I was one of those lay leaders in a smallish-midsized congregation who was on almost every committee.  I think I’d held every lay leadership position except the board in that church. Operative word being held (strangled, perhaps.)  I clutched leadership positions close to me without letting go, because with them came some semblance of control to keep the congregational structure and community just the way I liked it. I had standards.  There’s a certain way you do things.

Then one bright, sunny Sunday the president and minister called me up to the chancel during announcements.  The minister gave me a beautiful, carved chalice and the president, putting his hand firmly on my shoulder said, “Tandi, you have served this religious community well with your extended service.”  He went on to list all the committees I’ve chaired and projects I headed up over the most recent years. “We are giving you a volunteer sabbatical for an entire year.  You are not allowed to chair or volunteer for any committee.  You are not allowed to even make coffee.  This year we ask that you simply come and be fed.”

I have no idea what the sermon was that Sunday, because I spent the rest of worship trying to figure out what this “honor” meant.  They couldn’t be serious, could they? I can’t volunteer for a thing?  What will I do with this time?  What will they do without me?

Over the next couple of months I went through the classic stages of grief:

Denial:  They couldn’t possible mean it.  I mean, who is going to know how to coax a paper jam out of the copy machine for the newsletter assembly?  Who knows how to make the canvass forms just right? No one else on the worship committee really knows our liturgical calendar. And they didn’t really mean I wouldn’t co-lead the youth group, right?  That’s different.

It turns out the entire congregation was in on it.  I’d turn up to a committee meeting and I’d be cheerfully greeted and then asked to leave.  I showed up at youth group like always.  The youth didn’t even let me stay for check-in.  They sang a song about “thank you” as if they practiced it.

Anger:  You know, the youth seemed especially delighted to send me home. I bet this was their idea.  Why do they hate me? What a hateful place.  And they call themselves a religious community!  Luckily I knew enough not to spew my venom onto the other members. I made an appointment with a spiritual director when the gym punching bag wasn’t enough.

Bargaining:  I showed up to worship a little early and noticed one of the greeters hadn’t arrived yet.  I grabbed a stack of Orders of Service and slipped into place by the sanctuary doorway.  Someone came up behind me with a hug and slipped the OoS right out of my hand. “But surely this doesn’t count!” I pleaded surprised by the desperation in my voice, “It’s just a little thing, really… We don’t even need to mention this to the president.”  Our membership chair tenderly smiled and put an arm around my shoulders. “You’ll understand if I invite a newer member to fulfill this volunteer gateway position. Go enjoy the quiet before it gets busy in here.”

Depression.  And then the gloomy clouds moved in. I mean, who was I without my volunteering?  No one knew I was important anymore.  I was just… average.  I actually moped around the house and cried for a couple weeks.  Not only wasn’t I frequenting the congregational building for meetings during the week, I didn’t go to worship every Sunday.  Why bother? They don’t need me.  They probably don’t miss me.

Acceptance.  A note came from our minister that simply said, “Thinking of you on your sabbatical. I hope you’re having fun with your kids and doing all the art projects you talked about getting to someday.  I hope this is your someday.”  I stared at the note for a long time, rereading it over and over. Oh, yeah.  And there is that stack of books by my bed that I’ve wanted to read… Like a veil lifting it finally occurred to me that this is my life, my time, my agenda. I get to choose.  Color came back to my cheeks as I spent down time dancing in the kitchen with my children.  I made home-made meals and started teaching them family recipes.  I picked up my sketch pad and filled it with images for my own personal amusement.  A calm emerged and I could easily locate my center.

Another calm, energy came into the congregation.  The worship committee not only experimented with additions to our traditional calendar, they also played with the format. And I liked it even better!  Two elders joined the youth ministry team much to the delight of the teenagers who were craving older mentors.  Someone else figured out how to tame the copier. The congregation figured it all out without me.

And I figured out that I really didn’t like doing all those things. Maybe I did at one time.  But I had grown to resent them and hadn’t realized it.  All the committee work had come to feel like a “should,” not a joy.  I wouldn’t not have known this without the involuntary volunteer sabbatical.  And you know what I really missed? Making coffee and weeding the flower garden.

At the end of my volunteer sabbatical the minister and new president invited me out for coffee.  The minister leaned in and asked, “Now that you’ve had a year respite, how do you really want to serve and be served?…”  And a new story began.

What story is waiting to unfold in your life?

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Tandi Rogers is a thankful survivor an involuntary volunteer sabbatical.  She believes it was the beginning of her leadership formation and understanding of growth.

Like many Unitarian and Universalist ministers of yore, I’m a circuit-riding preacher: a perpetual guest minister. (Not many 19th century traditions merit revisiting, but this is one of them.) On any given Sunday, I pull up to an unfamiliar UU congregation, meet in person the lay leaders I’ve been teaming with in advance, and lead worship for and with new friends. I’ve run out of synonyms for “awesome” to describe how much I love this work.

When UU congregations speak of practicing hospitality, they’re usually thinking of guests in the pews, not the pulpit. I’ve learned, however, that worship planning itself is an act of hospitality. The following practices for UU worship associates deepen and enrich that collaboration; they’re the essence of hospitality to, and for, guest ministers.

 1. Relationship First

We UUs are people of relationship. How we plan worship together is as important as the final product. If you find yourself operating from “Checklist Mind,” pause… and connect first. You’re the ambassador for your entire congregation. Introduce yourself. Let us know that you’re looking forward to working with us, and how you’d like to involve us in the service.

 2. Communicate with Intention

Frequently, a single thoughtful conversation about your service is more effective than ten “time saving” emails. It also demonstrates respect for us, as guest ministers, and for your congregation, who can sense the difference between a slap-dash service and worship crafted with care and creativity. If you can’t devote time to a visioning process, do ask about our gifts, our preferences for which elements we’ll be responsible for, and our needs on the day of worship.

 3. Banish the Tyranny of the Urgent

The Chinese character for “busy” is comprised of the symbols for “heart” + “killing,” but for too many of us, it’s the default descriptor of our days. Most of us lead lives that are very full indeed, but that’s no excuse for unleashing the even more deadly Beast of Urgency (“I need this by tonight!!”). Have mercy: plan ahead and clearly communicate deadlines.

 4. Practice Fair Compensation…

Religious professionals provide more than a sermon. Our role is to hold the space, fully present to whomever shows up, exactly as they are. To reflect the value of our ministry, the UU Ministers Association has established a minimum honorarium of $250 (one service; $300 for two; plus mileage, whenever possible).

 5. … and Courteous Timing

The honorarium check should be presented before the service. A guest minister should never depart without having been paid.

 6. Step into the (Figurative) Balcony

Worship isn’t about conveying information or having enough candles. As a worship associate, you and your guest minister are preparing a table for beloved people with deep longings, invisible hurts, and a need to be buoyed by the community’s hope. Together, you’re creating a space that will hold them — and Spirit, who often drops in for a visit.

May you find delight and connection in this shared ministry, and may you discover ways to deepen hospitality in all its forms.

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Guest Blogger Rev. Erika Hewitt

Rev. Erika Hewitt is a community minister based in Bath, Maine. In addition to preaching in a different pulpit every Sunday, she coaches UU ministers and worship teams across the country. Erika’s forthcoming book from Skinner House is a small-group guide for laypeople to write their own sermons.