Prayer of the Church

It has come as a bit of a surprise to me that one of the things that I have heard appreciation for most often since beginning in my new role is the prayers I share in worship. At Bethel, it is the role of the pastoral team to lead the weekly prayer of the church on Sundays. So, for something a little different, I thought that I would share today's prayer.

Giver of every good gift, in this season of gift-giving and gift-receiving, where every store we pass seems to want to tell us what we need or ought to need, today we remember the gifts that we receive from your hand that money cannot possibly buy: the beauty of winter sun sparkling on the surface of the snow, the breathtaking view of hoarfrost covering the branches on a winter morning, the northern lights that dance in the night sky—the beauty of Your creation, reflecting its creator. We give thanks for the miracle of the incarnation—for the light that pierces the great darkness, for the reminder that Your love has never given up on Your children, for the miracle of a helpless baby whose birth would change the course of history.

Even as we remember that there is a day coming when there will be no more gloom, nonetheless we live with awareness that the light has not yet vanquished all that which resides in the darkness. We listen to the news, we hear the stories of friends and neighbours, and we become still and recognize the hurts that we carry within ourselves—and we know that all is not as you intended.

And so today we bring to you our prayers. We bring prayers for healing for those who journey with failing health, who are undergoing treatments and therapy, who are patiently or not-so-patiently waiting for test results. We pray also for those who wrestle with depression and anxiety and other kinds of mental and emotional pain, especially in this season when the short hours of daylight and the long hours of darkness can be a struggle for so many. We pray for those we know who are enduring the pain of broken relationships, and who are facing this holiday season with fresh memories of loved ones who have died in the past year. God, you know these and other kinds of hurts that we and those we love carry. And we pray for healing, for comfort, and for glimpses of light that chase back the darkness, if only for a moment or two.

We pray for the places in our world that are hurting. For those recovering after the tsunami in Indonesia this past week, and for all those working to provide aid and relief there, we pray. We pray for the upcoming elections in Congo and Bangladesh, for a peaceful and just process. For all those in various places around the world who find themselves fleeing the only homes they’ve known out of fear for their own safety, we pray for provision for their immediate needs, and that they might find a place of welcome and safety soon. We long for a world where these kinds of conflict will cease and your peace will reign at last. We pray for politicians and others in positions of great power, for wisdom and kindness to prevail as they do the work they have been empowered for. 

God, we long for the day when your light will drown out the darkness once and for all. In the meantime, we pray that you would give us a vision of the kind of world you desire, and empower us to work towards greater peace for all people beginning right where we are.

And we offer you these gifts this morning, remembering that all that we are and all that we have is, in the end, a gift from you. May we steward them wisely, being generous as you are generous. 

Amen.

Eighteen.

Eighteen years ago tomorrow, I was sitting in a prayer room at Urbana 2000 when I first sensed God

nudging me toward a vocation of leadership in the church.

It was only about a year after I had been baptized, at the time, and I thought that I surely couldn't be hearing God's voice clearly, but even so I can still remember eighteen years later the desk I was sitting at in that little prayer room when I heard God speak so distinctly to my questions that it might as well have been aloud. Even though I had many doubts about whether I'd heard what I thought I'd heard, even though it seemed too preposterous to write what I thought God had said in the journal I was keeping, nonetheless I remember the moment to this day. Even though I had never heard a prayer answered quite so clearly before.

I know it was eighteen years ago, because Urbana 18 is happening right now in St Louis, and I've been seeing periodic updates on my social media feeds, and remembering with lots of emotion my own experiences as a university student attending Urbana.

And this year, more than any other Urbana year, the floods of emotion and memory have caught me off guard.

Maybe it's because, for the first time, I actually feel like I can wholeheartedly affirm that God's call to me, in that quiet little prayer room so long ago, was actually real.

Because, eighteen years later, I'm finally in a place where my gifts have been wholeheartedly welcomed, where I don't have to face a constant fight to defend my role and reconcile it with my gender or my marital status, where I don't feel that constant, painful background dissonance with the larger denomination's stance on women in ministry leadership. Where I feel like my skin finally fits.

Eighteen years.

The length of time that it takes to go from newborn baby to adult.

For eighteen years, I have wondered, on some level, if this would ever happen, or if I had misheard God that day in that prayer room. For eighteen years, I have wrestled with a sense of call to pastoral ministry.

And now, eighteen years later, after many challenges and much heartache and many doubt-filled wonderings, I can see how the seed that God planted deep within my heart that day has been fulfilled.

Eighteen years of hard wandering, taking paths that often seemed to lead in the exact opposite direction to that I thought I should be taking. Eighteen years of questioning, wondering, aching, dreaming. Seasons when it seemed that God had turned God's face away. Seasons when I seriously considered choosing a sensible career path and moving on.

Eighteen years that, I'm convinced, have left me more sure of who I am and who God has created me to be than I ever would have been if the path had been easier. I'm beginning to see the gift in the discomfort that prevented me from becoming complacent, from going along with the crowd because it was the easier path.

So, tonight I give thanks for eighteen years, but also for the profound realization that God has kept God's word, even when there were so many times that I questioned it, and almost turned my back on it.

But most of all, I give thanks for the new thing that's being born.

Because in a couple of days, at the end of this month, I will quietly celebrate a new anniversary. Six months. December 31 will mark six months. Six months since I started serving as associate pastor, six months of learning and growing and coming to love this congregation who has embraced me and welcomed me and invited me to lean into my calling to pastoral ministry.

So, here's to God's faithfulness, and to new adventures yet to come on the journey ahead!

Broken Keys and New Year's Resolutions

Unbeknownst to me, my key broke off in the lock late on Christmas evening as I arrived home to my apartment after spending the evening with my family.

I'm not sure what happened, because I got into the building safely and was none the wiser that anything was out of the ordinary until, just after lunch today, I went out to take the garbage out on my way out to what I thought was to be an afternoon and evening of a couple of Boxing Day errands followed by time with my family.

My plans were halted abruptly when, having duly deposited the refuse in the bin, I realized that on my keychain I had only half a key to the building. And no mittens.

I was unsuccessful in buzzing a couple of my neighbours to try to get back into the building, but thankfully before frostbite set in some kindly souls happened along and let me in again.

However, the lack of a means to ensure safe entry into the building has held me hostage, in a manner of speaking, for the rest of the day. The family engagements were canceled, the errands placed on hold. Being Boxing Day, the apartment offices are, of course, closed--and this hardly constitutes an emergency that cannot wait until tomorrow morning.

And so, here I sit, safe and snug inside my home. And here I shall stay, however much I would like to be doing other things.

Can a broken key be a gift from God, I wonder?

You see, December has been a marathon. A happy but exhausting marathon. It has consisted of planning Christmas concerts and banquets, attending even more Christmas events, preaching, and planning leading Christmas Day worship, on top of all the regular duties of pastoral care and presence. Of course, all of these have been firsts, too--which happily means that next year I'll know more and be better equipped to manage all the things.

All of it is good work, work that feeds my soul and makes me grateful for the gift of the call this congregation has entrusted to me.

It is also exhausting, and has meant many long days and few opportunities for my introverted self to recharge away from the hustle and bustle, to seek out the stillness where I can sense the Spirit's presence most clearly, to set down the needs of others long enough to wonder about my own.

Enter today, and a morning spent blissfully drinking tea and staring into the lights on the Christmas tree, tidying up and attending to laundry and setting things right in my home once again, where the chaos of the month has been taking its toll.

And then, the broken key, and the cancellation of any further plans, which has meant I could enjoy a favourite show, do a little baking (because, of course, none of that got done before Christmas), and make supper--a balanced meal to enjoy in the comfort of home. And tonight I will curl up with a good book--a gift from new friends at church, which I am dearly looking forward to diving into, which I can tell already itches where it scratches right now, which will call me back to the first love of the One who does the calling in the first place.

As 2019 draws nearer, I'm determined that I will do better at finding the balance that I need to sustain pastoral ministry in the long run. I don't know what the answer looks like, except that learning to exercise the little word 'no' with grace and gentle firmness is going to have to play a role. I know that I need to learn what it is to play again, to know what gives ME joy, to create space for prayer and silence and long walks and all of the other things that give me life and root me in the glorious gift of spending time loitering with my Creator.

And I hope that it won't involve too many more broken keys before I learn to take seriously the health and well-being of my own soul.

Like a Fire...

I ran across these words yesterday, as I was reading in the book of the prophet Jeremiah:

You deceived me, Lord, and I was deceived;
you overpowered me and prevailed.
I am ridiculed all day long;
everyone mocks me.
Whenever I speak, I cry out proclaiming violence and destruction.
So the word of the Lord has brought me insult and reproach all day long.

But if I say, "I will not mention his word or speak anymore in his name,"
his word is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.

This is one of the most poignant descriptions that I have heard, articulating what it feels like to try to ignore a calling from God.

It's an apt description of something I've been mulling over for a while--a sneaking suspicion that I have that something about the fifteen years which I spent navigating a sense of call to ministry within a church denomination that still has not fully come to terms with the giftedness of women for pastoral ministry has only served to strengthen my own deep conviction that it is pastoral ministry to which I am called.

Because in the years of 'not mentioning his word or speaking anymore in his name,' the fire shut up in my bones would not let me rest. There is a pain in not being able to respond to God's call that only serves to deepen the inner sense that God is indeed the One doing the calling.

Then there's today. This morning, it was my turn to preach. And as I stood at the pulpit and looked at the faces in front of me, and as I interacted with people in the foyer before and after worship, I was deeply aware of how grateful I am to be serving in this place, among these people.

The fire is not the same--the burning within my bones, the urgency, the painful dissonance is gone. In its place, a deep sense of contentment, a deep gratitude to be where I am, doing what I am, among the people I am. I've said this before, but from my very earliest days here, I have felt like my skin fits, at last.

I am so grateful for this congregation, but even more for a church body that bravely and boldly states that God gives ministry gifts without regard for gender, and that discrimination on the basis of gender is wrong. Full stop. I'm grateful that they were willing to open their arms to me, and to make space for me among them. And I'm grateful on behalf of all of the other women who have and will come here because of a fire that burns in their hearts and deep in their bones.

I share this because I am acutely aware that there are still those who are experiencing this unique pain that Jeremiah articulated so clearly. I hope that, if any of them read this, they will know that they are not alone. I hope that, in sharing my story, someone might someday think twice about their beliefs about whom God gifts for pastoral ministry. I hope that as we hear the stories of actual, real human beings, we will begin to recognize our parts in the systems that are contributing to asking people to make impossible choices like suppressing the gifts God has given.

I hope that the day will come when my story won't be so common, when it seems normal to have both men and women serving in all of the ways for which God has gifted them.

When the fire of the Spirit can be free to burn bright and clear, and needn't be held in anymore.

For the Love...

There is a learning curve with any new job. Learning to be a pastor is no different.

I'm finding this fall that part of the learning curve with my new job is figuring out time management all over again. The challenges of managing my time and balancing my priorities in this job are very different than the kinds of decisions that were involved in managing my time and caseload as an acute care occupational therapist. The fast pace of discharge planning from a medical unit is very different than the endless possible tasks of providing pastoral care and engaging in ministry in the neighbourhood.

And because it will be no surprise to those who know me that one of the hardest things for me is learning healthy boundaries and knowing when it's time to stop working in order to tend to my own needs, one of the challenges I've faced this fall is figuring out how my time is best spent in this new role in which I find myself--because I can't possibly do it all.

This has meant that I've needed to figure out, particularly within the realm of the part of my role that includes ministry within our surrounding community, where my presence is necessary and where my role might be less hands on.

I have come to really, deeply enjoy working with my friends in the neighbourhood--folks who don't attend Sunday morning worship at our church but whom I connect with at other points during the week. And while sometimes it has been suggested that maybe I don't actually need to be present at all of these events, I've been really reluctant to give this up. This week, an encounter reminded me of why.

In the process of changing church affiliations, I'm still feeling my way into the culture of this new place in which I find myself. If I can be honest for just a moment, one of the things that I've been missing is a certain kind of culture around prayer and other spiritual practices that I have missed in leaving behind my evangelical roots. Different groups of Christians pray differently--the language is nuanced differently, or the times and places at which we pray together varies. I'm trying hard to say this without it sounding like a criticism, because it's not. But the habits that I've developed around prayer, which have been nurtured in different contexts, don't fit as seamlessly in this one. And sometimes that has been hard for me.

This week, one of my friends from the neighbourhood stopped me as I was flying around tending to what felt like a million different things. She told me she had brought something for me, and pulled from her bag a folded up piece of newspaper. I was deeply touched by her thoughtfulness, and assured her that I would read it the next day when I had some quiet time and space to do so.

When I did, I discovered that she had pulled an article on the importance of prayer from an Anglican publication. It so beautifully fit some of the struggles I had been wrestling with, and affirmed the journey--that it's worth the struggle. She had no way of knowing, I should add, that all of this had been going on inside of me in the previous couple of weeks. But in that moment, I felt so seen and encouraged--not only by this woman, whose thoughtfulness was such a gift in and of itself, but by the reminder that my story, and all of our stories, are held by God who sees and knows our hearts.

So often, it seems, I encounter God in profoundly beautiful ways in the work that I do that takes place outside of the traditional confines of what we think of as 'church.' So much of my faith journey in the past several years has been deeply shaped by encounters with God that happen outside of the box that is the traditional church. I would even go so far as to say that these 'wilderness' encounters with God have saved my faith during the season in which I had to process the rejection I felt from the church.

So, no, I don't do anything irreplaceable that means that I need to have a hands-on presence at any of these neighbourhood ministry programs, really. There are many, many capable people who could do these things.

But then there's this--there are the moments when these neighbours welcome me as their pastor, too. There are the moments when they become the hands and feet of Christ to me, when they offer me the gifts of vulnerability and gratitude and hospitality, when through them I encounter the Kingdom of God unfolding in our midst, like a mustard seed that may start small but can flourish into a thriving plant.

I know that I am not needed here. And yet, I need to be here, for the sake of my own Life. And not only that, but my congregation needs me to be here too. We need to be here--to encounter the God who has a habit of showing up in non-traditional places--a burning bush in the desert, or walking across the water in the middle of the sea, or a peaceful newborn soundly sleeping in a manger full of hay.

Thankful

As I drove up to church today, I was struck all over again by the fact that this wonderful congregation has called me to be one of their pastors. 

It is not at all lost on me that I have the amazing privilege of making this vocation my full-time work, of being at home among this particular part of the body of Christ, of developing and exploring my gifts in this place. Someone asked me this morning if I missed doing occupational therapy. The truth is that I miss my co-workers often, but I really haven't looked back as far as the work itself is concerned. It's an amazing gift to make being a pastor my full-time work--a gift that a year ago I wasn't even sure would ever be possible, much less now.

Driving up to church today and unlocking my office door, I was struck all over by the gift of it all. It was a small reminder of the emotions I felt on that very first day of work almost 5 months ago.

I think it hit me so profoundly today because I was coming back after a week of vacation last week. Stay-cation, as it were. I had a week to catch up with a few friends, but mostly to clean my house and cross some long-overdue items off of the to-do list. I had the luxury of sleeping in and taking life at a much slower pace. 

It really wasn't glamorous, but it wasn't until I got home from church and took a step back that I realized that this is the first time I've truly had vacation in a really long time. The last few short stretches of vacation I've taken happened before I started working at the church--while I was still in the process of looking for work and wondering about the future.

The last time I was on vacation, I realized today, was one year ago this past July. And I came back from vacation to find out that the organization that I worked for was closing, and that I would soon be without a job.

So, today I'm profoundly grateful of the simple things. For a wonderful week that was truly restful and rejuvenating. For the stability of a job that is still there to come back to--a job that I love, among people who are now familiar and comfortable, whom I'm happy to see and reconnect with--most of whose names I even remember!  

The Big Stones

You've probably heard the story about the professor who filled a container with large stones, and then
asked his students if it was full. When they replied that it was, he added smaller stones until it was once again 'full.' Then gravel, then sand, then water, until the container was filled. The moral of the story, as it's told, is about priorities: we need to put the large stones in the container first, because if we start by filling it with water, we'll never fit the large stones in. If, on the other hand, we start with the large stones, we can always add the smaller stuff later in the margins that remain.

I've been wondering lately about what my 'large stones' are, and how to make sure that I'm putting them into my life before the space gets crowded out by other things. What are the values that I'm most deeply committed to? What are the practices that are most essential in my life?

One of my deep convictions about pastoral ministry is that I cannot lead others to places I'm not willing to go myself. I cannot authentically invite people into God's story unless I'm already living into that story in my own life. I cannot lead the congregation in prayer well when prayer isn't a regular practice in my own life.

And one of the things that I know from experience to be true about myself is that one of the 'big stones' that I need to make sure that I've created space for is Sabbath. Practicing Sabbath rest has truly saved my life over the past number of years. Learning to create space for deep rest, to nurture silence as a place for meeting with God, to honour the fact that I'm a more whole person when I regularly create time and space to be still and know that God is present, both in the world and within me--this is not laziness, but is as essential to my health as the air that I breathe.

I started attending an annual retreat at the local monastery years ago, when I was reaching the point of burn out from the demands of ministry. Some of the people who were closest to me at the time felt that I'd already passed the point of burn out and suggested that it was time to reevaluate. I recall that it had been a very long time since I felt any sort of real connection to God, since I could say that I'd experienced God's presence or that it felt like my prayers were going anywhere other than bouncing off the ceiling.

That week-end saved my life. It started me on a path and introduced me to spiritual practices that have sustained me for almost a decade since--and not an easy decade at that! I have no desire to go back to the way that I was trying to survive in ministry before that transformative experience.

And yet, in my concern to 'do well' at my new job, I'm realizing that it's so much easier to lean into the ever-present demands of the tasks of the day than it is to make time and space for attending to God. It's not that I don't know what would be life-giving to me--it's that I don't want to be perceived as lazy or as not meeting expectations. And, right or wrong, my perception is that if there are expectations I'm not meeting, they're likely to be related to tasks that need to be accomplished, and not to my failure to nurture a life of prayer and attentiveness to the Spirit.

It's so easy, even in ministry, to get carried away by the demands of the day and to lose sight of the importance of stopping, taking a deep breath, and allowing yourself to remember the goodness and ever-presence of God. It's so easy to get caught up in planning programs and working out the logistics of Sunday mornings and scheduling pastoral care that you neglect your own self-care.

I'm not sure exactly why I'm writing this today. But I think it's partly to urge those of us who love the church to take a step back and reexamine our priorities from time to time. I know that I need to find ways to make practices like Sabbath-keeping, prayer, silence, and solitude some of the 'large stones' that automatically find their place in my bucket before anything else gets slotted in around it, rather than the other way around. I know that I need to create space for prayer, and then make prayer unapologetically part of what it is that I do as a pastor. I know that I need to honour the heart work that is essential to my pastoral ministry, even if it is unseen and cannot be crossed off of the ever-present to-do list.

I've also talked to enough people to suspect that I'm not the only one who feels guilt about creating space for spiritual practices and self-care in the midst of the many demands of life. And I hope that in talking about my own struggles to sort out my priorities, others might find solidarity with the struggle and hope in knowing that they are not alone in this.

My call is to love and to serve the people God has placed in my circle of care, and I can only do that faithfully when I'm attentive to God and to God's activity in the world. If I'm to love others, I must first of all live out of the awareness that I'm beloved myself. My call is not, first and foremost, to answer emails or to plan stimulating programs or to organize events that go off without a hitch. I will do plenty of all of those things as a part of living out my vocation--but I can't afford to forget that these are not my primary call.

I'm not in danger of becoming lazy and doing nothing but sit around resting and praying. That's just not going to happen. What I am in danger of is getting so busy doing stuff that I forget the resting and the praying.

What are your big stones, and how are you doing at putting first things first?

And if you see me in person, feel free to help me to be accountable by asking me how I'm doing at keeping first things first.

After all, it's not selfish--it's actually the most loving thing I can do for the people I'm called to love and serve.

The Betrayal of Autumn

Last year I posted this photograph on my social media along with the caption, "Because some days this is the only thing that makes any sense to me."

Fall arrived last year in the midst of a season of loss and change in my life, and as the leaves changed colours and gradually dropped, forming a soft carpet on the forest floor, I felt a gentle reassurance in the changing of the seasons. Just as summer yields to fall, and fall to winter, I felt a gentle reassurance in seeing my own season of loss mirrored in the created world, and I grew to trust that I was safe in the hands of the Creator who brings such beauty in the midst of a season of dying.

This year, the leaves seem to be beginning their autumnal transformation early, and I feel betrayed.

I am not ready for the lush green growth of summer to end. In this season, at the beginning of a new adventure, the reminder of fall that "there is a time for everything" is not wisdom that I want to hear.

I'd rather hear, "Everything is going to be okay."

Instead, the leaves and the memories they bring remind me that sometimes things do not turn out the way that we want them to, no matter how hard we try or how much we hope and pray.

I'd rather hear, "Don't worry!"

Instead, I see reflected in the world all around me a reflection of my fears--that this, too, is too good to be true and I might be asked to give it up as well.

The arrival of autumn is betraying all of my attempts to put my fingers in my ears, tune out the things I'd rather ignore, and live in blissful denial for a season. To focus on joy, and ignore the hard truth that there is much happiness and fulfillment in this new season of life--but that it coexists with the reality that the joy doesn't erase the hurt and sense of betrayal of a year ago.

Hear me well--I am happy, and there is a great deal of joy in my life this September. I don't for a minute regret leaving my 'safe career' behind to pursue my heart's true love. There is so much that I want to experience and so much that I'm looking forward to. I'm so grateful for this new congregation where I've been planted.

But the last couple of years have been hard, and even when I'd rather ignore it, the truth is that my spiritual director was right (again!) and that it is healthy and necessary to honour hard emotions too, not only the happy ones.

I was driving out to the forest yesterday to spend some time on my day off lost in a sea of trees and soft breezes, where my soul feels most connected to my Creator. And along the way, I was praying and telling God that I was annoyed at the feelings of sadness that were arriving, unbidden, along with the hues of yellow on the trees outside my windows.

But even as I was prayer-ranting, I sensed a growing awareness that to revisit the sadness and the fears that this season reminds me of isn't a bad thing. It doesn't signal sure and certain doom, nor does it prove that my fears about the same thing happening again are bound to come true.

It just echoes the poet's words: "There is a time for everything." Joy and fear coexist; happiness and sadness are not mutually exclusive.

I will be a better pastor and a more compassionate friend if I can gently learn to honour not only the consolations of life, but also the desolations.

Instead of tensing up, putting my fingers in my ears, squeezing my eyes tightly shut, and ignoring the inevitability of the upcoming transformation in the world around me, I'm going to try to relax into the reassurance that it's okay to be scared and it's okay to be sad. It's okay to take time to acknowledge the hard stuff, without fearing that it will make me oblivious to the many blessings around me. It's okay to honour both joy and pain. One is not holier than the other.

Yes, the leaves are changing. And their gift is to make me aware of the fullness of who I am, and the fullness of who God is. They invite me to an authenticity that I might initially want to reject, but that I'll be richer for paying attention to. They invite me to encounter a God who is big enough for all parts of me, not only the joyful and happy parts of me. They reassure me that even if the world only wants to see my social media highlights role, God invites something deeper and doesn't shy away from the behind-the-scenes me.

May I have the courage and the grace to say yes to their gentle invitation.

The View from Seven Weeks In...

I am absolutely happy with my new job.

But as it turns out, new jobs are tough. It's frustrating to realize that a simple task that should only take a couple of minutes at most takes three times longer than necessary because you have to learn and relearn all of the micro-steps to the task that will, with time, come without thought. For example, something as simple as checking my voicemail last week required first digging through a desk drawer to find the file containing the paper with the voicemail instructions, reading the instructions to figure out what to dial in order to access the voicemail system, and recalling where I had written down my password for the voicemail system. Or answering a relatively straightforward email requires first reading through several sets of minutes from several different committees in order to figure out the background of the request and what next steps need to be taken, and by whom.

All of these things will get easier with time, and every new job comes with its own learning curve. It's normal.

But as it also turns out, starting a new job doesn't make the hard stuff instantly disappear.

As much as I love doing this work that I believe God has called me to do and has given me the necessary gifts for, as time goes on I am realizing that the voice of the man who told me that I shouldn't pursue pastoral ministry is still echoing around in my head, and wasn't instantly vanquished by the call to serve here. The voices in my head that tell me that any minute now the fact that I'm the wrong gender is bound to pop up haven't gone silent, even though I now serve in a congregation where women have long been affirmed in leadership and pastoral roles. And the hard experiences of the last year, and the irrational fear that another 'congregation' that I love will be taken from me in an untimely manner is persistent in its unwelcome presence.

Add to that the normal introvert fatigue of trying to get to know hundreds of new people all at once, and it's exhausting. Actually, physically, exhausting.

I'm used to pushing my limits hard...to hitting the wall and then pushing just a little harder to see how long I can keep going and how much I can do.

But it's been a tough year, and my capacity to push past my limits just isn't cutting it right now. It seems I've reached the end of my resources.

Which is a gift, in a crazy sort of way.

Because a long while back I read an analogy about ministry that really stuck with me. It compared ministry to learning to swim: When we try to master ministry of our own resources, we can become frightened and defensive, clutch up, and it is then that we sink. When we instead learn to rely on the gifts of God, when we learn to trust in the buoyancy of the water that holds us and just relax into it, it's then that we learn to float. "The buoyancy of water and the possibility it creates for us to be able to float and to swim with confidence provided an apt and lovely metaphor for the buoyancy of God, whose everlasting and omnipresent grace enable us to live and to have life abundantly."

Perhaps the gift in the exhaustion is the invitation to learn to breathe deeply, to relax into the buoyancy of God, to know that not everything depends on me, to practice receiving the grace of God that I invite others to experience. To learn to serve in true partnership with the Spirit of God, instead of simply paying lip service to the idea. To lean into the goodness of God and the trustworthiness of the Spirit.

Hard lessons, friends, especially for those of us who are used to being strong, to achieving what we set out to accomplish, to challenging the limits.

But lessons that I hope I can learn now, in these early weeks of pastoral ministry, and carry forward with me for many years to come, so that I can serve as well as I possibly can these people whom I am rapidly coming to love, in the way that God intended all along.

Glass Ceilings

Here's the thing about glass: it's hard to see, because its whole purpose is to be seen through. You're not meant to notice the glass, but what's on the other side.  You look out the window to see what's beyond, not to notice the window itself. You look past the glass at the aquarium to see the fish swimming within. You choose a glass lid for a pot so that you can keep an eye on the contents simmering away inside.

The whole thing about glass is that it's hard to see, especially up close.

It's easier to observe glass from a distance. I can more easily see the windows of the neighbouring buildings than I can see the window out of which I observe them. 

At times, in the past, I have been asked my opinion regarding the so-called 'glass ceiling' that seems to prevent more women from assuming pastoral roles in my previous church denomination. On paper, it has been more than a decade since a resolution passed at a national gathering freed women to serve in pastoral roles at all levels, including lead pastor roles, within the denomination's churches. Based strictly on casual observation and informal conversation with other observers, it seems that little has changed in that decade. Why is that, some have wondered aloud.

I think I was too close to the proverbial glass ceiling to see it well. It was much easier to see what lay on the other side--the opportunities that I longed for--than to see what was up close.

I'm probably still too close to the situation to really give you a good analysis of the glass.

But here is one thing that I've noticed in recent weeks, which I offer as a personal observation, for whatever it's worth.

I have noticed something that I've come to think of as 'the assumption of competence.'

Let me try to explain. 

A few times in the past few weeks I've been caught off guard by people who assume that I'm a competent pastor.

I know that might sound strange. I get that. In another field of work, it would be wholly ridiculous to hire an occupational therapist and then to assume that she is incapable of doing the job for which she was hired.

And yet, my surprise on a couple of occasions when this 'assumption of competence' has happened to me has made me examine why that is. And I've realized that there have been subtle boundaries that I've regularly encountered in ministry. Things that it is assumed that I will not do, or that I should not do, or that should only be done by a more senior (male) leader. Or things that, should I have the opportunity to do them, it is made clear that it is 'very special.' Is it because they are 'too pastoral'? Or because the roles that I've functioned within in the past (and the roles that are often held by women in the denomination, I'd suggest) are niche roles within the church, with fairly well-defined boundaries? I'm not sure.

In the new setting that I'm in now, I find myself at times offered opportunities for ministry that I'd always assumed in the past were off limits to me. The opportunities come without any fanfare, as if they are no big deal. Except to me, they are a big deal. 

Some of these things are things that I've come to be nervous about, because they've felt off-limits for so long. I've wondered if I'm up to the challenge. I've questioned my own competence.

Let me tell you, though, that there's a tremendous gift in having someone assume that I am fully capable. In having something that might seem like a 'big deal' in my mind ever so casually handed to me, of feeling someone else's confidence in me even if I have my own doubts.

Because do you know what? It turns out--I am pretty competent. Still learning, to be sure. Going to make mistakes? Definitely! Perfect? Far from it. But competent? Yes!

Without opportunities to be competent, to rise to the challenge, to try new things, to live into all of the corners of the calling to pastoral ministry--without the support of people who assume competence, who back off and allow success and learning to flourish--we'll still have glass ceilings for sure.

So, for the chance to glimpse and explore my own competence, I am truly thankful. And for more people to be given this gift, I continue to pray.

 

Like My Skin Fits

Many times over the past several weeks, people have asked me how it feels to be switching careers--to be leaving behind the career that has sustained me for the past seventeen years for employment as a full-time pastor.

There are a few different answers that I can, and have, given to that question.

Sometimes it feels terrifying. I am leaving the career that has given me job security, that paid the bills through my graduate studies and once again when my ministry role came to a sudden and unexpected end this fall. I'm leaving the job that has helped to give me some sense of value and worth when my experiences in the Church at times left me questioning who I was and whether I had anything to offer.   And because of the regulations that govern my previous field of work, at some point it will become increasingly difficult to go back and do this again in the future. So, it feels scary.

It feels exciting. I remember vividly how it felt to wait, in the in-between time after the interviews were all completed and when the congregation's response was yet to come. I remember how very much I wanted their answer to be 'yes'--how I felt nothing but certainty that my own answer was a resounding 'yes,' if only they would ask the question.

But most of all, to my surprise, as I have prepared to make this move, I've noticed something in me that goes beyond emotion. The only way I can describe what I've been feeling as I have anticipated the beginning of the month and the invitation to take on this new role, after their 'yes' and my 'yes,' even amid all of the fear and excitement, is this.

It feels like my skin fits.

It feels like something has fallen into place that has long been dislocated, so long that I had ceased to notice that it was rubbing me in the wrong way all of these years.

You see, I have known that this is what I was called to do and to be for almost twenty years. I have been ready to make this move since before I had even graduated from university.

And while I was grateful for the chance to study theology and ministry, and to work in pastoral roles in a part-time capacity, and while I was told by many men who were employed full-time as pastors how fortunate I was to have another career as a fall-back and how bivocational ministry is the way of the future, there was never an opportunity to fully embrace the call to full-time pastoral ministry.

I was never offered the choice.

And I know that this will not be easy--that I have so very much to learn, that there will be many challenges along the way, that there will be hard days, and all the rest.

But right now, it feels like my skin fits for the first time in as long as I can remember.

And for that, I'm beyond grateful.

A Plea for Honesty

I sat across the desk from a male leader in my church denomination several years ago as I was about to embark on the adventure of seminary studies. At that meeting, I voiced one of my concerns at the outset of the journey--that I would ultimately not find space to use my gifts for ministry within the denomination that I called home.

And I still remember, as clearly as if it were just yesterday, him looking across the desk at me and telling me that there would be no problem with me finding a place to use my gifts within the church as long as my theology was solid. Gender and singleness, he assured me, were not determining factors in how churches in the denomination chose their leaders anymore.

I wasn't sure that he was right, but I badly wanted to trust him.

__________________________________________


I have had a sense of being called by God to serve in pastoral leadership in the Church for more than fifteen years now.

And for many of those years, churches within the denomination have been officially free to call men or women to leadership positions including that of lead pastor. For all of those years, churches have been free to call women to other leadership positions with the exception of the role of lead pastor. That is to say--on paper, there was no barrier to me serving in the way that I felt called.

Many people within the denomination over the years have chosen to quietly affirm my gifts, or their support of women in ministry leadership roles.

And yet, for fifteen years I struggled to find a place to serve, a place in which I felt like I and my gifts were truly welcomed.

And in those fifteen years I gradually came to the conclusion that it must be because my theology was lacking, or because I was misunderstanding the gifts that God had given me, that I was unable to find a place for myself, no matter how hard I worked, or how much I excelled in my coursework, or how diligently I worked to prove my loyalty to the denomination, or how patiently I waited for someone to offer me an opportunity to do what I loved to do.

I could never pinpoint exactly what it was that was wrong with me. I just knew there had to be something--or some things.


____________________________________________



And so, it came as a shock to me when I made the difficult but necessary decision to seek opportunities for ministry within a different denominational setting that virtually immediately my gifts were recognized, welcomed, affirmed, and sought out. That it was not a matter of fifteen years, but less than fifteen weeks before I found a place to belong.

It's a shock to the system, to say the least. Suddenly, I was receiving the external affirmation of my call to ministry from the church that I had been longing for for so long.

It's a shock to the system, to begin to wonder if there isn't actually something wrong with me after all.


______________________________________________


What I really, really want to say is this:

Friends, we are not doing anyone any favours by pretending that there are not systemic barriers facing women in our churches when, unfortunately, at least at some levels of leadership, those barriers are alive and well.

We are actually hurting people when we quietly pretend that these forces are not present, when we fail to name the actual forces at play in our churches.

How I wish that someone had the courage to say to me that I was unlikely to find the place to serve that I was looking for because I was a single woman. It would have been a gift. It would have saved me so much agonizing about what I was doing wrong, or why I couldn't shake the sense of God's call even when I clearly didn't have the affirmation of my gifts by the church.

How I wish that someone had arranged to have a conversation over coffee and actually asked me the question--whether I might consider seeking more welcoming spaces to test my gifts, where I wouldn't have to wonder if it was my giftedness that needed examination, or simply my gender or marital status leading people to certain conclusions before I ever opened my mouth to speak.

It might make us feel better, to ignore the uncomfortable truth that in many (not all!) cases, there is much work to do before women can be truly free to serve as they are gifted in our churches.

But this silence, it's actually hurting people.

So, this is my passionate plea for a new attempt at honesty. If this doesn't mean speaking out at a larger level, could it at least mean having the courage to have a hard conversation with someone one-on-one, to find out what their lived experience is like and to speak truthfully?

Because if we can save one person from thinking she is not good enough, not worthy of full acceptance in the Kingdom of God, not truly beloved by God, it will be worth it a thousand times over.

Gratitude

I've been feeling reflective lately, thinking back in particular over the year that has been. There have been lots of quiet anniversary markers over the past several months as a number of "one year today since..." milestones have come and gone, and as I've remembered some of the harder transitions of the past year, I've found myself becoming increasingly grateful for the moments of beauty that have come along the way.

This picture resonates with me as I reflect on some of the moments that leave me with a profound sense of gratitude--in the midst of the sharp and painful edges of the year, there has also been abundant beauty, for which I am so very grateful.

The blog is too public a forum for me to link names and stories with these spots of beauty, but in my mind with each one of these anonymous snapshots is a face and a name, a person for whose presence in my life this past year I'm profoundly grateful.

I'm grateful for each and every moment in which someone has understood without question my need to grieve the closing of House Blend and the loss of the community I loved--for the permission and encouragement to find safe spaces to process the hurt that I was feeling, for the acknowledgment that grieving is normal and healthy. For everyone who has, however briefly, stood with me without exerting pressure to 'be okay' when I simply wasn't. Thank you for teaching me the value and importance of the practice of lament.

For the people who held space for me to question my own vocation in ministry--who allowed me to ask the very hard questions that I needed to ask. Who didn't rush in to offer easy answers, as much as they might have wanted to. Who believed in me enough to trust that the answers would come, in time.

For the people who believed in me when I needed it most. I can't express how important it was to know that there were people who could still envision a future for me in which I was free to use my gifts to serve within the church--who still believed that I had something to offer, even when the way forward wasn't at all clear to me. Who reached out to tap me on the shoulder, to remind me that they were still in my corner. Who, in the end, spoke more loudly than the critics. Who reminded me of the power of being enfolded by the love of a community.

In a year that hasn't been easy, one of the things that stands out the most as I look back is the beauty offered by so many loving words, warm hugs, and honest affirmations. By people who made space for all of me, not just the bright and shiny parts. By people who never stopped believing that God has good work for me to do yet.

In a year that hasn't always been the greatest year, I'm grateful because these cumulative experiences of being loved have given me a picture for the kind of church that I want to be part of going forward--a church that persistently sees the good in others; that is quick to offer love, especially to those who are lonely or hurting; that believes that God has good work for us to participate in; that make space for vulnerability and honesty, even when it's uncomfortable; and that manages to be beauty incarnate even in the hard spaces in life.

Much has been given to me this year. I hope that I can find some way to pay it forward in the future.

Seeing Jesus: A Sermon

Text: John 12: 20-33

I want to begin with two scenes, both taken from the twelfth chapter of John’s gospel. I invite you to imagine them with me, to try to feel what it would have been like to be there, to picture yourself within each of these scenes. Where do you find yourself in it? How does it feel to be there? Do any sights, smells, sounds, or emotions stand out to you as you experience each of these scenes with your imagination? 

Scene One:

It is just six days before the Passover festival, and Jesus is sitting down at a table in Bethany for a dinner in his honour. Surrounded by friends, Jesus and his disciples are enjoying a sumptuous feast—the aromas of favourite foods fill the warm night air, peals of laughter ring out, and the warm glow of lamplight gives everything a golden air. It’s the kind of night that all of us treasure—a night shared with our closest friends, enjoying the kinds of memories that don’t quickly fade. Sitting with them at the table is Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead—literally, Jesus had called him out of the tomb after he had been lying there in his grave clothes for four days. His presence there on this night, eating and laughing alongside the others, is a reminder that this is no ordinary celebration. Later, Mary will pour a pound of costly perfume over Jesus’ feet, washing them with her hair, the only way she can think of that even begins to express the magnitude of the gratitude she feels toward this man who has brought life where only days before there had been death and grief. It is a night that none of them will forget for a very long time.

………

Scene Two:

Six days later, and as today’s Gospel text begins we find ourselves with Jesus in Jerusalem at the beginning of the Passover festival. We can sense the crowds of people pressing in all around us. The population of Jerusalem has multiplied exponentially as visitors pour in to the holy city for the festival, as they do every year. But this year is different. This year, everyone is on high alert, and if you listen carefully you can almost sense the tension crackling in the air. What was cause for celebration only a few days ago—the raising of Lazarus from the dead—has now come to the attention of the religious authorities, who are alarmed at the crowds who now want to acclaim Jesus as King of the Jews. Now, rumour has it, they are seeking both Jesus and Lazarus, some even calling for their deaths—and the disciples and others close to Jesus worry about where all of this is leading. Danger seems to lurk in every shadow, every loud noise causes them to jump, and yet none of this will dissuade Jesus from showing up at the festival as planned. Everyone is on high alert.

……...

There is such a stark contrast between the two scenes that I’ve just described, isn’t there? One of the things that most strikes me about John 12 is how completely the tables have turned for Jesus and his followers in the space of one week! One moment, we are feasting, completely in awe of Jesus’ power to bring life where there was death and grief; the next, we are standing amidst the pressing crowds wondering with the disciples at what kinds of danger their presence at this Passover festival may bring, afraid for the life of this man who has the ability to do miracles that go beyond even their wildest expectations.

The first scene is compelling—many of us probably find ourselves instinctively wanting to linger there, to imagine ourselves as part of the celebration, breathing in the scents of fine foods and rich perfumes, hearing the echoes of laughter as friends linger around the table, reveling in amazement at being in the very presence in the miraculous.

The second scene might leave us wondering how things have gone so quickly from this mountaintop high to this anxious tension with danger seeming to lurk at every narrow alleyway, astonished at how suddenly celebration and pure goodness can turn into fear and distress. We may find ourselves wondering why Jesus insists on being at the festival, and doesn’t simply withdraw to a quiet place away from the current uproar, as he has done so many times before. We may find ourselves wishing that we could go back to the simpler pleasures of that first scene, and skip this second entirely.

And just as, for many of us, it is the first scene that we are drawn to, it is Jesus’ ability to do the miraculous, his ability to defeat even the powers of death themselves by restoring Lazarus to life, that has brought the great crowds wanting to experience a piece of this miracle for themselves that cause such a problem in the second scene. The crowds wanting to see Jesus are growing, as they come in droves hoping to see Lazarus with their own eyes, to get a firsthand sense of who this Jesus person actually is. They can’t help but wonder—if Jesus really did bring a man back from the dead, how does this change the world as they know it? What could that mean for a people living in Roman-occupied Palestine, struggling to eke out a living, living daily under the heavy burdens of foreign occupation, longing for someone powerful enough to bring real change to their daily reality? What could it mean for people who, like us, have known real grief, real loss, real fear for ourselves, our children, and those we love? If Jesus really did bring a man back from the dead once, surely he can do it again! Surely, he can do it for us too!

It’s almost perhaps as if you were to go home from church today and turn on the radio, or switch on the tv, or pull up Facebook on your phone, or check your messages to find that everyone everywhere was talking about the same story—a cure for cancer had been found, one that would quickly and effectively treat every single one of the forms of cancer that we all know too well. Can you imagine what a game-changer that would be—the ability to cheat death in this way? Can you imagine the crowds of people who would flock to receive this new treatment? Can you imagine the hoardes of media who would be lined up waiting their chance to interview the researchers responsible for this game-changing discovery? Can you think of the people you know for whom this would be life-changing?

Unfortunately, that’s not likely to happen today, as much as we all wish it would. But  I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t this very same sort of desire to avoid death that brought the Greek inquirers to seek an audience with Jesus on that day in Jerusalem. It’s not really all that farfetched to wonder if the rumours of a dead man brought back to life might have reached these visitors to Jerusalem, whose Greek accents set them apart from the largely Aramaic-speaking local crowd who have sought Jesus thus far. Perhaps they’ve heard about this man who has demonstrated the ultimate power—power over death itself—and have come to learn more, to find out if this might somehow allow them to also avoid death’s ultimate defeat, or perhaps to beg Jesus to perform a similar miracle for someone they have also loved.

We’ll never actually know, because puzzlingly, in this text that begins with these Greek visitors approaching Philip with their request—“Sir, we wish to see Jesus”—we never actually find out if their requested audience with Jesus ever takes place.

Because when Philip, along with his fellow disciple Andrew, approaches Jesus to tell him of this latest group of curious visitors, Jesus’ response is, frankly, completely puzzling. Puzzling to Philip and Andrew, certainly; puzzling also to the crowds of people standing around them; and, to be honest, puzzling to me, even as I read his words with the benefit of being able to read them with not only hindsight but also degrees in theology on my side.

It’s a simple request, really: “We wish to see Jesus.”

A request that, one might think, would be met with one of two responses: Either “Yes, I’ll see them,” or “Sorry, not today.”

Instead, Jesus responds in a way that anyone who has written any multiple-choice tests will be familiar with: option c, none of the above. Instead of either of the expected responses, he answers Philip and Andrew with words that seem completely out of context for someone who has just demonstrated his own power to bring life to the dead.

While the Greek visitors have come seeking to see a man who has the power to overcome death, Jesus’ response invites those of us who seek to follow him to experience a deeper tension: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” Jesus’ words that follow are filled with tension: tension between death and new life, between losing one’s life and keeping it, loving and hating, light and darkness.

As we draw closer to the end of this Lenten journey, it’s as if we can already feel Jesus slipping away, as he begins to speak about mysteries that we cannot yet fully understand. We want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ response; instead, we receive a series of puzzling paradoxes. We want to understand this man who is so compelling, whose teaching is so attractive, who has demonstrated the ability to perform miracles unlike any we have ever seen before.

Instead, he speaks in images and metaphors that we half understand. After all, here on the prairies, especially, the image of a grain of wheat falling to the earth in order to bear a new crop in its time makes sense to us—but wrapping our minds around the mysteries of how this relates to the Kingdom of God is another thing entirely.

And I wonder if our goal maybe isn’t, after all, to dissect these sayings of Jesus, to wrap our minds around them and keep tugging and unraveling until we can make them into neat, clean theological treatises that we can make logical sense out of and draw neat, clean applications from.

I wonder if, instead, these words of Jesus can become for us an invitation to see Jesus more truly, to allow ourselves to be drawn into the mysterious love of God that exceeds our understanding, to find ourselves held by a story that is greater than we can ever possibly have constructed on our own.

I wonder if there isn’t a spiritual discipline to the letting go, to admitting that there are times when we don’t understand it all, to letting the words of Jesus resound in our heads as we wonder if the thunder that we thought we heard might not actually be the voice of God Almighty after all.

Because we’re called not to cling to our life, but to let it go as we seek to follow in the ways of Jesus. We’re not the ones called to lift Jesus up—he has already been lifted up. Instead, we are invited to allow him to draw us to himself.

As this Lenten season draws to a close, and as Holy Week approaches, I wonder if there might be some merit to allowing ourselves to be held by the wonderful mystery of the love of a man who, though he had proven his ability to conquer death, still stretched out his arms and submitted to death on a cross, in order that he might be lifted up for all people to be drawn to himself. I wonder if we might find that when we let go of the hope of a cure for death, we might find that in the letting go we actually receive the even greater gift of eternal life.

I wonder what would happen, in these last days of Lent, as we wait and watch, as we allow ourselves to feel the tensions of the events that are about to unfold, as we let ourselves wonder once again about the meaning of it all, I wonder what would happen if we entered into this season as those Greeks did so long ago, with one desire: “We wish to see Jesus.”

Maybe instead of trying to make sense of it all, some of us may want to consider making this our prayer for these final days of Lent: “Lord, we want to see Jesus.” What if we asked God to allow us to truly see Jesus with fresh eyes, as we head into Holy Week—less so that we might be able to wrap our minds around these things, and instead so that as we seek to experience these events anew, we might find ourselves being drawn into the greatest love that we have ever known.

Trusting that as we let go of what we think we know, as we let it fall to the ground, in doing so we are trusting ourselves to the One who is able to bring about much fruit—that in letting go of our grasp on the things of this life, we are in fact opening ourselves up to the mysteries of eternal life.

Lord, we want to see Jesus. We long for you to draw us to yourself, even as we find ourselves faced with the mysterious paradox that the path to eternal life must first pass through death; that to gain eternal life we must lose our life. For we remember and we trust that the same Jesus who spoke these words also proclaimed that it is out of Your great love for the world that you gave your Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but have eternal life. Hold us in the vastness of your love, that we might know our identity as your beloved children more and more. Amen.

Reflection on John 12: 20-33 for the Fifth Sunday in Lent

“Sir, we wish to see Jesus.”

The words startled Philip, who had been lost in his own thoughts even in the midst of the pressing crowds who had come to Jerusalem to worship at the time of the Passover festival. They shouldn’t have startled him, really—“We wish to see Jesus” had become an increasingly familiar refrain that he heard many times a day these days. Word of Jesus’ teachings and miracles continued to spread like wildfire, and as the crowds of people continued to seek Jesus out, it was commonplace not just for Philip but for all of the disciples to be sought out like this. People wanting to see Jesus for themselves would approach one of the disciples, hoping that they might be persuaded to put in a good word, to be the advocate they needed to gain them a personal audience with Jesus.

These men weren’t like most of the crowds they’d all become accustomed to -- that was evident in their Greek accents. The accents set them apart from the mainly Aramaic speakers in the crowds. But other than the accents, nothing in particular stood out about them.

Philip wondered what it was that had brought these men to seek Jesus. Were they curious, hoping to see a miracle, like so many of those who had sought Jesus out? Were they among those who sought Jesus, desperate for one last shot at healing, either for them or for a loved one? Were they intellectuals or religious men, curious about Jesus’ teachings about the true nature of the faith? Or, because in recent days Philip and the other disciples had become increasingly aware of the gathering forces of people Jesus had angered with his radical positions, could they be seeking Jesus out in hopes of picking a fight or gathering evidence against him? So many people sought Jesus out for so many reasons. Philip took a closer look at these faces, trying to guess what their motives might be.

The variety of reasons that people sought Jesus fascinated Philip. He himself hadn’t come seeking Jesus at all—rather, it was Jesus who sought Philip, who found him in his hometown of Bethsaida and invited him to be his disciple with the simple invitation: “Follow me.”

The decision to accept that invitation—to impulsively leave behind his daily routine to become this man’s disciple, along with his friends Simon, Andrew, and Nathanael, had turned Philip’s life upside down in the past three years. He had witnessed the miraculous—from the wedding feast when, at Jesus’ word, jars of water had become the finest of wine, to more recently when Philip had seen with his own eyes as Jesus visited the tomb where Lazarus had been lying dead for four days and, with a word, called the dead man out, unbound him from the linens in which his body had been wrapped, and brought him back to life. Philip had hardly been able to believe what he had seen, but earlier this very week, he himself had sat down at table for a feast with both Jesus and Lazarus, and had seen the man eat, had heard his laughter, had even shook his hand. There was no way around it—the man had been very much dead, and he was now every bit as alive as ever. Philip could never have predicted any of this three years ago, and increasingly found himself trying to make sense of it all.

Of course, the tensions had also been mounting ever since the miracle of Lazarus, and more and more the rumour was that the religious leaders were looking to bring Jesus in for questioning, to arrest him—and not only that, but there were also threats against Lazarus, for being the man at the heart of all of the rising controversy. Now that Jesus was in Jerusalem for the Passover, concerns among the worried disciples were more numerous than ever. And Jesus’ increasing references to his own burial, and the crowds insisting on proclaiming Jesus the King of Israel, and Philip’s own questions about what it all meant, and what would happen next—all of these were weighing heavily on his mind. Until the Greek speakers arrived, startling Philip out of his own thoughts.

Shaking off his own thoughts and questions, Philip nodded to the two men, and, after a brief word with Andrew, who was also standing nearby, the two of them went to tell Jesus of the men’s request. Having a concrete mission helped to take Philip’s mind off his worries.

At least, that was true until Jesus responded to their request.

Instead of offering a straightforward response to the men’s request to meet him, Jesus’ response puzzled Philip more than ever.

“The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified,” Jesus began. Jesus had been talking about this “hour” ever since Philip could remember—but until very recently, it had been “my hour has not yet come.”

But just when Philip thought that the climax of the story was coming—that Jesus was going to liberate the people from the foreign powers controlling the land, teach them to walk in God’s ways once again, bring the healing and hope that the people so desperately needed—just as Philip’s pulse began to quicken at the thought of Jesus finally being glorified before all people, so that more people could see the miracles, receive healing, and be liberated from their sins—just then, Jesus continued to speak.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”

Philip was confused. These didn’t sound like the words of a man who had not long ago healed a dead man and restored him to life! These didn’t sound like the words of a man who had allowed a blind man to see, made a lame man walk again after thirty-eight years, restored the health of a dying little boy.

How could dying bear fruit? What on earth did death and being glorified have to do with one another? And how was any of this related to the Greek men who simply wanted to see Jesus for themselves?

Then, Jesus turned from speaking to Philip and Andrew to praying to his Heavenly Father, talking about his soul being troubled as “this hour” approached. “Father, glorify your name,” Jesus prayed earnestly as Philip and Andrew stood by uncertainly and the curious crowds of onlookers continued to press in.

Then came another one of those moments that Philip would remember until his dying day: An otherworldly voice filled the air, a voice that seemed to come from heaven itself: “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.”

The crowds looked to the sky, searching for the storm clouds from which the thunderous sound must have come, trying to gauge how soon they might have to run for cover. Some within the crowd insisted that it was no ordinary thunder—that there had been words within the booming noise, that it must have been a heavenly messenger speaking to Jesus.

Jesus alone seemed reassured after the noise receded. His words stirred the hopes of those looking for a new King to drive out the foreign powers in Israel: “Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

It wouldn’t be until much later that Philip recalled Jesus’ words, and heard the truth that he hadn’t been able to grasp on that day. That he realized that Jesus wasn’t to be exalted in the way that the crowds, and even some of his disciples, had hoped he would be.

It wouldn’t be until later that Philip would recall Jesus’ words and understand that Jesus was to be lifted up in a way that nobody could have anticipated. Lifted high above the ground on a cross, to await his death. Several days later, lifted up out of the grave—restored to life. And still later, lifted up before their very eyes, ascending to heaven to return to the presence of the Father until his return.

It wouldn’t be until later that Philip would understand that the crowds who saw Jesus as a wonder-worker and interesting teacher weren’t really seeing Jesus at all. Not in full, at least.

_____________________________

* I'm preaching on this text this coming Sunday, and while I've decided this isn't the direction I want to take for the sermon, I thought I would share my imaginings of this text anyways, from the 'discard pile.'