety. She will kill and cheat, lie and steal to avoid going hungry; nor does she ever admit that the luxury she enjoyed in her youth itself carried a heavy price. And so does life continue to imitate art, or if not art then, at least, best-selling fiction. We are now waiting our second round of staff cuts and budget slashing.

I keep being assured that my position is secure, but I only become more uneasy with every reassurance. Even if I can keep my job, will my pay be cut? Even if I keep my pay, is cost of living about to go through the roof as everyone—and I do mean everyone—struggles to survive? Even if everything in my life remains stable, people I know and work with, people I love and care for, and even people I don’t particularly like but upon whom I depend are going to loose their jobs. Some of them already have. So every time some has the desire to comfort me with repeated claims that I shouldn’t worry, I’ll be just fine, I want to scream, “Maybe, but what about everyone else?!”

In the midst of all of this we’ve been working to figure out how to make my final product as inexpensive as possible, and lest the point of the exercise be lost, to clearly exhibit a reduction in expenditure. There were about ten days here where it seemed that the appearance of having cut costs was in fact more important than actually cutting costs. I still have moments where I question the purposes of those making decisions in this enterprise. My days have been filled with drafting and redrafting cost projections and production schedules and version after version of finished product to the point of exhaustion. Yeah, it’s been fun for all of us.

The problem with redesigning my portion of our entire product is that everything is of a piece. In changing the dimensions within which I work, which up until now have been relatively flexible, we are forced to re-examine every other choice we’ve made to see if it is compatible with a new rigid format. Last year was, for me, a hard fought battle to make these kinds of choices early and in a scheduled fashion so that we didn’t spend hours and days drafting and redrafting at the last minute. We finally achieved a point where we are consistently, manageably behind; we can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but can’t ever quite make it out. Having upper management suddenly decide to throw a massive wrench into the works is not helping my stress level.

Every day I’m reminding people of the trade-offs we’re making in choosing this path: we’re losing hospitality, we’re losing an educational tool, and we’re losing a promotional tool. We are making gains with this choice: better fiscal responsibility, better use of natural resources, and a cleaner, more contemporary look. This isn’t the first time this suggestion for change has come up; in the past when someone looking to save money, usually my boss’s boss, would say, “Why don’t we do things the way ____ does?”, I have always responded that the reason we don’t do things that way is because that way isn’t suited to the way we do things. I’m right, but it seems that is no longer argument enough. Therefore, one of the trade-offs we’re making is to stop doing things the way we do things and do them instead in a way which will fit a proscribed format; in making this choice, I believe we’re losing integrity.

But, perhaps, I’m too quick to judge. I was chatting with a colleague this week about all of these things, a colleague whose work is on the absolute periphery of mine, and we got to talking about the box of Cheerios. You see, every week at our largest Sunday morning service a plate collection is received and presented to God at the altar. Along with the cash offering—pardon my vulgarity, but let’s call a spade a spade—one of the most annoying ushers I’ve ever met solicits the most telegenic children of the day to carry forward a basket of foodstuffs as an offering to God. The contents of the basket have not changed during the time I’ve been here (except at Easter when, to my horror, the annoying usher included two cheap, pastel stuffed bunnies in the basket). I am irritated that the same institutional size box of name brand breakfast cereal is given to God week after week. I am also irritated that we pander to sentimentality by seeking out unwitting children who will present the most attractive picture. I am further irritated that we make no statement explaining this practice of ours; it is assumed that because the priest asked that we make an offering and has reminded us that all things come from God, we will draw the appropriate conclusion when we see some adorable tots taking an enormous box of America’s most beloved cold cereal to the Table of the Lord. Then, my colleague says to me, “You know the box is empty, right?” Just when you think it can’t get worse.

I may not always agree with the liturgical choices that are made for our worship, but for better or worse they have always had the integrity of being our choices. Would I do things differently? Yes. Would you? Yes to that, too. Admit it, there is always that hymn you don’t particularly like, that prayer that seemed awkward, that passage of scripture that doesn’t make any sense (or which makes explicit sense and with which you simply disagree). So, I will declare again that while I may not always agree with the choices that are made for our worship, they are deliberate, intentional choices made in the belief that they will best serve our needs. So, when I write that in changing the parameters of my work, we will be forced to re-examine every other choice we have made for the coming year, I’m not exaggerating; I’m stating fact. When we limit our worship of the Lord to what will fit within fixed parameters, we will inevitably make trade-offs: hospitality, accessibility, evangelism, formation, creativity, innovation, and, yes, integrity. Every day, and some days every hour, I am asking again, “What are you willing to sacrifice?” If you get this, you must sacrifice that. If you want that also, you must give up something else. And then they start in with the questions, all of which are variations on “Can’t we just expand the parameters?” No. These limits were set by those above me and those above you, and you agreed that we could work within those limits. Now we must live into it.

God bless me, I’m tired of this conversation. All I can see ahead of me are weeks and weeks of tumultuous change, and just as the change begins to take root we will once again be in the heart of the Nativity storm. I can hardly bear to think of what Christmas will bring. This year we’re adding a “new” item to our holiday line-up, and letting the axe fall on an old favorite. “New” in that we’ve given an old friend a flash name, Carols by Candlelight, and moved it forward on the calendar. Amongst the staff we’ve taken to calling this service “Uncle Sammy’s Spectacular Christmas Jamboree: The Greatest Liturgy on Earth!” In reality, it is Christmas Lessons and Carols on the afternoon of Advent IV with the addition of a “candle lighting ceremony”. It’s all a bit theatrical for me, but I gave up on that score after our Christmas Day service won an Emmy last year. I ain’t kidding. Who could make this stuff up? But the coup de grace is what is happening to the L & C we record for broadcast on PRI. Think of it as a greatest hits liturgy. The plan is to cobble together a “new” version from the recordings of the last few years: carols, hymns, readers; all we have to do is record a new sermon and paste the whole thing together. No choir or congregation needed. It is the full-scale liturgical equivalent of an empty box of Cheerios.

Perhaps we’re really not giving up so very much. Perhaps I am the only one really bothered by any of this. Perhaps by February things will have reached calmer waters, but for now the seas are rough. Perhaps.