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.