He Was Wrong. (A Follow Up Post)

Four years ago today marks my last official day as Community Pastor at House Blend Ministries--work I'd loved deeply, work that ended fairly abruptly and painfully with the decision to close the organization.

And just over four years ago, I wrote this post describing a conversation I had on that same day with a respected church leader who chose that moment, fully aware of what he was doing, to tell me that I had neither the gifts nor the interests to be a pastor, and that I should look for other kinds of work.

I tried to be kind in the post I wrote as I reflected on that experience, suggesting that if I could go back I wish I would have responded to him, "I didn't ask for your opinion."

Four years later, I want to take another crack at responding. 

No pastor or church leader should ever take someone who is experiencing loss and grief, and choose in that moment to compound or take advantage of their emotional pain. That is WRONG. Full stop.

There are plenty of appropriate responses: To sit with someone in their pain, a reminder that they are not alone. To name the hurt. To ask if you might pray for the person. To defer the hard conversation that needs to happen for another day. 

Not to do harm. NEVER to do harm.

I wish that I could go back and empower younger me to name his abuse of power firmly and clearly. I wish that I could tell her that it's okay not to prioritize polite and kind and gentle when someone is doing you harm. I wish I could tell her that it's okay to say no, and to get up and leave the situation. 

Four years later, I want to go back and wrap younger me in a hug, and tell her this:

He is wrong. 

He is wrong to choose this moment for this conversation.

But more than that, he is wrong about you. 

This says more about his capacity for healthy ministry than it does about yours.

The hurt you're feeling today is an indication that you did the hard thing as best as you could--you loved the people God called you to love right to the end, and didn't try to shirk this hard work. Well done!

Now is the time to rest. To heal. To care for your own soul.

And when the time comes, hear this, because it's what is really true:

You are called to this work of pastoral ministry. You are absolutely gifted to do this. 

Trust your own soul. It knows what it knows what it knows.

 

Three Years.

 Can you believe it? As of July 1, I have been in full-time pastoral ministry for three years.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when I thought that was something that would never be possible for me, a time when I was actively looking for employment as an occupational therapist that would be a "good enough" alternative for the work that I truly felt called to. 

A time when I thought I might never be able to be called a pastor again. 

And now I have been at my current congregation for three full years--three years of growing to love these people, three years of never wondering when I might ever get the chance to stand behind a pulpit again, three years of finding my voice and growing in confidence in who I am and who God has called me to be.

Three years of my congregation wholeheartedly embracing me as their pastor, and patiently waiting for me to catch up in my own self-understanding with what they already know to be true.

Because these three years were preceded by many, many years of believing that I was not good enough, that I was wrong about my calling to be a pastor, that I was the reason that I was not finding a place to exercise my gifts in ministry. Of being told that if I had the gifts, the church would embrace me in spite of my gender, my marital status, my genealogy.

I am still unlearning what I was taught to believe about myself for so long.

l am grateful for the people who have extended grace and patience to me as this slow, inner work takes place.

I'm sharing this in case there is someone else out there who can relate to this story. Who maybe believes that there is something about them that might not be good enough.

Who might read this and wonder if maybe they just need a space that will believe in them so that they can learn to believe in themselves.

A space that will reflect God's expansive love for all of who they were created to be, not just the aspects that fit well.

Look, we all know that there will be times in life when we try something and it turns out that it isn't really the fit that we thought it might be. No matter how hard I tried, how hard my poor family tried, golf really just wasn't in the cards for me. I'm a great caddy, but hitting that little ball with that long stick is just not a great option for my life.

There's nothing wrong with that.

But sometimes, we need people who wholeheartedly believe in us, who see in us what God sees in us. Who see us as fearfully and wonderfully made, so that we might learn to embrace ourselves in the same way.

Gender, sexuality, ethnicity--who you are is not a mistake.

I'm learning to believe that's true. It's a journey that takes a surprising amount of time, because the other stories I was told are deeply rooted.

If that's you, too, just know that I'm sending all of my love today, and you are not alone.

Three years.

What a gift!

Seeking Serenity

 Manitoba's COVID case count hit an all-time high today.

We are heading into the May long week-end with a new set of restrictions.

I am so tired. I know I'm not alone in this. But the weight of trying to provide support to others while having my own support systems tested for the better part of a year is taking its toll.

And I don't know how to feel anymore, really.

This afternoon, holding all of the complexity of the pandemic in my heart, I remembered the familiar prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

Today, these words seem a bit like the whisper of the Holy Spirit, reminding me of something important.

So, I'm trying to start here. 

I am frustrated, but I cannot control other people's willingness to follow public health advice and to comply with restrictions. I cannot control the speed with which vaccinations proceed. I cannot control public health policy decisions. I cannot control the ability of the health system to respond to this crisis. I cannot wish COVID away.

But I can light a candle tonight, and pray for my friends and former colleagues who are working in our hospitals under so much pressure. I can continue to do my part to limit my contacts, wear my mask diligently, and get my second dose of vaccine once I'm eligible to do so. I can let go of what has not been done at work for a few days, and accept that using this week-end to care for myself will mean I'm better able to be productive by the time the new week starts. I can choose curbside grocery pick up again this week-end, instead of going into the store, to further limit my contacts. I can practice self-care as best as I know how. I can use Zoom, the phone, and social media to connect with friends a little while longer, instead of meeting in person. I can remember that this will not last forever.

Friends, please be gentle with yourselves. We're in such a hard spot, and it's all the more difficult because we are in this spot after more than a year of challenging circumstances.

It's okay to release what you cannot control, and focus on what you can.

It's okay to treat yourself with the compassion with which God treats you--with the most self-love you can muster.

And it's okay to phone a friend, or a pastor, or a family member, or a crisis line, if you need support right now. Please don't feel like you have to go this alone. Please let someone know if you need us to hold the light for you tonight, or in the days to come.

We are not alone. We are here for one another. 

And this is not forever. 

Love you, friends!

Choose Joy

 I'll be honest, I don't think of myself as a naturally joyful person.

When I think about my better qualities, things like reliable, dependable, steadfast, and thoughtful come to mind, but joyful doesn't crack the top of the list.

And I've struggled with theologies that promote joy without also affirming the value of lament, or without acknowledging that positivity can become toxic, too.

But lately, as we have approached the 1 year mark of the pandemic's arrival in Manitoba, and as we approach a year of various degrees of lockdown, two words have been echoing in my mind and in my heart with alarming regularity: "Choose joy."

Choosing joy, for me, isn't a denial that this is hard. I'm tired of being alone. I miss my family and friends desperately. I want to give my mom and dad a very, very long hug and have a long, in-person visit. I want to be free to hang out with friends, to have face-to-face conversations.

As a pastor, it is desperately hard not to be able to visit people who are in hospitals or personal care homes, not to be able to hold the hand of someone at end of life while I pray with them, not to be able to plan and lead funeral services when people die. Phone calls and live streamed worship services and Zoom meetings are tools that function in a pinch, but there's no replacement for looking someone in the eyes, taking their hand, or chatting over coffee across a kitchen table.

But, hard things notwithstanding, I've felt prompted by the Spirit lately to "choose joy" as a spiritual discipline of sorts. It's easy to get stuck in the loneliness of these days, or to get weighed down with the relentless demands of my work.

Choosing joy has become an important counterpoint.

Most often, this takes very simple forms. I've been watching the Scotties Tournament of Hearts curling this week, mindful of the simple joy of being able to appreciate this normal part of winter, even as it's been adapted to pandemic restrictions. I've been taking the time to get lost in a 1000 piece puzzle without feeling guilty about not doing something more productive. I've been lighting the good candles, and appreciating the light and warmth they add to our winter evenings. I've been savouring my morning coffee with extra appreciation. I've tried to give myself extra grace to assign the day's priorities based on what sparks joy, if you will, instead of what a responsible person would do or what will be most productive. 

I don't expect this to transform me into a bubbly optimist. But it is helping me to approach my own pandemic fatigue with more gentleness--the kind of loving compassion with which God has consistently met me over the years. And I think it's helping.

How are you choosing joy in these days?