Never the Same.

I will never be the same again

I can never return, I've closed the door.

I will walk the path, I'll run the race

And I will never be the same again.

(Lyrics by Hillsong United)

It's the end of July, the year is only a little more than half over, and yet all I can think most of the time these days is that I'm ready for 2017 to be finished so that I can put it behind me and try to forget it ever happened.

This year has already seen more than it's share of pain, loss, grief, and uncertainty, and all signs point to more of the same coming up in the months ahead. I'd just like to get it done, put it all behind me, and hope for better, brighter things to come in 2018. I'm tired of living in a pressure-cooker.

I feel equally bad for and blessed by the church I've been attending for the past year. I'm very aware that at no point in the past year that they've gotten to known me have I been truly healthy and at my best--way too many weeks I've left worship as quickly as possible, or regretfully turned down invitations, having simply nothing left to engage in conversation in this community I'm just getting to know. And selfishly, I wonder what kind of impressions they have formed of me, these kind folks who have only known me when I've been in the midst of what has felt like a fiery furnace so much of the time. And yet, I feel so blessed by these saints who have seen me at my worst, and embraced and welcomed me anyway--not for anything I have to offer, because I've had precious little of that, but because I'm beloved by God and that has been enough. Their warm hospitality, genuine caring, and promises of prayer have carried me through some pretty tough seasons this year, even when I have given them precious little background about what I'm walking through, and I'm so grateful. 

And yet, in spite of all this, the words of this song have been stuck in my head for more than a week now, returning over and over in moments of quiet. "I will never be the same again."

The strange thing is that, while "I will never be the same again" could be about damage done that cannot be repaired, I think it's actually about God shaping me into a different person through it all--a stronger, more compassionate, more loving person than I was before. Someone who is more confident in her gifts and who has a stronger sense of call and vocation than before. Someone who has discovered she's capable of things she could never have imagined--or, more accurately, who has discovered the truth that the power of God, working in us, is able to do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine. Someone who has seen the beauty amidst the brokenness, and been changed by it. Someone who has experienced God in ways that cannot, that will not easily be forgotten. 

I think these words gently planted within me by the Spirit are a gentle rebuke to the part of me that wants to find safety by running as fast as I can back to the familiar--to settle for a safe career, a 'good enough' calling, a life offering any kind of easy security. Most of me, in fact, longs for that kind of security--a security that's of my own making, that's built from analyzing plans 'b,' 'c,' and 'd' for potential pitfalls while plotting my escape, Jonah-like. These plans, not surprisingly, mostly involve tracing my path back to the way it was before God led me into parts unknown, before I let go of my white-knuckled grip on the plans, seduced by the voice of Love.

But as lyrics float uninvited through my head, to a song that's never really been a particular favourite of mine (where does this earworm come from?!), I know that these are words of truth. They slow me down, whisper promises of resurrection, breathe hope into the dark places and soothe the bone-tired parts and aches with promises of healing. 

I've been reading Eugene Peterson, who in his years of pastoral wisdom gently reminds me that Jesus' call to take up our crosses and follow assures us that salvation does not promise any us pain-free journeys through life. Healing takes time. I need to learn better patterns of self-care and develop better habits of rest, of remembering that I'm not God and therefore not responsible for shouldering the burden of fixing all that's wrong in the world. I need to learn to slow down. 

"Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." It turns out that I don't need to find the answers, fix the problems, or figure out the back-up plan. All God asks of me is trust. Trust that God is still taking care of me, still calls me beloved, loves me for who I am not what I can do. Trust that God is redeeming 2017--that this part of the journey, too, is part of learning to walk with God. Simply trust, learn to rest and just be held in the gentle embrace of the One who loves me more than I can possibly imagine. Who will never leave or forsake me, no matter what comes next. 

A Wee Rant

The other day, I ran into an acquaintance whom I've known ever since my early university days. We have mutual friends, mostly through InterVarsity Christian Fellowship connections from our university days, and periodically run into one another. When we meet, we usually have a brief exchange of "how are you"s and then go on about our business.

This time, when he saw me, he said hello and mentioned that he thinks of me every time he receives his Mennonite Brethren Herald (the Canadian denominational periodical)--although, he noted, he has since moved on to another church affiliation and no longer attends a Mennonite Brethren congregation.

I said that I had also recently begun moving on from the Mennonite Brethren Church, mentioning that I was no longer willing to constantly fight against the restrictions facing women in leadership.

It was a brief comment, made only because he had initiated this stream of conversation in the first place. After all, he is well aware that I have been in seminary and in church leadership within the Mennonite Brethren Church--that's the whole reason that he raised the topic in the first place.

But immediately, he turned to his friend and said something to the effect of, "I'm not going to touch that" and then compared the conversation to a colleague of his who brings up Donald Trump every time they meet one another. This led to a lengthy exchange with his buddy about his own political leanings, his feelings about how he would vote were he an American, and so on.

I shut up, feeling embarrassed, and went on my way.

But somehow I felt guilty for the whole exchange, as if I had done something wrong.

In no way did I intend to start an awkward conversation, and it was not me who raised the subject of religion but my friend. I was, I think, trying to prevent ongoing awkward exchanges like this in the future by simply explaining that I was moving on from the Mennonite Brethren Church. And I literally offered a few words of explanation about why, carefully phrased to be as neutral as possible.

Because, let's face it, I wear my position on the 'women in ministry leadership' debate on my sleeve. I have to. In order to be faithful to my vocation, I have no choice. And the denomination's position on the 'issue' (and I have a huge problem with the fact that we refer to 'women in ministry leadership' as an issue in the first place--when we refer to any group of people as 'issues' when they are in fact persons created in the image of God) is also hardly front page news.

Nothing I said was intended to be offensive or controversial. I was just attempting to name my reality--and, in fact, doing my very best to summarize a painful personal journey in such a way as to be as sensitive and as matter of fact as I could.

If I had wanted to start a debate, I certainly am capable of doing so. Goodness knows, I have studied and reflected on and lived this conversation enough.

This is hardly the first time such an exchange has happened, either.

But today as the guilty feeling lingers and I find myself fingering the wound, wondering what I should have done differently, I am wondering if I've got things mixed up.

You see, I've spent a lot of time over the past decade trying to make myself small enough to be non-threatening, trying to stick as close to the box as possible even when I clearly couldn't wholly embrace life within the box.

And the fact is, my friend, unintentionally I'm sure, didn't only name the conversation as being potentially offensive and inappropriate for polite conversation--but also made me feel like who I am is offensive and needs to be kept under wraps in polite company.

That's not fair. But it happens--too much.

And one of the hardest things for me right now is recognizing how very often I find myself apologizing for, essentially, taking up space in the world. For having opinions. For having gifts, and wanting to find ways to use them. Even, sometimes, for physically taking up space in the world.

So, if you've made it this far, thanks for hearing my rant today. I needed to speak this out loud--to give myself permission, at least in this space, to speak my truth, to voice my opinions, and to take up space.

And to remind myself that in God's eyes, I'm fearfully and wondrously made, and named as beloved. That nothing about who God has created me to be is not fit for polite company. That I don't need to apologize for my existence or try to shrink into nothingness.

It will take time, but I'm learning to stand my ground and claim my space.

I hope I'll also remember to recognize the beauty in others, and to invite them to claim a space of their own, too.

The Substance of Things Not Seen--A Sermon

This is a sermon that I preached at Church of the Way in Winnipeg on Sunday June 18, 2017. It is based on Genesis 18: 1-15. It has been edited prior to posting on the blog. I'm grateful for the invitation to join this congregation for worship, and for their warm hospitality!

God had already appeared to Abraham four times as our text today picks up the story. Not just anybody can claim a resume like that!

            The first time, the Lord spoke to Abraham out of the blue, or at least so it seemed to Abraham. “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you,” God said. “I will make you into a great nation and I will bless you.” So Abraham set out, filled with faith and hope and eager anticipation, along with his wife and his nephew Lot. Together they left behind family and neighbours and set out on a grand adventure, headed for the land of Canaan, the land God had shown them.

            Then a severe famine in Canaan led to a detour into Egypt, before Abraham and his family eventually returned to Canaan to the land God had shown them. But the land wasn’t rich enough to support both of them, so Lot parted ways with Abraham and set out on his own. It was then that the Lord spoke to Abraham a second time, the words even more unlikely than the first: “All the land that you see I will give to you and your offspring forever. I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth, so that if anyone could count the dust, then your offspring could be counted.”

            There was, however, one problem. Abraham and his wife, Sarah, remained childless. There were no offspring to inherit the land that God had promised him. Yet Abraham trusted the Lord. He began to imagine what it would be like, to have the children that he and Sarah had so longed for, but had thought were not to be. He imagined himself, children and grandchildren gathered around him, listening to him tell them the story of this amazing God and the rich blessings he had poured out upon their family.

            Fast forward a few more years, and Abraham receives the word of the Lord once again: “Do not be afraid, Abraham. I am your shield, your very great reward.”

            This time, unlike the times before, Abraham speaks up—and his words reveal his growing frustration with God’s big promises that remain so very empty. As the years have passed, the hopefulness has faded, and the discouragement and disillusionment have set in. “Sovereign Lord,” Abraham says, “what can you give me since I remain childless and a servant will inherit my estate?” But God responds: “A son who is your own flesh and blood will be your heir. Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them. That’s how numerous your offspring will be.” And Abraham believed the Lord.

            And yet, still more time passed, and Abraham and Sarah remained childless. Sometimes, there comes a time to recognize that a dream may be just a dream, and Sarah had certainly arrived at that point. She was ready to shift her hope from dreams of impossible joys to the more achievable, the compromise that she could hold in her hand. And so, the time came when, believing that she was not meant to have children of her own, Sarah had Abraham sleep with her servant Hagar, and Hagar bore him a son who was named Ishmael. Finally, a son that she could see, hear, touch and smell for herself!

But taking things into their own hands had complications, and in yet a fourth conversation with God that followed, God laid out in no uncertain terms to Abraham how his promises were to be fulfilled. Sarah herself was to bear Abraham a son, who was to be named Isaac. God would bless Ishmael, but he was not the one through whom the covenant would be passed along—this boy was not the son God had promised Abraham. Abraham and Sarah might have given up on God and God’s timing, but God had every intention of bringing his promises to fulfillment.

I wonder what it was like for Sarah, to listen to her husband’s unlikely but earnest stories about his visions from God over the years. I wonder what it was like for Sarah, as the years went by, to hear Abraham tell her about God’s promises that he would have a son. I wonder what it was like, when the day came that Sarah realized that the son whom Abraham continued relentlessly to talk about might not come from her, when she decided that if Abraham were to have his son, she would have to relinquish her own longings for a baby boy that was her own flesh and blood, and instead encourage him to have the son through Hagar, her maidservant. I imagine the frustration that Sarah must have felt, when Abraham reported back to her that Ishmael wasn’t the promised son, and once again re-opened the old wounds, insisting that Sarah yet would give birth to a son.

Sarah had already not been young when she followed Abraham on the journey that led them from the homeland of their families to this strange new land that God had told Abraham would be his own. And a full twenty years more had passed since then. That dream had become an impossibility a long time ago. Sarah had come to terms with what was not to be for her, those dreams of rocking her own sweet smelling baby boy in her arms. Sure, there had been a time when she would awaken at night, Abraham snoring beside her, with the tears still wet on her cheeks, aching with dreams of the child she had longed for as long as she could remember.

But those years were so very, very long ago.

Sarah is by now 90 years old, going about her daily routine in the tent that is her home—preparing the food for the meal that would come after the hot sun faded for the day, tidying, cleaning, and when she could, snatching a moment of rest to sit and give her weary feet and aching back a bit of relief. She heard Abraham coming into the tent in a rush, and wondered what had happened—whether he was coming with some kind of bad news to share. Instead, he entered in a fluster, telling Sarah exactly how to bake the bread that would be shared with their unexpected guests—as if Sarah needed his instructions about how to bake bread after all these years! Something about these three strange men had certainly gotten Abraham all excited, that much Sarah could tell as she silently laughed at Abraham while kneading the dough and preparing it to bake. The finest flour, no less!

Sarah’s curiosity was aroused, and when Abraham had hurried outside with the fine meal to serve to the visitors, she quietly moved to the entrance of the tent, enjoying the gentle breeze, curious to see (or at least to hear) for herself these men who had created such a stir on what had been an otherwise normal day in Mamre.

Her ears prickled as she heard the strangers speak her name: “Where is your wife Sarah?” How did they know about her? She was merely Abraham’s wife, unseen by these male visitors. It was unlikely that Abraham had told them about her; such things just weren’t done. But if not him, then how?

The stranger continued, “I will surely return to you at this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son.”

Now, Sarah was no fool, and as a woman she knew her body very well, and understood certain realities about how such things worked. She knew better than anyone the impossibility of what these strangers were predicting. Perhaps they had mistaken her for some younger woman, some other Sarah. But this Sarah—there was no way her old bones and aging body were going to bear a son.

Sarah laughed to herself at the absurdity of it all. Even if she could, Abraham her husband was also well advanced in years, and if children had been meant to be surely it would have happened years ago, when they were young and in love, newly married to one another—not now, both wrinkled and grey.

Sometimes our laughter betrays us. Sometimes, laughter covers up our deeper pain and disappointment. Sometimes, we’re just not sure whether to laugh or cry. Sometimes, it’s easier to laugh to cover up the pain that lies beneath.

I found myself laughing a few weeks ago, as I related to my friend how one thing after another had gone wrong that week. Even as I was laughing, I knew that it wasn’t really funny. But a series of disappointments and challenging decisions had added up, one thing on top of another, and it was easier to laugh it all off than it was to do the harder emotional work of explaining how weary I was getting of having to regroup, recalibrate my expectations, and move on. Laughing was easier than crying.

Similarly, how often do we tell ourselves that it’s for the best that we didn’t get accepted into that college program that we’d been anticipating, or laugh off our disappointment at getting passed over once again for that promotion at work, or celebrate along with friends at a farewell party when inside we’re aching with grief at the loss we know lies ahead?

And how often does God’s promise come to us as nonsensical, just as it did to Sarah and Abraham? How often do we hear God’s promises that he has come to bring life to the full, that he is at work making all things new, and yet we look around and see another loved one battling a cancer diagnosis, or another couple struggling to keep their marriage intact, or one of our own children struggling to make ends meet, or turn on the news to see another terrorist attack resulting in more senseless deaths? And we wonder at the gap between what has been promised and what we see in front of us.

The truth is that, in spite of God’s promises about life and resurrection, we find ourselves living like Sarah and Abraham in the long pause between promise and fulfillment, and it’s often painful and hard. And we may very well find ourselves, like Sarah, laughing at the absurdity of it all, afraid that if we don’t laugh we’ll end up crying instead.

This winter, I found myself walking alongside the community that I pastor through the difficult transition of selling our community home after realizing that it was just too expensive for our small ministry to be able to continue to afford. At the same time, I watched a friend in our community struggling with mental illness. I watched other friends struggle with the challenges of unemployment and surviving on Income Assistance, and of finding safe and affordable housing in a housing market where that’s far, far too scarce. And I will confess that, in the midst of it all, in the dead of winter, it was far too easy to question the truth of God’s promises that the light will overcome the darkness, that life has the final say over death, that God is at work making all things new.

If you’ve ever wrestled with those kinds of doubts, if you’ve ever felt yourself wondering if faith might be impractical, if you’ve ever found yourself asking where God is in the midst of the challenges and struggles of life—you’re in good company!

If you’ve laughed, like Sarah, at the thought that God’s promises of abundant life could actually still be real, you’re not alone. God is in the business of appearing and doing his best work in the midst of the unlikely, the impossible.

Because sure enough, fast forward one year, and Sarah will be holding her long-awaited son, feeding him at her breast, smelling his baby-sweet breath and hearing his soft sighs as he sleeps in her arms.

Moses, a man who has fled from Egypt after killing a man, is stopped in his tracks by a bush that is on fire but does not seem to burn up.

It is only after Noah builds an enormous ark, while all his neighbours look on and shake their heads, that the predicted floodwaters come.

Saul, who was a greatly feared persecutor of the earliest Christians, becomes Paul, one of the most influential leaders the Church has ever known.

God enters the world as a helpless infant born to young first-time parents in an out-of-the-way stable far from home, his first bed an empty feeding trough.

The greatest display of love and power that we know is that of a man who lays down his life for his friends, condemned to a cruel death although he himself has done nothing wrong.

Faith is no small proposition. Hebrews 11:1 says, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” There is nothing natural about having faith. Faith requires us to hold on tight to the things that we can’t yet see, to hang onto hope in the midst of situations where there’s no evidence that hope is warranted. That, friends, is no easy task!

Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann wrote, "Faith is not a reasonable act which fits into the normal scheme of life and perception. The promise of the gospel is not a conventional piece of wisdom that is easily accommodated to everything else."

Our God is not known for fitting into the bounds of conventional wisdom. Instead, he tends to show up in the least likely of places—in strangers, who promise a son to a woman who is infertile and well-beyond childbearing years. In burning bushes that don’t burn up. In a young virgin, bursting with the miraculous life inside of her. In miracles of healing and the stilling of storms with a single word. In empty tombs and locked rooms.

If we struggle to hold onto hope that God's promises can come true, we're in good company. People no less than Abraham himself have struggled to have faith in the face of unreasonable odds.

Sometimes, the wait is long and the journey is hard as we wait for God’s promises to be fulfilled. As we long for the day when the world will be set right and we will be made whole. As people of faith, we go on persevering even in the face of suffering, certain of God’s love for us. We proclaim that the kingdom of God has come near. We pray for healing, we give as freely as we have received, we share generously with those in need, we practice hospitality. We act out now the future that we hope for, the kingdom that we know in faith will one day come in full. Even in those moments when we cannot yet see it.

Because in spite of all evidence to the contrary, somehow God still shows up in the strangest of places, at the most unexpected of times, among the most unlikely people.

Unlikely people like you. And me. 

If we could see it, it wouldn't be faith. If it were tangible, we wouldn't need hope.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Light in the Darkness

I had been traveling since 3 am that day, and I was tired. The speaker at the evening session of the conference was engaging and interesting, but by the end I was still having trouble keeping my eyes open, the exhaustion of the day and of the past week simply catching up to me. Preaching on Sunday, wrapping up my work at both jobs, packing and navigating the challenges of airports much larger than dear sweet James A. Richardson, and driving 2 hours from Washington D.C. to Harrisonburg VA with the most extroverted shuttle driver in the whole entire world were all catching up to me, and I was ready to hit the wall.

But as I stepped out of the theatre where the session was held into the warm, humid night air in Harrisonburg, I was stopped in my tracks. In every direction, the gentle flickering lights of hundreds of fireflies blinked, rising up from the grass, like tiny fireworks or the lights from dozens of fairies lighting up the night. I thought I'd seen fireflies now and then in Manitoba, mostly in the dark woods on camping trips, but this was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

It was as if God whispered to me, "I'm here with you in the darkness too."

*          *         *          *

It seems like everywhere I turn lately, there's a new challenge waiting to be met. Some of them have been good challenges--like presenting a paper for the first time at an academic conference--challenging, to be sure, but life-giving at the same time. Others have been less obviously good--changes at work that bring lots of uncertainty and anxiety with them. Regardless, I'm tired of challenges, and feeling like I've been stretched to my absolute limit.

A while ago, I was reading the Gospel of John and was arrested by these words of Jesus from John 8:12: "Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness..."

Sometimes, I've felt immersed in the darkness lately. So, I've been experimenting with lighting a candle, as a gentle reminder that even when I feel like I'm entering the darkness, I do not walk alone. A reminder that even a small light makes walking through the darkness easier, less frightening.

*          *          *          *

While I much prefer the safety and comfort of the daylight, I realized that there is a certain beauty that we cannot know in the broad light of day. The crackling warmth of a campfire on a cool summer's evening. The warm glow of a candle on a dinner table in a softly lit room. Hundreds of fireflies putting on a free show.

And so, my prayer is that when I find myself in the darkness, I'll have eyes open to see the gentle, compassionate, grace-filled ways that God meets me in this place, that I might never experience if I had never made acquaintance with the darkness. I want to be awakened to the unique beauty that's to be found here, and to the compassion of the God who meets me here.

Maybe it's not so much that we'll never walk in darkness, but that the darkness itself is shattered by the light of the One we find, who has gone ahead and is already waiting for us there. 

The Parable of the Gosling

You may not know this about me, but I have adopted a tree.

There is a particular tree just off the parking lot at St. Benedict's Retreat and Conference Centre that reached out and inserted itself into my awareness one year when I was on a retreat, and became for me a tangible reminder to let my roots go down deep into God's marvellous love. It reminds me that first and foremost rooting myself in God's love and life is the best gift that I can offer in ministry, as I seek to become a presence of stability and longevity for my community. Now, the pendant I wear around my neck depicts a tree, so that I can carry those reminders with me daily wherever I go.

This year, a Canada goose has built her nest at the foot of my tree, beside that same parking lot. We watched throughout the week-end as she carefully nurtured those eggs, until late yesterday five wee goslings emerged and we watched them take their first tottering footsteps, following behind their mother as the father goose hissed warnings at anyone who dared to come a little too close.

New life is beautiful!

This morning, when I went outside after breakfast, the family of geese was nowhere to be seen. But there remained in the nest two eggs. One appeared perfectly intact. The other had a hole at one end about the size of a quarter.

I crept gradually closer, realizing that the adult geese were no longer nearby, and as I drew near I could tell that some of the bird song that I could hear was actually coming from the nest, from inside of the cracked egg. As I stood there keeping vigil, suddenly there was movement, and I could see a tiny beak poking at the shell at the margins of the opening.

And yet, the longer I stood there, the more apparent it became that the mother goose was no longer nearby, and the wee baby was struggling to find the strength to enlarge the opening so that it could emerge from the egg. It would poke and chirp away, moving a loose fragment of shell a few fractions before it would fall right back into its place again.

How badly I wanted to go over and help the baby out--enlarge the opening for it, urge it out of its shell--but I am not a mother goose, and I know that my intervention will not help this wee one with its predicament. If the mother returns, it is likely to do more harm than good, and if the baby is not strong enough to emerge from its shell then it's unlikely to survive on its own without a parent to care for it.

But there is something that is holy, sacred, about bearing witness to the beauty of this life--about hearing its song, and seeing its presence, and recognizing the creative presence of God in it. About seeing it and naming it as beautiful, even if its life is to be so much shorter than seems fair or right or good.

Eventually, moved by the heartache of recognizing that this baby might not manage the transition from life inside of the shell to growth outside of it, I walked on, but eventually I returned to the parking lot on my way back inside.

Beside the egg, another young woman had taken up my vigil, watching the nearly-born gosling and marvelling at God's good creation, wishing there was more that she could do but recognizing that bearing witness would have to be enough.

And I was reminded that the work of bearing witness is not mine alone, but belongs to the community of faith, the Church.

The Substance of Things Hoped For

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1

God had appeared to Abraham three times over the years.

The first time: "I will make you into a great nation and I will bless you; I will make your name great...and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you."

The second time: "Look up at the sky and count the stars--if indeed you can count them. So shall your offspring be."

The third time: "You will be the father of many nations." 

And yet decades had passed since God first appeared to Abraham promising to make him into the father of a great nation, and his wife remained childless. Abraham and his wife were now very old, and well past childbearing years. Their friends had long ago raised their children, who were now married with families of their own.

Sometimes there comes a time to let the dream slip through your fingers, to put your hope in something more certain.

________________

Sarah laughed until her belly ached at the memory of the three foreigners who had showed up out of the blue by their tents not long ago. Strange men, those three. Weavers of tall tales and outrageous fantasies, masters of the too-good-to-be-true. First curiosity had overcome her, then the entertainment of the newcomers' stories had drawn her to remain close to the tent entrance where she could inconspicuously overhear snatches of the men's conversation from a respectful distance.

Such foolishness. "I will return to you at this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son."

Her body was no longer young. That dream had become an impossibility a long time ago. Sarah had come to terms with what was not to be for her, those dreams of rocking her own sweet smelling baby boy in her arms. Sure, there had been a time when she would awaken at night, Abraham snoring beside her, with the tears still wet on her cheeks aching with dreams of the child she had longed for as long as she could remember.

But those years were so very long ago.

_________________

Sometimes our laughter betrays us. 

I laughed last week as I related to a friend one too many things in a series of recent events in which it seemed that nothing was going the way I had hoped.

There was nothing funny about it, really. Inside my heart was aching, longing for things to go differently, doing the grief-work associated with letting go of that which is dear to you. 

As we parted, she asked me, "What can I hold for you in all of this?"

I had no response, until I drove away. Then, deep within me, I felt an answer rise up.

Hope. Hold onto hope. I can't hold it myself right now.

_________________

Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann writes, "Faith is not a reasonable act which fits into the normal scheme of life and perception. The promise of the gospel is not a conventional piece of wisdom that is easily accommodated to everything else."

How often does God's promise to God's people come as nonsensical?

Sarah: Even at 90 years old, within a year, you will bear the son that your heart has yearned for your whole life.

Abraham: After waiting for decades, after losing hope, after years of wondering how to understand those visions and whether God would really come through, you are about to become the patriarch through whom countless people have come to have faith.

God appears to Moses as a burning bush in the middle of the wilderness. 

God enters the world as a baby born far from home, in a stable, whose first bed is an empty trough. 

Our greatest display of love and power is a man who lays down his life for his friends, condemned to death alongside common criminals although he himself is innocent.

________________

Faith is no small proposition. If we struggle to hold onto hope that God's promises can come true, we're in good company. People no less than Abraham himself have struggled to have faith in the face of unreasonable odds.

And yet, God shows up in the strangest of places, at the most unexpected of times, among the most unlikely people.

Unlikely people like you. And me. 

If we could see it, it wouldn't be faith. If it were tangible, we wouldn't need hope.

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1

Nothing is Lost on the Breath of God

The first time I ever preached a sermon in church was during a youth-led worship service, at the encouragement of our youth pastor. I was a volunteer youth leader at the time, and after much urging and cajoling I agreed to speak that morning.

By the time I got home early that afternoon, I can remember as clearly as anything that my resounding thought wasn't a regret--something that I wished I had said better, nor was it some comment by a congregation member, but rather, "What if I am never given another chance to do this again?"

I've done some reading on the enneagram, a personality type tool, and have concluded that the root sin of my personality type (I am a "six") is a lack of trust. So, it's maybe no surprise that this question, "What if I am never given another chance to do this again?" is an echoing theme in my life.

It's this question that haunts me these days, as I walk away from the familiar surroundings of the church tradition that has been my home throughout my adult life, and follow an uncertain road that leads to an unknown destination.

It haunts me as I let go of my ministry credentials, and in doing so let go of the affirmation of my giftedness that came along with it. Granted, the words of affirmation never quite took shape in practice, but they were words that meant a lot to me nonetheless. "What if I am never given another chance to do this again?"

It haunts me as I wonder what might happen when, sooner or later, it is time to leave my current pastoral role. "What if I am never given another chance to do this again?"

It's present in the deep gratitude I feel every time I'm invited to preach somewhere. "One more chance to do this thing that I love to do to the very depths of my being."

It's the question that drove me to do my thesis research on what it means to be called to ministry. Traditional voices talk about the call as holding together the inner sense of God's work within you and the affirmation and invitation into ministry from the larger church. In my life, the affirmations of the church, although present, seem to come and go so easily; but always there is the persistent, deep sense that this thing--pastoral ministry--preaching and leading worship and caring for God's people--is what gives me deep, deep joy and what makes me feel fully alive.

And yet, I'm also painfully aware that there are no guarantees. While I can no longer honestly tell myself that the lack of opportunities might be because I'm no good at what I do, I'm still very aware that doesn't mean that there will be a place for me to exercise these gifts. That doesn't mean they don't exist, but that's the reality of the world in which we live. I have watched dear friends struggle to find places where their gifts will be welcomed and embraced. I have sat with other women who hear God's call so clearly, but find it so hard to find places where they are free to explore that call. There are no guarantees.

And so I live with the question. "What if I am never given another chance to do this again?" And I tell myself, over and over, that God has never abandoned me yet, and that whatever lies ahead, he won't leave me there alone. I remind myself that sometimes faith means trusting in what we cannot yet see, and stepping outside of the boat to walk across unknown waters to where our Saviour is calling us.

***

I remember one other thing about that day when I preached my first sermon. It was a brief encounter with an older man in the foyer of the church, just a passing comment really: "You're going to be a pastor someday." I wonder what it might have cost that dear older man, those words of encouragement, words I really didn't embrace until sometime later. I wonder what he had to work through in his lifetime, as a Mennonite Brethren man, to say those words to a young woman in her twenties, at a time when inviting women to pastoral ministry wasn't yet widely accepted or practiced.

He saw something in me that I didn't yet see in myself. Now, I know the truth of his words deep within me. I am a pastor, and even if the day may come when I no longer have a formal setting in which to express that identity, I will still be a pastor. That will still be the thing that brings me deep, abiding joy and that makes me feel most fully alive.

But this is the question that tests my faith the most: Will God still be God, on that day, when I no longer have the chance to do this?

I don't truly have an answer. I have to keep living the question for now, one step at a time. But today, in a moment of questioning, the words of a hymn popped into my head--a deeper truth than even my questions.

Nothing is lost on the breath of God

Nothing is lost forever

God's breath is love, and that love will remain

Holding the world forever.

No feather too light, no hair too fine,

No flower too brief in its glory

No drop in the ocean, no dust in the air,

But is counted and told in God's story.