Tonight I attended an incredibly inspiring presentation from our church’s Lifelong Learning Task Force. Together, a diverse team of leaders shared a vision of religious education–for kids, for adults, for youth, for seniors. It was articulate. It was moving. And, hopefully only for me, it was sad.
After sharing what religious education could look like, and why it matters, a team member invited us to close our eyes as she led us through a guided meditation and visualization. She instructed us to reflect on the messages we had just heard, and then to envision our own piece of the puzzle–where we might fit in this beautiful picture of the future.
I followed these instructions.* And as I did I realized, with a knife-edge of sadness, that my own answer is: I don’t.
Not really, anyway. Not for now, and less with every passing month. My job in the next year is to love, to learn . . . and to let go.
I don’t have to do this without support, fortunately . . . and what deep gratitude I feel for those around me who can help. It–apparently–takes a lot of self-reflection, discussion, and of course, meetings, to be formed (to form oneself?) as a minister. To that end, I have, or soon will, a minister, a therapist, a Spiritual Director (wondering what that is? me, too–I’ll get back to you on that), an In-Care committee, a teaching pastor, an academic advisor and a chaplain. And probably, somewhere, a large partridge in a pear tree.
What I no longer have . . . what I’m trading in a deal that has never felt transactional in nature, but nevertheless has some of the steepest costs of anything I’ve ever attempted . . . is the security of the covenantal relationship with my fellow congregants.
Our job is to build the future, but my own days within that future, at least in this congregation, are numbered. Of course, that’s true for all of us–we take a break, we move, we have a change in life circumstances . . . and someday, certainly, we die. May the spark continue, though we ourselves will not. I embrace this message, painful though it is; the work we are doing together is simply too important not to. And of course it’s because I believe so very deeply in the importance of this work that I feel called to further it.
It’s just that I naively did not realize that this call, not merely to ministry, but to die, in part, to my previous congregational life, meant me–or that it meant now. (Seminary is long, I can’t even imagine the person I’m going to become, and I’m not sure I want to do parish ministry, anyway . . . surely I can just stay happily ensconced in my safe space through this entire process?)
News flash to the willfully blind among us: nope. In my case, my newly-designated teaching pastor–from whom I am so very honored and excited to have the opportunity to learn–was the one to break the news. I had asked her, and quite chipperly, I’m sure, what I needed to be aware of in balancing my lay leadership roles with my internship in her congregation. And gently, but mincing no words, she answered: You need to put your time and your heart into the place where you learn; let me know if you need guidance as you let your other roles go.
I will spare you my mental process as I have worked the past two weeks to understand what this means–with apologies and thanks to those people, and there are several, who merely wish I had spared them. I will tell you a bit about how I feel now, though, starting with: unmoored. After all, this place, more than any other, is my rock–a source of stability through the changes of life as a young parent. I don’t know what it means to live in this town as a grown up (we lived here as college kids before this, but totally different story) without this church. And guess what: I don’t want to know.
I also feel envious. This evening I looked upon my beloved community, knowledge weighing on my heart, and I felt pride, love . . . and something rather like jealousy. Why do YOU get to stay here? Nevermind that I’m the one who made this choice; I feel, inexplicably and indefensibly, a bit piqued at everyone else who didn’t.
And I feel bewildered: I saw the faces of my friends, supporters, challengers and provocateurs–we who have grown together, we who have changed ourselves and changed one another–and wonder, again, in what possible universe it makes sense to be so deeply in love with the transformative power of church that you lose it.
And this, inevitably, brings me back to the $64,000 question. Which is: have I lost my everloving mind?
This, my people, is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Is “Dear God, I hope you know what you’re doing” a prayer?
How about “I hope you know what you’re doing, because it turns out I don’t, and I feel smaller than I ever have and am hoping there’s something out there I can count on?”
How about this:
And so I found an anchor, a blessed resting place A trusty rock I called my savior, for there I would be safe From the river and its dangers, and I proclaimed my rock divine And I prayed to it "protect me" and the rock replied God is a river, not just a stone God is a wild, raging rapids And a slow, meandering flow God is a deep and narrow passage And a peaceful, sandy shoal God is the river, swimmer So let go --Peter Mayer, "God is a River"
(just a little message last Sunday from the church I’m trying to fashion into a rock. I do see that what our faith–what my church–needs to be is the river. Unfortunately, I also see that in trying to become a person who can remember that continuously, and even celebrate it, I am in for a VERY long three years. Somebody please go find my partridge; I probably need it. In the meantime . . . one more step. Which means Buddhism seminar notes.)
goodnight from my confused, envious, wistful heart,
*point of fact: I helped write them. and this vision. and mission. and these goals. I knew at every point during this yearlong process that we were writing them to give away . . . it’s just that it turns out that it’s one thing to think it, and another to do it. so is life, no?