A Leap of Faith

I had been working at camp for about a month when the day that I had been trying hard to avoid
finally arrived.

They decided that it was time to teach me to crew the camp boat, the Pioneer III.

The camp I worked at was located on an island on Shoal Lake. Campers were bussed in to the neighbouring reserve, and then took a 20 minute boat ride on the large camp boat out to camp.

The PIII was large enough that docking it or pushing off from the dock required the assistance of two camp-counsellor-by-day crew members. When leaving the dock, it was their job to push the boat out in order to maintain a safe amount of space between the boat and the dock, thus preventing damage to either, until the boat was safely away from the dock, then at the last minute to hop aboard for the voyage back to camp.

I just had a feeling that this wasn't going to end well for me.

However, I was reassured that everyone who worked at camp learned to do this, and it wasn't really all that hard, and I was more than capable of doing it too! So, after dropping a group of campers back at the mainland, my friend decided that the return trip with the empty boat was the perfect opportunity to teach me this necessary skill.

So we set off, with my friend showing me how to keep the proper amount of distance between boat and dock, and then telling me it was time to hop on the boat. She went first--but, seeing the growing watery gap between boat and dock, I hesitated, fearful that I couldn't make the leap. And because she who hesitates really is lost sometimes, the moment passed, and the boat set off back toward camp--with me standing on the dock looking dumbly at my departing ride home.

This created a dilemma for the captain and the two other staff aboard the boat. From the dock, I could hear them discussing the need to re-dock the boat to pick me up. But, as they began to draw closer, it became very apparent that the captain of the boat had no intention of docking. Instead, he was determined to pull the nose of the boat up to the very end of the dock for me to jump aboard before quickly reversing the boat to head back out into the water.

As the boat got closer and closer, I began to sweat more and more. Then the moment came when, with what seemed like a ridiculous amount of water between me and the boat, I could hear the boat switch gears from forward into reverse, and knew that the time had come.

And, because I was determined not to make a fool of myself in the same way twice in a row, I closed my eyes, put my arms out, and jumped as far as I could, then waited for the inevitable splash as I landed, fully clothed and without a lifejacket, in the drink.

Much to my surprise, no splash came, and by some miracle when I opened my eyes I found myself hanging off the deck of the boat, with each of my colleagues hanging on to one of my hands, my hiking boots having found leverage on a slim, 5 cm wide ledge running at water level around the boat. The wake of the boat up to my knees, I found a railing to hang on to, and the boat began its journey home, with me hanging overboard, my boots and jeans saturated with water, my two friends hanging onto me for dear life, as the three people aboard the boat began an animated conversation about how to achieve the next necessary step: actually getting me aboard the boat.

A few ideas were tossed about that I recall vividly to this day. One suggested that I stay where I was for the 20 minute ride back, then try to jump from my perch to the dock before I was crushed between boat and dock. Another suggested bringing the crash boat (a motor boat pulled behind the boat in case of emergency) alongside to rescue me. (I liked that one better).

While the three of them stood on the deck discussing their options, and I focused on not losing my precarious grip on the boat and falling off into the depths of Shoal Lake, one of them looked up and realized that, in the excitement about how to rescue me, nobody had been actually driving the boat, and we were quickly headed on a collision course with a nearby island. One ran back to the cabin to set the boat back on its correct course, while the others continued to debate workable solutions and my arms increasingly turned to rubber.

As it became ever more apparent that chin-ups are not and will never be my strength, even when my life actually might depend on it, the solution was arrived at: my athletic, good-looking former high-school classmate turned camp colleague would jump down from the deck and position himself beside me, and I would use him as a human ladder, climbing up his body to safety. Even hanging from the side of the boat, that was exactly as humiliating as it sounded.

It was made even more so when afterward I lay on the deck like a limp fish, all strength in my arms and legs gone, while he casually pulled himself up onto the deck behind me.

We did, however, make it safely back to camp. (And that is how I got my 'camp name,' Stallone, a subtle reference to the movie "Cliff Hanger." Forever after, campers and staff alike knew me only by the name "Stallone," thereby ensuring that my humiliation would be memorialized for all eternity.)

I never did, incidentally, learn to crew that boat.

_____________________________________

I was reminded of this long ago adventure today as I thought about my faith journey these days.

I'm standing at an intersection. My work as a pastor at House Blend is done, and I'm not sure what comes next or where the road ahead may lead.

But I find myself really, really hoping for something safe and familiar as the next chapter. I'm oh, so tempted to arrange for something safe and familiar myself, instead of staying present to the harder work of listening to what God may be speaking into my life right now.

Leaps of faith have never especially been my specialty, as you may be guessing right now.

But, as C. S. Lewis so aptly said of Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, "Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good."

God may be good, but he certainly isn't safe. I'm increasingly aware that so many of the places that God calls us to follow him are counter-cultural, and that to truly follow God often requires sacrifice and making the risky decision. Several of the disciples, after a lifelong career as fishermen, left their nets behind to follow Jesus on an unknown adventure. The rich young ruler was told that to inherit eternal life he must first sell all he possessed and give it to the poor.

I don't know what comes next, but I sense that whatever it is may once again require a leap of faith of one variety or another. And that terrifies me!

But I pray that. when that time comes, I might have the courage to close my eyes, stretch out my hands, and jump. And I trust that, when I do, I will find strong hands ready to catch me and help me even when I find myself in situations that I'd never have imagined myself in.

Standing on the dock overthinking it might just be the hardest part...

Hanging Up

I hung up on a telemarketer tonight.

This isn't something I usually do. Deeply ingrained within me is the idea that to hang up on someone, anyone, is rude, and that it is wrong to be rude. Even when it's a telemarketer on the other end of the line.

But. (You knew there was a 'but' coming, didn't you?) The man calling told me about the carpet cleaning special that his company was offering, and what an amazing deal it was, etc. After listening politely, I responded that I wasn't interested at this time, thank you. And he kept right on talking as if I hadn't said anything at all. So, without really giving it any more thought, in a response that seemed to rise up from some place deep inside of me, I hung up on him.

I hung up on him for every time that someone has ignored me when I said what I needed or wanted, and just kept right on with their own agenda as if I hadn't clearly stated what I needed.

I did it because what I need and want is important, and deserves to be heard and respected.

I did it because "I'm not interested" means just that. "No" means no--nothing less, nothing more!

I did it for the time when I explained my decision to leave the Mennonite Brethren church to someone, and he responded that he understood...and then promptly sent me a job posting for a position at a local Mennonite Brethren church, as if I hadn't just clearly explained my decision.

I did it for the time when, as a young adult, I carefully explained that I just wasn't comfortable driving my vehicle on a winter camping trip, and was told by the organizer that either I decided I was comfortable driving a car full of teenagers out to camp or I couldn't come at all.

I did it for the time in a classroom discussion at seminary, in which I was the only female present, when it was stated that women are 90% emotional and 10% rational, and therefore should not be leaders in the church--and I ignored my strong need to leave the room, which had begun to feel profoundly unsafe to me in that moment, for fear of proving that all women are indeed highly emotional and unfit for leadership roles.

I did it because sometimes it is legitimate to acknowledge and take care of my own needs before worrying about the perceived needs of the other person. I did it because interactions always involve two people and two sets of needs, and because I badly needed to send myself the message for once that my needs are legitimate and deserve consideration too. I did it because sometimes there needs to be an alternative to the sweet, polite, soft-spoken, and compliant standard that I all too often feel that I have to live up to as a woman within the church.

I need to begin to understand that maintaining healthy boundaries and being assertive about my own needs isn't selfish or impolite, but part of good self-care. I don't always have to sacrifice my own comfort to make sure that everyone else feels comfortable.

And, while I promise not to do this regularly, because telemarketers are people with a job to do who deserve to be treated as I would like to be treated were I in their shoes, do you know what?

It actually felt pretty good!

The Face of Christ

In my last post, I shared about a recent conversation with a church leader who chose a particularly vulnerable moment to assert his belief that I do not have the gifts necessary to serve as a pastor.

Here is the part I didn't tell you.

I left that meeting fighting hard to maintain my composure, to make it at least to the doors of the restaurant where we were meeting before releasing the tears that I was fighting back.

I made it, barely.

But wouldn't you know it, the very first person I saw as I walked out of that restaurant was a dear friend of mine whom I've gotten to know through my time at House Blend. She spends quite a bit of her time out and about walking the streets of our neighbourhood, and in the past couple of years on hard days I have often found myself taking the longer way to my destination in the hopes of bumping into her along the way.

As soon as she saw me that day, her beautiful smile lit up her face, and drove the moisture lingering in my eyes back. In her face I saw unconditional welcome, love, acceptance, and delight. In her face I saw blessing. In her face, I saw the face of Christ.

She didn't need to say a word. In fact, she's usually a woman of few words to begin with. But that smile, that face, said everything I needed to hear. It was truly a gift from God in that moment.

In the past few days, I've been reading more posts on social media about yet another incident in which a church voice has been crushing to LGBTQ people. It breaks my heart, and convicts me that I need to do much better myself in this conversation--and many others like it.

And it has also made me think about choice. One person chose to use words that crush and wound. The other person chose welcome, acceptance, and love. And one person's response made all the difference to me that day.

I'm not really sure where I go from here, and I have a lot more questions that I have answers these days. But I know this. I want to choose blessing, not crushing. I believe with all my heart that God is love, and that I am called to love my neighbour as myself. I can do better at that. I want to do better.

And I also believe that the simple act of loving your neighbour can make all the difference in the world. I believe it, because I experienced it so tangibly that day on the sidewalk. It's a lesson my friends at House Blend have been especially good at modelling for me. It's a truth that I want to carry with me always, whatever comes next.

And it might very well be THE truth that carries me to whatever comes next, one choice at a time.

I Didn't Ask For Your Opinion

Does it ever happen to you--you think of something that you wish you had said hours or even days after the actual conversation has ended? I have read that this is more common among people who have a tendency toward introversion--and as a very introverted person I can attest that this is a common problem for me. Unfortunately, by the time the perfect response comes to me, it's usually useless, and I'm stuck with whatever was the best I could come up with in the moment--usually something wholly inadequate.

Someone caught me off guard last week, at a moment when I was already struggling to manage my emotions (and I'll save for another day my thoughts about the fact that the need to 'manage one's emotions' like this is a reflection of the fact that something's broken in our world--that there is nothing inherently wrong with tears or other visible emotion, that this is not weakness but merely evidence of our essential, beautiful humanity). Regardless, last week was an emotional rollercoaster for me, as I said good-bye to work that I have loved and a community that has become very important to me.

And in the midst of all of that, I had a conversation with someone who I would describe as a respected church leader. In the course of our conversation, he suggested that I would probably not have the right combination of gifts and interests for pastoral ministry, but that my gifts and skills would be suited to many other possible types of work.

In the moment, it was all I could do to keep the tears back and not let him see how much his words had hurt me. Words failed me as I did everything in my power just to keep my composure and wrap up the conversation so that I could leave the room.

But now--now I know what I wish I had said in the moment: "I didn't ask for your opinion."

And because words on paper lack nonverbal messages, let me say that I hope I would have said it politely, with respectfulness and gentleness, but also with firmness.

You see, this man has never taken the time to get to know me. He didn't lead into his pronouncement on my future in pastoral ministry with any attempt to listen to me, hear my story, or ask any questions. He doesn't know nearly enough about me to make an informed statement on this subject. But he chose to offer his unrequested opinion nonetheless.

And, frankly, this is only one of many examples I could give over the years of similar conversations. This sort of experience is unfortunately not an uncommon one for many women who have explored a call to pastoral ministry.

Part of the trouble is that the Church over the years has insisted that the discernment of a call to ministry consists of two components: the discernment of an inner sense of call on the part of the individual, and affirmation of that call by the larger Church body.

So, when a male church leader offers an opinion like this one, it is difficult not to think that this reflects the affirmation of the call, or lack thereof, on the part of the larger Church. It makes it hard for women who are wrestling with whether God has indeed called them to pastoral ministry, especially when none of us wants to be that person who believes they have a call while everyone around them shakes their heads with disbelief, having seen no evidence of the necessary gifts and skills.

But it's my opinion that there is a difference between discernment and offering an opinion. We offer others our opinions all the time: "Yes, that dress looks beautiful on you." "No, I don't like turkey." "I don't think you're suited to this job." Sometimes our opinions are informed, and sometimes they're not.

But discernment is a different thing altogether. Discernment is a practice of the faith community--a seeking of where God's Spirit is active and present. It is careful, prayerful, and intentional. It is a spiritual discipline, a practice that can be done with excellence. It is an invitation to draw near to God--both individually and corporately.

Offering an opinion should not be mistaken for discernment. They are two different things, although I think they are too often confused with one another within the Church these days.

So I'm saying now what I wish I had said then: "I didn't ask for your opinion."

I'm saying it because I need the reminder that I don't have to listen to every opinion that comes my way, even when those opinions come from people to whom the Church has given significant power and voice. I need the reminder that true discernment is still important to me, but I don't have to confuse valuing discernment with giving equal weight to every opinion that comes my way, or to discard years of discernment because of a conflicting opinion.

And I'm saying it because I think too often opinions like this one have silenced people's voices, voices that need to be heard for the sake of the health of the Body of Christ. Maybe if we say it often enough, someday we'll be able to hear an opinion and know that it is only an opinion, and not allow it to hurt us so deeply.

May I always handle my opinions with care.