The pastor who doesn't lose sleep over having lost parishioners doesn't know whom it is they lost. (Some of my colleagues may disagree with me on this, but when an individual or family leaves the church you serve--whether to got to another or altogether--I believe it should strike a cord within you.) Losing parishioners--whether an individual or a whole family--has been one of the most difficult things for me to stomach in my short time thus far serving as a pastor. When someone leaves--no matter on good or negative terms--it leaves me with a pit in my gut, similar I imagine to how a kidney stone might feel. These internal pains are the unanswered questions that cannot be absorbed or easily removed, but sit there until they are finally extracted by God or forgotten with time. The questions are neither right or wrong--they are simply my own: "Why?" "What did I do?" "How can I fix or change this?" "When will they return?" A pastor who has been called by Christ and the church to serve and care for all people cannot easily let it go when such occurrences take place--they weigh on the shoulders like an unbearable yoke, thin the hair akin to the worst genetics, and fill the moments of pause with worry and restlessness. I'm quite sure every church that has ever existed has experienced the loss of parishioners (aside from death), and I'm fairly confident many hours have been lost by clergy thinking about the ones who walked away, the ones who went elsewhere, the ones who never returned.
       This is not to search the questions as to why people leave the church, nor is it a crowd sourcing for ways to retain parishioners. This, though it may sound like wallowing in self-pity (and perhaps it is--if so I apologize), is an honest and open lamentation (to use a good biblical term) on the loss of parishioners. It hurts when people leave--and we need to be able to speak this pain. I imagine (and I could be wrong) that people in the congregation--the pastor included--don't always get time or an opportunity to mourn the leaving of some from their community of faith. I imagine, for pastors, (and I could be moving further down a wrong rabbit hole) that expressing this grief isn't usually given much more time than it takes to adjust the entry in the congregational record books. The loss of part of the community--by death, transfer, or intentional absence--is a wound felt by the whole church, a loss that requires grieving. To step back, momentarily, I must say I am happy for those whose leaving a congregation is in response to the Spirit's call to go and serve among God's people in another community of faith. Remaining in a place where one is either unhappy or feels disconnected is not good for anyone. Nevertheless, in the loss of a family or person, the church they leave behind is left to mourn the change of relationships and impact they had on the greater life of the whole. Some churches, over time, give this change and the pain it brings over to Jesus to bear; others, however, are scarred by it--unfortunately, letting the pain shape their story from one of hope and future anticipation to despair and white-knuckled memory clinching. 
       If I'm honest with those around me and myself, the toughest part of losing parishioners--the thing that can multiply and further the pain of the situation--is turning to blame. Whenever something happens that causes us pain or suffering of any kind, whenever we encounter change in an unpleasant way, the temptation is to participate (reciprocate) in one of two forms of blame. In this case, we either blame those who have left and/or we blame ourselves for their leaving. It is all too easy to scapegoat those who have left so as to deflect our feelings instead of claiming the pain for what it is: a loving relationship that is now altered, strained, or damaged. Yet, to say that "we don't need them anyway" or "this only proves who/how they are" doesn't change or heal the hurt we bear, it only intensifies it. To blame the other fosters a lie that deceives both the individual and community--leaving the wound to become gangrenous. I'm reminded of the chain of blame we see happen immediately following the first sin in Genesis 3. Instead of taking accountability for his actions when addressed by God, the man blames both the woman and God for his wrongdoing. The woman--following the man's misguided lead--blames the serpent for her wrongdoing. When each of them is confronted with their distrust, the man and woman both resort to blaming another for something they themselves did full-knowingly. As such, their relationships with God, one another, and the rest of creation are forever altered with consequences. We cannot follow their harmful pattern and blame those who leave the church--it does nobody any good. Yet, the temptation for us to blame ourselves is just as great if not worse when it comes to the wake of parishioners leaving the church. Just as it is unfair, and divisive, when we blame another, it is just as unnecessary and damaging when we blame ourselves for something that many times exceeds us. I'm the worlds-worst at this. Something happens--anything--and immediately my thought is: "What did I do?" There are surely reasons for why I react this way, but regardless the effect of immediately blaming myself is no good at all. 
       Jesus took on the entire weight of all our sins at the cross. In this efficacious act of God, we are freed from blame--freed from both perpetuating and suffering by it. When we blame ourselves--piling burden upon burden onto our shoulders--Jesus' death is made vain. We are made new in the Crucified and Risen Christ, not that we might blame others or ourselves, but that we may live in love, sincerity, and care--especially through the difficult times. I have no answer for stopping parishioners from leaving the church; and I believe an answer would not help, but only hinder the grieving process. There is no neatly wrapped conclusion at the end of this, with a pretty bow on top. For a multitude of reasons--good and bad, changeable and not--churches will lose parishioners. It will hurt each time it happens--as it should. I think, if anything, the most appropriate task when this happens is not to point fingers and scapegoat--which does not retain anyone--but to instead name the pain, claim its tension, and finally give it over in prayer to Christ. God promises to bear all our pains, and brings about forgiveness and renewed faith through the Crucified and Risen Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. If nothing else, I hope and pray this process of writing out my thoughts and feelings on the topic has given you an opportunity to stop and think about it as well. May the Spirit who gathers, guides, and sends us out into the world also lead those who (have left and) leave our congregation, giving them peace along their faith journey. 

Last night, I formally began instruction on the Small Catechism (a small book written by Martin Luther in 1529, used to instruct Christians on the Ten Commandments, Apostle’s Creed, and Lord’s Prayer) with my 8th grade confirmands—starting with the First Commandment: “You shall have no other gods.” As we asked Martin Luther’s question: “What does this mean?” we looked at who and what functions as a god beyond just other religious and mythological Gods. As Luther defines it in his Large Catechism: “a ‘god’ is the term for that which we are to look for all good and in which we are to find refuge in all need” (Book of Concord 386.2). Gradually we began to consider what things in our life are lifted up to a level above all else—what we each consider most important, and how when these things begin to shape our lives around them to the point that we seek life and wellbeing from them they soon function as gods for which we look for all good and seek refuge in times of distress and need. Money (and the security it promises), knowledge and power, grades on a report card, extracurricular activities, social media, work, and even family—each of these things can and do serve as gods in our life when we lift them up above all else as that which we put our ultimate trust in. This is NOT TO SAY that any of these things are bad or evil—each one is a gift given to us by God. With the gifts we named from each of our individual lives listed out on the dry erase board alongside those things which can become idols, as a group we noticed how something that is given to us in love—when distorted by sin and given a place of power and control in our life—can quickly become less than what it was originally intended to be. Something like money, which should be used to help us and others in acquiring basic human needs, can turn into an object we yearn for—willing to do anything to accumulate it—and hoarding it over others. Luther reminds us: “it is the trust and faith of the heart alone that make both God and idol” (BC 386.2). God, the Gift-Giver, who makes and graciously gives us all things, is that which deserves our complete trust and dependency—not the gifts themselves. 
       Moving from looking at the commandment as a negative/prohibition to a positive/encouragement, I asked the students what are some ways we practice this commandment in our daily life. How do we demonstrate that God alone is the one whom our heart clings to for all good and in which we find refuge in all need? Their responses were telling—in an affirming way. They listed out prayer, worship/praise, thanks, singing songs/hymns, saying the creed, talking to others about God, etc. As I honed in on prayer specifically, we talked about why we pray, what we pray for, when we pray, where we pray, and how we pray. We looked at Luther’s Evening Blessing included at the end of the Catechism, and what was being said in it—how we thank God for protecting us throughout the day, how we trust that God forgives us of all our sins through Jesus Christ, and how we trust God to protect us as we sleep. In prayer we talk to God—thanking and petitioning God for what God alone can do. Our prayers speak toward our relationship with God—trusting that God remains present with us always, provides for us in our need, cares for us in our pain and suffering, and loves us no matter what. As we pray—at our waking and before we go to sleep, before meals, in worship, together in groups, silently before we do something, in moments of need, in response to blessings received, casually to and fro—our heart clings to God, we “recognize God’s gifts and give him thanks,” and in trust we look to God alone for all good things, comfort, and relief. In praying, we affirm the First Commandment that, indeed, the Lord God is our only God. 
       In the vein of Luther’s Small Catechism—and its original intention of guiding parents in teaching their children the faith—we: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, baptismal sponsors, family, and friends need to teach our children to pray. While the church helps give us the words, encouragement, and a weekly opportunity to pray, we cannot relinquish this task to the church alone or leave it for a single day each week. Luther understood, even in the 16th century, that if the faith is not taught in the home it less likely to be picked up at church. The home is the primary classroom; the parents are the most immediate teachers of the faith. I, as a parent, am called by Christ to teach my son to pray. In doing so, I help him form an understanding of who God is and establish a relationship of trust and love with God that is affirmed in prayer. To encourage this in the lives of my confirmands, we each will be taking turns praying at the beginning and end of class each week. Luther reminds us: “Idolatry does not consist merely of erecting an image and praying to it, but it is primarily a matter of the heart, which fixes its gaze upon other things and seeks help and consolation” (BC 388.21). A life of prayer demonstrates a deep, confident trust in God above all other things. Share this with your children; give them the tools to trust in the only true God. Pray with and for them regularly. Teach your children to pray so that they may come to trust in God. Teach your children to pray so that they may look for all good in/from God. Teach your children to pray so that they may seek refuge in all need from God alone. 

It’s hard to miss it. The tears can be seen flowing from across the sanctuary and the wailing rings in the ears of even those hard of hearing. You have to be deep in post-communion meditation, willfully not paying attention, or absent from worship altogether to miss my son—the rambunctious toddler who makes his presence known weekly with loud, spontaneous spurts of weeping and gnashing of teeth—crying hysterically as he and whomever he is with come up for Communion. For some, I’m sure the situation is confusing, for others it may be annoying, and yet for those beside him—who see exactly what happens before the explosion of emotion—it is adorable. Like clockwork, my son cries each time he is ushered forward at Holy Communion. 
       As is the practice in this congregation, children usually do not receive Communion until: 1) their parents consent, and 2) I, as Pastor, have had a period of instruction with them. Before the reception of their First Communion, however, all children, upon coming up with the parents, receive a blessing from me: “May the Lord bless you and keep you all the days of your life. Amen.” Sometimes when I have a line of five young kids who are not receiving Communion, it can take a little while to repeat the same blessing to each one; but just as each person individually receives bread and wine—hearing the promise: “The body of Christ given for you” and “The blood of Christ shed for you”—so also it is important that each child receive a personal blessing. These words of love, hope, and promise spoken to every little one—whether carried, wrangled, or walking forward on their own—are the same words I speak to my little guy. 
       My wife and I—each having slightly different upbringings in the church—have talked numerous times about our personal beliefs regarding a child’s reception of Communion, and agree that for us it is important that at the very least our son be able to speak before he receives his First Communion. While the ability to talk is not a prerequisite for reception of the sacrament, we share in the belief of instruction being good and necessary for a child to receive. If our son cannot speak—though we can still tell him all about God’s love for him in Jesus Christ—it is nearly impossible for us to have any kind of conversation about how this translates into the practice of Holy Communion and him ask any faith-probing questions. This is not to say he must “understand” what it means—because, as Lutherans, we believe what happens in, with, and under the sacrament is a mystery to be received in faith. Plainly stated, my wife and I believe Holy Communion is a gift of God’s grace and love shown and shared through Christ, by which we receive forgiveness of our sins—and as such, it is a faith practice we hold as important and want to be able to discuss with our son. 
       This being said, our son—amidst his terrible twos—is in this inquisitive (if that’s the correct word) phase where he is beginning to notice things we have either taken for granted or sometimes overlook. For instance, when he sees everyone else receive something, but he is unable to share in it, he makes a mental connection and quickly seeks to voice loudly his disapproval. Heck, we could be passing out raw onion to everyone and he would still want one, even if only to take a bite, immediately spit it out, and toss it to the side. Therefore, each week as he watches others go forward for Holy Communion, hold out their hands, receive the bread and then dip it in either the wine or grape juice; but then he not receive it as well—even as his hands are held out like everyone else—he feels like he is being denied something, and goes berserk: crying profusely in response. Seeing or hearing it from afar—without being aware of the full context—one might think otherwise: “Oh, it’s Pastor’s kid making a ruckus again…” Yet, this is not the case. My son cries as he is passed over during Communion because, even at two years old, he notices a discrepancy—others are receiving something, and yet he is being denied despite doing the same thing. 
       What then, does this mean? Does he understand what it is he’s not receiving, or why he is being passed over? Who knows, perhaps not. (Although the kid proves to be smarter than I often give him credit.) Nevertheless, his hands covering his face with tears running down his cheeks as he is carried back to his seat demonstrates, at the very least, how even the youngest of our worship attendants can (and often do) notice things others of us adults either disregard or don’t consider with much detail. Does his outburst mean I should just disregard the practices of the congregation and make an exception—giving him the bread? While it tugs at my heartstrings, I wouldn’t immediately jump to that response. For me, it’s not about rules being rules as much as appreciating the value of instruction given at a more appropriate time where it can shape a person in a larger, more affirming way. I by no means believe if he were to take it right now it would lead to his damnation from a lack of knowledge, but I—as a parent who made a promise at his baptism to instruct him in this and other faith practices of the church—want to walk with him through discussing where the practice comes from, why we hold it as important for us, and what it means for his daily life lived with others. I want to listen and affirm him in his adolescent incessant series of questions: “But why, dad?” “But why?” “Why?” 
       I guess, as my heart breaks when he cries at Holy Communion each week, I think of it as the growing pains of faith—growing pains he and I must both endure as we traverse this lifelong journey of living out our baptism. We are both—no matter our differences in age or experience—growing in faith, from the moment we are washed in the waters of Jesus’ death and resurrection all the way until that day when we finally breathe our last and rest in God’s loving embrace. These growing pains are felt most acutely as we notice confusing discrepancies in practices and are confronted by mysteries that sometimes bring us to tears. No matter what you may think when you hear my child cry during Holy Communion, when I witness it I think to myself: “Soon these tears will turn to joy. The Spirit that affirmed God’s never-ending love for you in baptism; the same Spirit that has brought you to this place of worship week in and week out to learn and grow; this Holy Spirit will give you faith and wisdom as you one day receive Christ in the bread and wine. Until then, my son, know that God is here wiping away your every tear and promising to remain with you always—even before you share in Holy Communion.”