A New Bishop

It was an eventful weekend in my ward. Not only did we have ward conference, a favorite meeting for me because I love to be taught by my bishop and stake president, but our good bishop was released, together with his counselors.

I felt an unusual tenderness that day. Part of it is knowing a bit how the newly released bishop feels, having been there twice myself. The closeness one feels to his counselors and to ward members changes with the release in a way that is difficult to describe. The passing of the mantle of bishop is very real, and being without it is something one has to get used to.

Part of it is the release of this particular bishop – a man we’ve known for years. He served as ward clerk when I was bishop. Our sons have been in the same classes in church for fourteen years. His wife has taught our daughters piano. They are good friends of ours. And he was an awesome bishop. He humbly faced his responsibilities as bishop and worked tirelessly to meet the needs of the members of his ward.

All bishops work harder than anyone realizes. Even harder than they themselves realize. I can remember hearing him talk about meetings and visits and service and phone calls from a particular weekend and thinking, “How could one person do all that?” And then realizing that I’d done the same thing when I sat in that chair. Just as any bishop would. And every bishop does.

No, he wasn’t perfect, I suppose. But don’t ask me how. I could not tell you. What I do know is he was a humble servant of the Lord and servant to our ward. He was firm in his testimony, firm in his command of the gospel and its principles, firm in defense of truth, and firm in his leadership. At the same time, he was kind and compassionate. When I served on the ward council with him for a time, I observed that he actively sought the views of all the council members. He regularly led out praising ward members for the good work they did.

We live in one of those wards with lots of leadership experience and potential. I have joked that you can’t swing a dead cat in our ward without hitting an ex-bishop, and it’s true. Our ward contributes its membership to many stake callings, as well. I’m sure that there are probably many men who could serve as bishop.

I’m glad to know our stake president is careful enough to listen for whom the Lord has called to serve as our new bishop. As soon as his name was read, it was easy to see the Lord’s hand in his call. He will certainly be different from our former bishop, and that is just how it should be – different gifts for different times. But there is no doubt in my mind that he also will serve faithfully and carefully. He is thoughtful, prayerful and faithful. He’s also a friend, and our home teacher (or was, anyway; I suppose maybe that will change).

Of course these changes are now well institutionalized in the church. We have processes to follow, forms to file, permissions to receive. And still I know that at the heart of that effort is the revelation to properly authorized servants to call others to serve. And I’m grateful for that organization, and for the service that results from it.

By the way, if you like, you can check out my latest post at Real Intent, "In the Tunnel" here.

The day I lied to my bishop

I was reading a thread on a bishop’s power of discernment over at BCC and it made me think about my own experience lying to my bishop. I really wrestled with whether and how to share this experience, but ultimately I've decided to go ahead.

I was a boy (well, we’d call me a “young man,” but I was a boy), and I had never done baptisms for the dead because we lived so far from a temple. But I had the chance to go and do some family names. In my interview with the bishop, he asked me a direct question and I answered in a way I knew was untruthful. (Don't fret over which question. It really doesn't matter as you'll see...)

The experience is forever seared into my brain, perhaps because of the painful burning I felt as soon as I did it. This was NOT a warm and fuzzy feeling. This was a scorching flame that started in my heart and went to the top of my head the soles of my feet.

If he discerned anything unusual about my response, he said nothing.

As I recall, that interview was on a Sunday. By midweek, my conscience had gotten the better of me. Like the Telltale Heart, it called out to me, and finally on an evening during the week I was meeting with the bishop again (this time in his home; if memory serves, he was sick, but still agreed to see me because I said it was urgent).

After I confessed my lie (and told the truth about the answer to the question he’d asked) he was much more concerned about the lie than what I had lied about. He was kind and gentle. He never suggested to me that he had suspected I had lied. He taught me. He assured me of his and the Lord’s love for me. And he let me keep the recommend that he had given me.

That experience had a great influence on me when I served as a bishop decades later. I will ever remember the compassion my good bishop showed, and his concern for my integrity. Although he allowed me to keep the recommend, I carried that difficult experience over my head like a cloud until he and I had a pre-mission interview several years later. I had always feared that he remembered the incident and somehow thought less of me because of it. After my mission interview, I was certain that was not the case. (He did remember the incident, but he did not think less of me.)

That good bishop was one of three or four models I looked to when I served as a bishop (twice). He was a young bishop with a very young family. At the time I had no idea the sacrifice he and his family made to serve us as he did. He had an undying devotion to the Lord and to the youth of his ward. Many of the lessons of priesthood service I learned under his care.

It should come as no surprise to my regular readers that I assume most bishops do their very best to serve in often challenging circumstances. I can’t tell you how fortunate I was to have this bishop in my life when I did.

To listen

My wife reminds me from time to time that my job is not always to fix things. Sometimes it's to listen.

I thought of that reminder when I read "We come over, and sit" by Aaron R. at Mormon Matters yesterday.

Sometimes when we visit our bishop, we do so seeking counsel, seeking The Answer to our question, and sometimes the bishop can deliver. After all, he has certain gifts and authority by virtue of his calling. Often a wise bishop will, however, just listen.

It took some effort on my part to learn to listen when I was a bishop. Not that I could not listen when someone spoke. I even did well at reflective listening, that is repeating back what someone had said to me to confirm my understanding. But I was, initially at least, subject to my own distaste for silence. I felt a need to fill the gaps in a conversation, and sometimes I'd fill them with my own voice.

My first time as bishop I served in South America, speaking Spanish (not my native language, and not my mission language, either). My stake president counseled that a bishop should spend less than 30% of an interview talking, and the rest of the time he should be praying for inspiration so that when he spoke what he said would be useful. That was good counsel. And it was necessary for me, except my prayer was often that I would understand and be understood.

Fortunately the members of my ward were patient and understanding with me. They helped me with my Spanish skills. They patiently repeated themselves if I did not understand, and were noticeably relieved when they finally felt I did understand.

During another assignment as bishop I had a friend who had a significant issue. The issue doesn't matter. We talked about it a number of times. On one occasion he asked me on the phone if I were speaking as his friend or his bishop. Without thinking about the question or about him, I answered that I spoke as his bishop. As I hung up the phone I knew I had not said the right thing. I finished some other business at the church and then drove the half hour to his home where I found him sullen and not very willing to visit.

We sat in his living room in silence for some time. Finally I said, "I am your friend, too, you know. And I care about what happens to you." More silence. And then he finally began to speak. To share what he was feeling. To share his fears and concerns. To tell his side of the story. He spoke and I listened for about an hour. I had little to offer him except a listening ear. In the end, not much changed, except he knew I had listened to him. And I had learned an important lesson.

When I got home later that day, I found an email, written by him between my phone call and my visit. It said, "A friend would have listened. A friend would have cared about how I felt." And he was right.

As I think back on this experience, I am grateful for the spiritual nudge to go and see him. And to listen.