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.