by Lorraine Ellis
One of our interim ministers was fond of asking “can we treat this like an experiment?” At the time, I was a member of the predecessor to our Board of Trustees—the Prudential Committee— which did a whole lot more micromanaging than the current Board does.
A new thing would be proposed. The Pru members would all look at each other, eyes wide. Like deer. Someone would venture “that seems kind of big. Will we get pushback from the congregation? Is it too much? Too fast?”
She would ask “can we treat it like an experiment? It wouldn’t be cast in stone.”
The first such experiment that I remember clearly was to move the pulpit from the right side of the chancel to the left, so that speakers would not be blinded by sun coming through the windows at certain times of the year. I don’t remember why we were so hesitant. I do remember the minister’s patient encouragement.
Looking back, I ask myself, “we’re a liberal religion, open to change and evolution, so why was this so difficult?” Maybe it had something to do with conflict avoidance. This all took place before we’d had exposure to non-violent communication and conflict resolution.
The pulpit changed sides and I don’t remember anyone batting an eyelash.
“Can we treat it as an experiment?” became a tool in my own leadership box. Knowing that decisions are almost never permanent was freeing, at home, at church, at work. Even when experiments haven’t worked out as hoped, I’ve felt far less self-blame, anxiety and disappointment than I’d expected.
Many of you know I’ve worn a lot of hats at church over the years. What you may not know is that several of those hats have been experimental. I’ve turned down some requests for help or project leads, accepted others at once, and approached still others as experiments.
What has stunned me is the acceptance I’ve found even when an experiment hasn’t worked out as I’d hoped. Most recently, I stepped down from the Operations Leadership Team mid-term because the role was bringing me more anxiety than fulfillment. Michael graciously accepted my resignation. I could then say to myself, “Interesting experiment. I’ve learned some things about the church and about myself, but now I need to move on.” And I did—guilt-free. My commitment wasn’t cast in stone.
It’s marvelous to see how much experimentation I’ve been able to do over the past 27 years – some on the “front end” of church life, and some on the less visible back end.” Much of it has worked out, but some has not. The “no judgement zone” is real.
That freedom isn’t something I found on my own. The permission to try, and the acceptance when something hasn’t worked out, have helped me give myself permission, too. I’m not suggesting we all starting taking on responsibilities capriciously. Commitments deserve serious consideration. But here, I’ve learned I can take my commitments seriously without feeling trapped by them. That’s what this permission-giving atmosphere has meant to me: room to contribute, room to learn, and room to change course.
I’ve shaped my spirituality here, judgement-free and experiment-full, and I’ve shaped my character as well. The permission I’ve found to experiment has become something I can share. It’s been a joy to encourage others to experiment and watch them grow in response. That freedom has been a true gift, and one of the many reasons my heart is here.