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.
