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.