Affirmation for Justice and Peace

This evening I attended a confirmation cluster class with the confirmation from my contextual education congregation, St. John’s Lutheran of Wilmette.  This cluster gathers several nearby congregations together twice a month to offer students an opportunity to learn with other confirmands and participate in service projects with one another.  While I used to work with children and teens in libraries in my life before ministry, I know I have much to learn on helping young people prepare for the affirmation of their baptism.

Today’s topic centered on peace and justice.  Echoing our service project two weeks prior at Feed My Starving Children, tonight’s conversation focused on understanding how we complete good works as a result of our love for God, not as a condition to guarantee some sort of salvation.  We also explored that we are called to behave with a spirit of justice equally to all people, and the struggles that can come with living into that equality.

I think the most enlightening moment for me was recognizing that acting from a spirit of peace and justice is something we promise at our baptism and when we affirm our faith.  I didn’t recall this from my own confirmation, and when hearing those words wondered if this was an add-on to the newer hymnal, the Evangelical Lutheran Worship book.  Upon returning home, I opened my old LBW, the Lutheran Book of Worship that contains the words of my baptism and affirmation.  There it was, the exact same promise – “to strive for justice and peace for all the earth.”

It was striking to see that not only do we commit to God and one another to live with a spirit of peace and justice, we commit to striving for peace and justice for all the earth.  Not just our neighbors.  Not just the St. John’s community or the confirmation cluster or even the synods in Illinois.  For all the earth.

We are fortunate that we have a true example of such a commitment through the life of Jesus Christ.  Jesus showed us through his actions and teachings that anyone can take steps for peace and justice.  Jesus hand-picked the people who in their high-school year book would have been voted “Least Likely to Care for Others” and empowered them to be disciples.  Out of the twelve in our scripture, each disciple had some issue or fear to overcome when being in service to others.  But held in the love of Christ and empowered by that love, they were sent out to teach others how to strive for justice and peace for all the earth.

Through Christ’s death and resurrection, we too are empowered to take such steps to strive for justice and peace.  We are further empowered by one another when we enter into the community of believers at our baptism.  This empowerment is one of the things we affirm at our confirmation, to support one another when we struggle to live in a spirit of equality, and such a promise is made back by the community.

That support of the community is the first step in striving for justice and peace for all the earth.

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Peace When Time Stands Still

“The peace of Christ be with you always.”

“And also with you.”

“Let us share this peace with one another.”

Every Sunday, Christians around the world share the peace of Christ with one another.  In my tradition, this point comes in the service after we have born witness to Holy Word and have uplifted our prayers of lament, reconciliation, and thanksgiving to God.

There are many reasons why we share the peace.  The apostle Paul tells us that in order to receive the Sacrament of the Altar, we must first reconcile ourselves with our neighbor, encouraging us to extend a sign of peace to the person we are most estranged  from.  In my experience, I rarely see people crossing the aisle to the person they just got into an argument with.  Rather, I regularly witness people using this time in the service to greet their friends and loved ones with a sign of affection that solidifies the connection they have with one another.

In seminary last year, there was quite a lot of talk about passing the peace.  As pastors-in-training, do we hug?  Do we extend a hand?  Do we engage the person who chooses that time to set up a pastoral counseling appointment?  I have a dear friend who takes quite literally the idea of “the kiss of peace”.  As a person who is not so comfortable with casual touch, I engaged in a lengthy discussion with him on why I was uncomfortable being kissed on the cheek during a worship service, even if it is intended as a holy kiss.

It pains me to say, sharing the peace of Christ was such a regular aspect of my worship experience and dialogue within my faith that I began to take it for granted.  It was just something in the service that I did because the liturgy prompted it.  I had not real appreciation of what it means to extend the peace of God to another.

I am in the midst of working as a chaplain intern in a hospital in New Hampshire.  A seminary requirement, learning how to provide spiritual care in a clinical environment is an important part of developing my pastoral identity.  It is hard, powerful, emotionally grueling work.  Day after day, I have the great privilege of being with people in some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives.  God’s presence is at work in this place, healing wounds that doctors will never be able to witness through an MRI or blood panel.  It has been a humbling, rewarding and joyful experience.

But it is also really hard.  Within the past two weeks, I have had several traumas that have affected me in ways that I had never anticipated.  Working in the Emergency Department and Intensive Care Nursery, I am with families when they decide to remove their children from life support or learn that their spouse has had a fatal accident from which there is no recovery.  The grief in these times is overwhelming, families traveling from all over the state, hoping to say their last goodbye to a person whose brain can no longer process their words.  I have seen more times than I would like to admit loved ones clutching the body of the recently deceased, totally unaware as the room becomes heavy with the stench of death.  I have seen people of the greatest health crumble to the ground by merely looking upon the face of a doctor who has come to share the news no one wants to hear.

The shocking reality is a moment without time.  Some families stay for hours, days even, before then can bring themselves to make the impossible decision or leave the hospital after someone has passed.  Time has no meaning in a place of such anguish, and something that I have learned to do is help these families realize that it is time to leave and return to their achingly empty homes.

There are no words to explain how sacred it is to hold the hand of a stranger as they say their last goodbye.  There are no words to describe how I can feel the Spirit of our Triune God enter my mouth, hands, and mind, guiding me to say words that I later will never be able to clearly recall.  There are no words to that can begin to explain to these families how grateful I am that they have allowed me to bear witness to such holy and steadfast love.

Somehow, in the midst of this unexplainable time, we together find a way for these families to leave the hospital and the moment behind.  Walking them to the door, praying for them as they enter their car and drive home to a future I will never understand or be a part of, I remember the peace of Christ.  It is the peace of Christ that allows us to move forward from an inexplicable loss and remember the hope that lies within the sorrow.  I have come to understand that peace can be something that we extend to one another, but it is merely a fraction of the power of God’s peace that gives us the strength to keep carrying on when time has stopped.

And I remember that the peace of Christ is with us always, even when the time stands still.

 

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Changing Tides

In three days I am packing up my home for the third time in the past year and moving to New Hampshire to begin my CPE training.

Looking around my house, my home kind of matches my head.  There are stacks of clothes and books in almost every room, little lines of organized chaos.  I know in what container everything will be packed by the time I leave on Thursday morning, but right now, all I see is clutter. 

I am so grateful for this ride that is the seminary experience.  Even still, as I drove my closest campus friend to the airport this morning for her own CPE journey, I realized that I am nostalgic for a little stability.  I have changed so much since moving to Chicago last August.  My theology is different, my preaching is different, my writing is different, my body is different, the way I communicate with my loved ones is different.  In seminary, every day is an opportunity for transformation  While it is exciting, this fast paced change can be intimidating at times.

CPE will be twelve weeks of even more change.  These weeks will be spent learning how to provide spiritual care within the context of a hospital setting.  I’ll be working with people of all faith traditions in all walks of life whose lives transition as a result of life-changing medical moments.  Some people will be expecting the changes their health situation brings, like a senior who has been preparing for the end of this life.  For others, like those in a car accident, change will be unexpected.  CPE will teach me to how to faithfully be with people from all edges of the spectrum.  In that process of learning, my expectations of what it means to be a pastor will become something very different then how I understand it to be today.

The irony is, I begin my CPE unit exactly one year after my final day of employment at the congregation which opened my heart to a life of pastoral ministry.  It is also ironic that one year later, I learned that this congregation is also transitioning in its life as I transition in mine, as I learned via a social media announcement this morning their senior pastor has accepted a call to a new congregation. There is a part of me that wishes I could go back to that parish and we could wade in these unsure waters together.  But in my heart, I know that our simultaneous transitions need to travel on separate currents to end up where we need to be.

There is no shame in acknowledging that these currents feel uncertain at times, and that our uncertainty has us reaching for the familiar.  We all crave stability in times of change.  I know right now I am searching amongst the stacks in my home and head , searching for some metaphorical life preserver that will ease the fear of the ambiguity of what is to come.  It is natural for us to quake when we feel the tide of our lives shift directions, even when that change will bring goodness, knowledge, and peace.

But in these moments when we wade, not quite understanding how the water laps at our feet, we should remember that we were called into a relationship of security through turbulent waters.  We were called into a life of faith through baptismal waters, waters that while appear gentle in the font yet powerfully remove the bondage that comes from being victims of a fallen humanity.  Such waters brought a change so strong that we went from being dead in sin to alive in Christ with a few drops and the seal of a cross upon our head.  It happened quickly, in the blink of an eye, and in that blink gave us a life preserver that will never waver no matter how strong the current.

The tide is changing.  Who we were yesterday will inform how we will move tomorrow, but not determine who we’ll be tomorrow.  A change is coming.  Praise and thanksgiving to the One who equipped us to brave the storm through the waters of our baptism.

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Steadfast Humility

Today I said goodbye to an amazing woman who I have only known for a few hours but who has impacted me more than I think she will ever know.

Yesterday I began working as a part-time administrative assistant for St. Luke’s Lutheran Church of Logan’s Square, and have spent the last two days training with my predecessor.  This kind, unassuming woman served St. Luke’s faithfully for 31 years, many of which as the only staff person, including pastoral staff.  It was partially in thanks to her steadfast devotion that this parish was able to take some risks which eventually allowed it to rebuild itself.  Looking at the three decades she was at St. Luke’s, at the highs and the lows, the challenges and the triumphs, and I can’t help but recognize that this parish would look very different today if she had not been a part of the process.

What I think is the most inspiring characteristic of this truly lovely person is how humble she is.  It takes a strong person to last 31 years in ministry.  It takes a resilient person to spend that time in one institution, especially when that institution came close to closing its doors.  One would think that someone who weathered the storm successfully for so many years may have some sense of entitlement, some sort of self-righteousness.  But not this woman.  As she passed what could be passed of her knowledge unto me, not once did she boast.  Not once in her stories could I separate her successes from the church’s.  Not once did she imply that the church would be at a loss without her.  Instead, she looked to the future of what my ministry would be at St. Luke’s, being excited about the work that is to come even as her time there ended.

I didn’t make a New Year’s resolution this year, but from this day forward I am resolving to try to embrace some of the humility of my predecessor.  It is all too easy to become a minister who is so self involved that they can’t tell the difference between church branding and ego stroking.  It is challenging to be progressive in this field while still keeping in check that the progression really has nothing to do with you personally.  There are times in ministry where we need to take a public role and to discuss the work that we’ve done, but our intention should not be to pat ourselves on the back but rather use that experience to help inspire the future of our community.

We ended our time with my predecessor today by reflecting together on her ministry at St. Luke’s.  If ever there is a time when one may seek a compliment of their work, I think the final moments of a 31-year-career would be it. But self congratulations were not her way.  Instead of thinking of herself, in her humility she prayed for the future of St. Luke’s, giving thanks for its people, the senior pastor, and surprisingly, even me.

Humility of that magnitude can only come from a deep love for God and the people of God.  The power of that love washed over me and has inspired me to rededicate myself to a life of service to others and not service to myself.  As I continue along in my time in ministry, I pray that at the end of my career my focus will be as centered on God as the woman who I have had the privilege of getting to know these past few days.

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Boldness at the Low-End of the Normal Scale

I never thought I would be this happy to be on the low-end of the normal scale.

For the past four years, I have been going through premature ovarian failure.  To put it bluntly – menopause.  This was discovered shortly after I learned that I have endomitriosis.  Being a lupus patient, when the endometrial cysts appear my body gets confused and the cysts  become infected and damage the surrounding nerves, more often than not resulting in surgery.  I have been unable to treat the endomitirosis because the medication available accelerates the ovarian failure.  In truth, I have not wanted to put the final nail in the coffin of my future to become a mother naturally, and I have been holding out on the hope of a miracle.

Two weeks ago I had yet another surgery on this same issue.  My doctor ran some tests to see what the status of my ovaries were, and miracle of all miracles, I received word today that my ovaries are no longer in failure.  Somehow – be it the medication working, the weight loss, being surrounded by hoards of females in seminary, who knows what – my ovaries are no longer dormant and have some sort of activity.  According to my doctor, I still have a “long way to go, but it is safe to say you are at the low-end of the normal scale.”  Now that my ovaries are no longer failing, there is a small possibility that we may be able to treat the endomitriosis, which will hopefully mean fewer surgeries.

My mind is reeling.  Within the context of a ten minute phone call, my entire life changed.  I went from only having a .5% chance of ever conceiving to a 60% chance.  I went from knowing that I will probably have one or two surgeries a year for this cyst issue, to being able to seek treatment that may keep them from ever happening again.

The irony is that this news reaches me one day shy of the tenth anniversary of the most monumental day of my entire life.  November 15, 2001 my whole world changed, as I lost the most important person I have ever known.  Losing that person not only plagued me, but that of my best friend, who in his grief began using cocaine.  I lost two people on the death of that most precious life, and for the past ten years I have carried the weight of this day like a heavy plague upon my soul.  Ten years is a long time to shoulder weight in this way, and I am finally in a place where I am ready to transfer that pain to a set of shoulders who will never weary – Gods.

It is hard to let ourselves be truly loved.  It is so much easier to fall for a person who will keep us at arm’s length, who always has a reason for why they cannot trust and why they cannot love.  We choose to love people who keep us afar because deep down we know that they will not call us out when we keep them afar.  I know I have carried similar excuses to avoid true intimacy.  I carried excuses because it is far simpler to explain why we can’t trust another earthly person then to acknowledge that we don’t always trust God.  But my trust now is finally fully in God, in the salvation of Christ, and in the knowledge that there is nothing that will keep God at arms lengths from me aside from myself.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this news about a new beginning reaches me on the eve of a new chapter in my life.  For ten years, I have carried my loss by myself, and it is time for a new way of thinking.  There is hope in the middle of this reeling confusion.  I will always miss the person who is not with me, the person who helped me recognize that I needed to love myself in order to care for others, the person who taught me what it means to live in the glory of unconditional love.

I needed a miracle this week, and I have been given one on the low-end of the normal scale.  It is time to be bold in my love, and proudly remember the greatest miracle I have ever known, even after ten long years.

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The Things Left Undone

“In a murderous time/the heart breaks and breaks/and lives by breaking./It is necessary to go/through dark and deeper dark/and not to turn.” – Stanley Kunitz, “The Testing Tree.”

The wind is howling, the rain is splattering the windows and the cold air is sneaking through a crack in my storm windows on my sun porch.  It is also 2:15 in the morning and the night is so dark.

I have just spent the past five hours writing a family narrative for my pastoral care course, and as exhausted as I am, no sleep in this moment would prove restful.  Spending time reviewing the major relationships in your life is one of those bittersweet blessings.  We are who we are because of where we’ve been, and that path is neither right or wrong – it just is.  In the aftermath of that self introspection it is a murderous time for reflection, and I need to wallow a few moments in the things left undone.

We Lutherans use this phrase a lot.  When we confess our sins, we pray for what is done and what is left undone.  We recognize that inaction can be just as harmful as uncensored action.  We own our lack of claiming ownership.  But on a night like this, when nostalgia and melancholy remind us that our pasts are not perfect and still impact our futures, I can’t help but think about the things left undone.

Like the relationships I didn’t nurture.  Like the sleep I’m currently not getting.  Like the money I didn’t tithe or put into savings.  Like the things I didn’t say to a person I loved that I will never see again.  Like the things I can’t bring myself to say to a person I know I could love.

We are constantly in search of balance, of blind faith and steadfast reason.  There are moments when we take leaps that our hearts couldn’t imagine, while other days the most simplest of decisions haunts us the our core.

Perhaps haunting is a bit extreme, but on a late October night when hallowed eves shadow our paths, it is easy to get lost in the thrill of the darkness.  There is a part of our essence that loves the anguish, loves the tension.  When we leave things undone, we are often inviting ourselves to live in the state of unknowing for a bit longer, building the tension that stops genuine healing from happening.

There are some things left undone that need to be done, some wounds that need to be tended and some relationships that need to be formed.  There are some people we need to allow ourselves to love so we one day do not look back and regret that we didn’t take the chance on something that could turn our darkness into light – even if that person to love is ourselves.

It is necessary to go to dark and deeper dark and not to turn, as long as we remain moving, not leaving our futures undone.

 

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Shelter Me Genius Words

“Shelter me oh genius words / just give me strength / to pen these things/ and give me peace to well her wings.” – Cartel, The Minstrel’s Prayer

The past few days I have been on the listening ends of conversations.

The other night I was haunted with a dream which knocked the wind right out to me.  This dream couldn’t have come at a worse time, because it has made it impossible for me to get solid night’s sleep during perhaps the busiest weekend I’ve had all fall.  My best friend got married on Saturday, and in the course of four days I drove over 800 miles, saw several hundred people, and worshiped three times.  More than anything else, though, I listened.

I listened to my heart as I reflected on that disturbing dream.  I listened to local radio news stations as I traveled from Illinois to Ohio.  I attempted to listen to school books on audio tape in the car.  I listened to my friend feel anxious about the transition from single to married life.  I listened to God through the voice of my home pastors mouth.  I listened to my nephew burst into tears when I walked into a room.  I listened to my niece try to barter with me to return to Cleveland “really soon, okay?”.  I listened as a fellow bridesmaid told me how she felt the church was an empty place for her.  I listened as I watched my sister pretend to be happy when she is clearly suffering in spirit.  I listened as I gave a stranger a tissue in the bathroom of the reception hall as she told me her husband wasn’t at her daughter’s wedding because he had died of cancer. I listened as the rain fell and the wind blew.  I listened, and listened, and listened.

And today, as I was driving home in a state of exhaustion, my iPod flicked to this song by Cartel, The Minstrel’s Prayer – “Shelter me oh genius words / just give me strength/ to pen these things / and give me peace to well her wings.”

I am a person who likes to have a plan.  I am a person who likes to know which step should be taken next, and I always hope that for others who are aching, I am a person that they can turn to find answers to their questions.  I have always listened.  But this past weekend, I heard something deeper in the stories, and for the first time saw the peace for them in my silence.

There is wonder in my heart why so many people are coming to me to tell their stories now at this point in my life.  I have always been a person who had a lot of friends that shared information, but the level of listening I did this weekend is far more than I ever remember doing before.  The listening was also more sacred to me, and I was humbled by the weight of intimacy that was created in just a few mere words or sounds.

Perhaps on some level it is because I am more stable within myself that I hear the genius vulnerability in the sounds which surround me.  Perhaps it is because God is trying to speak to me through their words as I crave a clearer plan for the next steps of my journey.  Perhaps it is because on some level I know that the more I listen the more I will feel God’s presence surrounding me.

I was asked to give two blessings this weekend, neither of which I had prepared for in advance.  Even though I hadn’t planned anything out, my words were far from “winging it.”  I felt truly connected to the Spirit, even in a room full of people I barely knew, wearing a gown and having 75 bobby pins tucked inside my hair.

God’s words sheltered me, and I hope penned the words of Christ’s unconditional love into the minds of the people I spoke to..  I hope that when I spoke to those who gave me the gifts of their stories that I spoke words that gave them peace.  I know listening to God’s genius words in those intimate moments of others is something I do not take lightly, or for granted.

And I ache to listen.

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Back Another Day

“Come back another day, and do no wrong.” – Queens of the Stone Age, God in the Radio

Can we return to a place where we have done wrong, and really do right?

The past few days I have been talking to people on campus who are in the midst of saying goodbye to a part of their past, or a part of their fears, or a part of their personality that they would rather say goodbye to.  In the midst of all these discussions, I can’t help but ask myself if we can ever really go back and leave the past behind us.

Through the sanctification of grace and forgiveness that we find through Christ, I know our souls can go back and start over, but what about our heads?  Can we ever really say goodbye to the little nagging voice in our heat who tells us that our past is still with us?

I believe strongly believe that half of my problem is that I can’t actualize Christ’s forgiveness in my mind.  I feel it in my heart.  I know that I’m forgiven.  I rejoice in the fact that I’m forgiven.  But despite that knowledge, I still hold my past mistakes against me.  I worry I’m not worthy, I worry that I will repeat the same steps, I worry and worry and worry.

And further more, I worry that others will see me through this lens that I see myself from.  Even in a community of Christians who preach and teach forgiveness, I still don’t trust that forgiveness will transcend down from the heavens onto this earthly plane.

I made a promise to myself when I moved to Chicago that I would be diligent in trying to see the world for what it is, and not let my self judgements distort my reality.  I’m not entirely successful with this, but I’d like to think I’m making progress.

And when I fail, I come back another day and remember that I live in a state of perpetual forgiveness, and trust that through that forgiveness I will not repeat wrongs.

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Are You In?

It is 2:30am and I can’t sleep.

This week has been a whirl wind.  I began my orientation at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago this past Sunday, and after five days, it is finally complete.  It has been a fun and sometimes overwhelming experience.  Down to my the deepest essence of my core I know that God has equipped me with this school and this body of students to help me become a strong, well-adjusted leader of Christ.

That being said, at this way too early morning, I am wishing myself back in Cleveland.

I have received word over the past two days that my best friend, the most amazing woman I have the privilege of calling friend, has lost several members of her family with in the past few days.  This is further a travesty because she will be married in four weeks, and at this moment a cloud of pain shrouds what should be the most exciting time in her life.

I am sleepless tonight because it kills me to know I can’t be with her during this extremely trying time.

On Sunday, I sat in my first LSTC worship service and listened as Pastor Joan Beck compared ministry to the Hokey-Pokey.  She explained that for many people, we put our whole selves in when it is easy to do this work, but then when it is hard, we take ourselves back out.  She further stated that Jesus doesn’t understand that edition of the song, as through his love and devotion, will continue to keep his whole self in to guide us through those times when we want to take ourselves out.

During the service I chuckled at the imagery, enjoying seeing a seasoned pastor sing a familiar child’s tune in the midst of a worship service.  But now, as the clock reads this extreme early hour, I think I understand more than I would like to admit how tempting it is to take oneself out.

It is hard to be away from someone I love when they are suffering in commitment of preparing my mind and spirit for a congregation I will not even meet for another four years.  I need to be here – class is staring in merely hours.  Even if those classes weren’t starting, I need to be responsible with money, because while I plan on working, I can’t commit to the hours I used to keep before God brought me to Chicago.  I need to be flexible to participate in contextual ministry so I can be ready for that parish in four years, and that means living a fiscally conservative existence until that point.  It aches a part of me I can’t define to know that money is keeping me from holding the hand of someone I love when their own aches are at an unfathomable state.

When we pick up the cross for Christ, when we relinquish our lives to do what is necessary for the greater good, there are times when we don’t want to have our whole selves in.  We want to be able to dance around our responsibilities, jumping in and out when it’s convenient for us.  But for me that option no longer exists.  I am all the way in, and that means having to let down people I love now so I can be with them to celebrate later.

I am so lucky to have a best friend who not only understands that I am too far in to step back out, and who would rather have me celebrate the joy of her marriage than be with her in her time of pain.  Even in the midst of this trying time in her life, she is committed to helping me uphold my commitment to Christ and the people of God.  She never once asked me to come home, and when I told her how I wanted to be there, she told me to stay and do what needs to be done.  She, too, is all the way in.  She is all the way in by providing me with the network I need to be the leader God is calling me to be.

Tonight I lift up this prayer for those who in the midst of their ache, put God’s reigndom above their needs:

Merciful Healer, at times there are pains in this world which defy our understanding.  There are moments of loss and frustration that make us want to step out of your loving embrace and remove ourselves from your healing touch.  Be especially with those who in the midst of their suffering choose to stand strong in their faith and devotion to you.  Soothe their spirits so that they may not doubt that you are always all the way in their lives, working towards restoring balance to rocky path before them.  Amen. 

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Tension of God’s Dance Floor

“Can you feel the tension in the air, assuring you once again I’m there?” – “Tension”, Nural

This week, thanks to the unimaginable generosity of the Fund for Theological Education, I am in Atlanta, GA, at a preaching camp hosted by the Academy of Preachers.

I am two days into a five-week camp, and my mind has been kneaded and sculpted so much in these short hours that I feel my brain must resemble a beloved can of Play-dough.  The kneading is a result of love and affection, and it is with the endless possibility of my new intellectual “toys” that I have begun to discover something I can hardly believe I didn’t notice before.

There is no escaping tension.

Entering a group of ecumenical preachers for the second time in a few short months, I thought for sure that I would be struck by the boundaries that separate one Christian denomination from another.  While the differences and traditions are ranging far beyond anything I could have imagined, I find that the humbling yet exhilarating truth of Christ  far outweighs any doctrinal styles that we may have.

I am further encouraged to know that the stumbling blocks of my ministry also translate across denominational lines.  Tonight I had the great privilege of hearing my camp coach preach.  Rev. Mark Jefferson shared that despite having a Master of Divinity and working on a doctoral degree in Homeltics, he struggles with understanding the full magnitude of his call.  He further grapples with how to explain the professional components of his call to the world.

Rev. Jefferson’s words truly resonated with me.  He mentioned that  in today’s world of doctors, lawyers, and business professionals, there is a social sense of weakness when trying to articulate the mystical, inexplicable components of being called to preach.

I was reminded of when I first began my discernment and I realized what it truly would mean to “carry the cross of Christ.”  I had a friend for several years who appeared to have a rather one-centered upbringing in her family in regards to building relationships with the church.  I knew that her experience had been extremely negative, and for the first few years of our relationship, we danced around each other when topics of faith arose.  She knew I was a person of faith, but since my beliefs lived solely in my heart and not a church, there was no need for us to focus our conversations on it.  As my work life transitioned from libraries to churches and as my calling became such a bright force that I had to share it, I noticed that our conversations became increasingly more disjointed.

Soon we not only danced around the issues of faith, but appeared to be on completely different dance floors.  One night, I mentioned that I missed her, and was greeted with the response, “If you want to see me, you need to bring down the church talk.”   The tone of that sentence created such a tension in my heart that I soon walked away.  This friend, angered that I had crossed the difference and addressed our separation, wrote me a letter in which she closed, “it as if you looked at the successful careers of your friends and settled on the first thing that wouldn’t tell you no.”

Those words carry the key of my strength today.  While they cause a part of my soul to ache, I will not throw that letter away.  That tension, that horrible realization of what it means to truly carry the cross of Christ, is something that I return to.  I especially return when I worry about my ability to be a good minister, to connect to people through my preaching, and fear losing my humility in the prospect of personal goals.

I am intentional about remembering those painful words and the grief of that relationship because they ground me in knowing that I did not settle by choosing a life of ministry, but rather have been lifted up in spirit and given the gift of seeing my true self.  In truth, it was a struggle to find my life’s place.  Before recognizing God’s recognition of me, I was lost and haunted.  I was less than my true self, less than my God-centered self.  Once I finally found my place, I became a transformed being.  But that change was not an easy cop-out, an escape from the expectation of hard work or challenging intellect.

Rev. Jefferson gave me a gift tonight for affirming that the cross we carry in ministry can be a hard one to bear.  That gift of his message continued to grow, as preacher after preacher shared similar stories of discovery and past lives.  We are all filled with the tension of trying to explain to the world why we know the inexplicable is the purpose of our careers.  Like our denominations, the variations were plentiful, but gospel which reigned true speaks of a righteous tension that is beautifully exhilarating.

This week continues to show me that this is God’s tension.  It is the energy of bravery and self discovery, preaching to us in the sanctity of our souls, strengthening us to preach loud enough to reach others dancing on another floor.

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