And What of These Years?

It seems like yesterday I was sweating bullets on a hot June day, wearing a robe that was ten sizes too big which made me feel even more like the little girl imposter. I was certain the role was right for me, but was unsure of how I would grow into it, because it surely felt far too big for me in those moments, just like the robe I borrowed from the pastor across the street.

I stood knees knocking together as my childhood pastor read my vows and I responded, “I will, with the help of God.” I was pretty sure it was only with the help of God that I had any hope of pulling this ministry thing off in any believable kind of way.

It was forty-two years ago today, the day of my ordination to ministry, the office of word and sacrament.

I knelt in the chancel and felt the hands of all the clergy resting on my head and shoulders as my mentor prayed the ordination prayer. I don’t remember a word of it, but what has stayed with me all these years is the feeling of their hands on my body. It felt like all the history of the church before June 20, 1982 was being infused into my being. I was taking my place with Martin Luther, Desmond Tutu, Martin Luther King, Jr., my childhood pastor, my mentor and the millions who had taken vows before me, whose names I will never know. It was the most humbling moment of my life. I was being entrusted with this sacred office, and with God’s help I would find my way through the myriad of paths, as yet unseen, that would become my ministry.

So, what of these forty-two years? I have been a settled and interim pastor, hospital and hospice chaplain, Executive Director of a non-profit, consultant, seminary lecturer, domestic violence counsellor, advocate for survivors of clergy sexual abuse and a few more things I can’t think of at the moment. At times I have felt like I have professional ADD.

What stays with me, however, is not the jobs or roles I have had, but moments that unfolded in the midst of all of them.

I have raged and cried over the church’s abject failure to be the life-giving radical community Jesus envisioned. I have been rendered silent by moments in and outside of worship that were so holy, so powerful that the only response was wide-eyed awe. I have sat with people as they breathed their last breath and felt the holy silence that comes when breath is no more. I have joined people in their most joyous and meaningful celebrations of life. I have sat with people in their deepest sorrow and faith crises, when all I could do was be with them in the land of no answers. I have railed against the minutiae and bullshit of the church and thought it sometimes survives in spite of itself. It has been a wild and wonderful ride, and it isn’t over yet. For that I am so very grateful.

Every day occasions new experiences of the Holy, whether in joy or sorrow. Life continues to unfold in miraculous, marvelous, mysterious and sometimes very strange ways. This life in ministry is pure privilege. To be invited into someone’s life in their most profound moments is a grace like no other. To stand before a congregation, with the prayer that “the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts (as the old prayer goes) will be acceptable in God’s sight and meaningful to those who people the pews. I get to remind people that cubes of bread and thimbles of grape juice are symbols of the life of discipleship to which we are called. I get to say words of blessing and benediction to the flock that is entrusted to my care for this moment in time. I have the privilege of being called pastor, and every time that word rings in my heart, I am on my knees in the chancel with the hands of those who have gone before me resting on my head and shoulders, blessing me into this life which is the greatest gift I could ever imagine.