I Didn't Ask For Your Opinion

Does it ever happen to you--you think of something that you wish you had said hours or even days after the actual conversation has ended? I have read that this is more common among people who have a tendency toward introversion--and as a very introverted person I can attest that this is a common problem for me. Unfortunately, by the time the perfect response comes to me, it's usually useless, and I'm stuck with whatever was the best I could come up with in the moment--usually something wholly inadequate.

Someone caught me off guard last week, at a moment when I was already struggling to manage my emotions (and I'll save for another day my thoughts about the fact that the need to 'manage one's emotions' like this is a reflection of the fact that something's broken in our world--that there is nothing inherently wrong with tears or other visible emotion, that this is not weakness but merely evidence of our essential, beautiful humanity). Regardless, last week was an emotional rollercoaster for me, as I said good-bye to work that I have loved and a community that has become very important to me.

And in the midst of all of that, I had a conversation with someone who I would describe as a respected church leader. In the course of our conversation, he suggested that I would probably not have the right combination of gifts and interests for pastoral ministry, but that my gifts and skills would be suited to many other possible types of work.

In the moment, it was all I could do to keep the tears back and not let him see how much his words had hurt me. Words failed me as I did everything in my power just to keep my composure and wrap up the conversation so that I could leave the room.

But now--now I know what I wish I had said in the moment: "I didn't ask for your opinion."

And because words on paper lack nonverbal messages, let me say that I hope I would have said it politely, with respectfulness and gentleness, but also with firmness.

You see, this man has never taken the time to get to know me. He didn't lead into his pronouncement on my future in pastoral ministry with any attempt to listen to me, hear my story, or ask any questions. He doesn't know nearly enough about me to make an informed statement on this subject. But he chose to offer his unrequested opinion nonetheless.

And, frankly, this is only one of many examples I could give over the years of similar conversations. This sort of experience is unfortunately not an uncommon one for many women who have explored a call to pastoral ministry.

Part of the trouble is that the Church over the years has insisted that the discernment of a call to ministry consists of two components: the discernment of an inner sense of call on the part of the individual, and affirmation of that call by the larger Church body.

So, when a male church leader offers an opinion like this one, it is difficult not to think that this reflects the affirmation of the call, or lack thereof, on the part of the larger Church. It makes it hard for women who are wrestling with whether God has indeed called them to pastoral ministry, especially when none of us wants to be that person who believes they have a call while everyone around them shakes their heads with disbelief, having seen no evidence of the necessary gifts and skills.

But it's my opinion that there is a difference between discernment and offering an opinion. We offer others our opinions all the time: "Yes, that dress looks beautiful on you." "No, I don't like turkey." "I don't think you're suited to this job." Sometimes our opinions are informed, and sometimes they're not.

But discernment is a different thing altogether. Discernment is a practice of the faith community--a seeking of where God's Spirit is active and present. It is careful, prayerful, and intentional. It is a spiritual discipline, a practice that can be done with excellence. It is an invitation to draw near to God--both individually and corporately.

Offering an opinion should not be mistaken for discernment. They are two different things, although I think they are too often confused with one another within the Church these days.

So I'm saying now what I wish I had said then: "I didn't ask for your opinion."

I'm saying it because I need the reminder that I don't have to listen to every opinion that comes my way, even when those opinions come from people to whom the Church has given significant power and voice. I need the reminder that true discernment is still important to me, but I don't have to confuse valuing discernment with giving equal weight to every opinion that comes my way, or to discard years of discernment because of a conflicting opinion.

And I'm saying it because I think too often opinions like this one have silenced people's voices, voices that need to be heard for the sake of the health of the Body of Christ. Maybe if we say it often enough, someday we'll be able to hear an opinion and know that it is only an opinion, and not allow it to hurt us so deeply.

May I always handle my opinions with care.

Loved to the End

"Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end."

John 13:1, NIV

This is the week that I have been dreading.

It's an emotional rollercoaster sort of a week. But, as a friend reminded me this morning at church, isn't that so often true of the life of faith--the highs and the lows held together, somehow each necessary for the other--death and resurrection inseparably bound to one another by some kind of strange, invisible cords.

This morning, I had the privilege of becoming a member at the church I love, the church that has become home over the past year and a half. Two years ago, I was hurting, and I wasn't sure what it would take to find another church I could call home--today, I finally got to officially become a member of the body of Christ in this particular place. There's much so joy and gratitude in that. (Those of you who know me will appreciate the fact that this moment would have come sooner, in the spring, but I was out of the country on the Sunday when I was supposed to transfer my membership, presenting a paper at an academic conference in Virginia, and delighting in every minute of the chance to dabble in academics again.)

But in the background of the celebration today is the fact that two days from now will be my final day pastoring the community that I love at House Blend. On Tuesday evening we will gather for a final supper to celebrate with gratitude the good gifts that House Blend has brought to our lives over the past ten years, not least of which is the community itself and the relationships that have meant so much, and we will say a final official good-bye to House Blend before it officially closes its doors.

I can't even begin to know how to process so much joy mingled with so much grief.

If I've learned anything about being a pastor, and I think I've learned quite a bit over the past two-and-a-half years that I've been at House Blend, it's that the work of pastoring is primarily about love. But how do you stop loving a group of people just because someone decides that a ministry has run its course? What does it look like to end well, when the most vital work that you are called to do is not to plan programs, or to find ways to serve people, or to provide ministries that meet people's physical needs, but to love one another as God has loved us? To wrap up a program is one thing. To stop loving someone is something else. And as anyone who's had a relationship end knows, whether because of a parting of ways or because of a death, it's no easy task to stop loving someone.

During this season of ending, it's become apparent to me that I have no answers, easy or otherwise, about how to go about this work of ceasing to be a pastor. At the end of this week, I will officially no longer be the Community Pastor at House Blend Ministries. But that in no way means that I will love these beloved people any less than I do today. 

The only way I can think to do this is to follow the example of Jesus who, having loved his own who were in the world, loved them to the end. 

So, this week I will love my people as best as I know how. I will love them as best as I can through this week of official endings. 

And then things will change. My title will change. The structures that have shaped this community will change. 

But I'm certain of this: The love that I have for these dear brothers and sisters is real, and so much more is God's love for them. And when the week is over, when everything has been said and done, I will entrust each one to the One whose love will never end and whose presence abides always. Because in a resurrection economy, what feels like an ending never truly gets the last word.

These words have been the benediction for our potlucks week in and week out at House Blend over the years. They are the words that I will pray once more over my community in a couple of days, and the words that I will continue to pray in the days and weeks to come, as a reminder that I can trust God's ongoing presence and care in the places that I cannot be--as a reminder that as I lean into the necessary letting go, there are strong hands waiting to continue the work of love and care.

May the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ

(and the endless love of God)

go with you wherever he may send you;

May he guide you through the wilderness,

Protect you through the storm.

May he bring you home rejoicing

at the wonders he has shown you.

May he bring you home rejoicing

Once again into our doors.

Amen.

On Burning Bushes

Maybe it has to do with having grown up in Pinawa, or maybe it's just the way I'm wired, but I have always found the wilderness to be sacred space, a place where I'm more open to the presence of God. I first remember big questions like, "Is everything the Bible says true?" and "Is God real?" occurring to me during drives between Pinawa and Caddy Lake through the beautiful Whiteshell Provincial Park while I was in high school. There, in our wine-coloured Dodge Caravan, my mom was one of the first recipients of my theological questions. (The other early recipient, bless him, was the minister who confirmed me in high school.)

Today I found myself in the forest, hoping beyond hope that it would prove, once again, to be a place where I might encounter God's presence.

Hoping that, at some point on the 7 km hike, I might find the burning bush I desperately long for.

The burning bush that would give me answers about the job I will soon need. About what to do with my calling. The burning bush that would reassure me that God is and ever shall be, and that God loves me still. 

In less than three weeks, my work as a pastor will come to an end. That is a terrifying and heart-wrenching reality. Over the past couple of years, I've been compiling a mental list of the things that I think were missing in my seminary education. It's an interesting list, friends, but one that's best discussed over coffee and not on the blog. However, at the top of the list of things I wish someone in seminary had warned me about is this: I wish someone had prepared me for how deeply the work of pastoral care is rooted in love. I wish someone had told me how real the love is that a pastor has for the people she cares for. I wish someone had warned me that this love doesn't evaporate when someone tells you that time is up, that the job is done. To be fair, I don't know if this is everyone's experience. I suspect, from talking to other pastors, that it isn't universal. And, to be fair, I'm not sure that anything could have prepared me for this. But still.

Not unlike a 7 km hike, the journey I find myself on isn't an easy one. It's not without discomfort. My shoes, it turns out, don't have the same support that they had when they were new. My feet are making sure that I know this. Likewise, the knot between my shoulder blades and the tension in my neck remind me that the journey I'm on right now isn't easy either. 

And it's not a race to see who gets to the end of the path the fastest. Especially if you're alone in the woods. It's foolishness to hike without stopping periodically for a water break. Part of the joy of a hike is in noticing and appreciating the scenery along the way. And sometimes it's not all that helpful to try to focus on the map, or to pinpoint one's location. Sometimes, the goal is simply to keep going, one step at a time, following the path even though it's not clear what will emerge up ahead around the next bend. 

While I'm a big-picture person who longs to see the whole picture, and who desperately wants the plan for the next six months to be laid out as clearly as possible--who wants the burning bush, please and thank you--it turns out that sometimes God instead shows up as a companion on the journey, keeping pace with me one step at a time. God is present in the water breaks, in the slow stretching, in the pause to breathe in the scents of the forest, in the song birds that sing out their greetings from just out of sight. 

And, it turns out, when I slow down my breathing, fold up the map, and focus on my immediate surroundings, the forest is actually filled with burning bushes. If only I have eyes to see them. 

Gave Me My Life Back

If you live in Manitoba, you may have seen a recent television ad paid for by the Manitoba Association of Healthcare Professionals. In it, a man who has had emergency brain surgery describes his recovery, from diagnostic tests and surgery through his rehabilitation and recovery. As he does so, he comments about the many different professionals who helped him along the way--learning to walk again, and talk again. "These people, beautiful people," he says, "gave me my life back."

I don't have cable, and so when I watch tv it's online--and one of the things I have noticed about these online shows is that the commercial breaks often consist of the same commercial played over and over and over again until you've got the whole thing memorized. This was one of those commercials.

But one day, as I watched it, I began to think about the beautiful people who gave me my life back.

______________________

I had reached the point mid-way through my seminary studies where I was struggling hard not to be done with the church. I was genuinely, deeply hurting from the mixed responses of a church to my gifts and desire to contribute to the body of Christ. I was growing weary with the recognition of the fact that very often, even in the safe space of my classroom community at seminary, I was downplaying my intelligence in order to try to be less threatening. I was not convinced that there would be space in the church for me to thrive anymore. And I was deeply discouraged by how the church was handling conversations about gender and sexuality, and how many people, people who are dearly loved by God, were being hurt in the process.

I still loved the church, but I wasn't sure how to belong to it anymore.

In the midst of this struggle, a friend invited me to attend a weekly potluck hosted by her community, a group of people trying to follow God's call among people struggling with poverty and related challenges.

I confess, I've lived my whole life taking my privilege and upper-middle-class-ness for granted, and I was uncertain about what I might find in this community, and yet something made me accept her invitation nonetheless.

That is how House Blend came into my life.

These people, beautiful people, gave me my life back. They gave me the church back.

From the moment I rang the doorbell on that very first night, I was welcomed as one of the family, without question. Add your casserole to the table, fill your plate, find your spot at the table, and join the conversation--you are here, and you are one of us now.

As I struggled with the pressures of working, taking classes, and juggling the deadlines of writing a Master's thesis, these friends faithfully prayed for me and encouraged me, even when some of them were keenly aware of the barriers that prevented them from pursuing their dreams of similar studies.

Although they themselves might struggle with faith and believing in the reality of a loving God, they were the first to cheer me on whenever I was invited to preach somewhere. They were the first to assure me, without hesitation, that I had gifts that the world needs.

And when I was having a hard week, and came to potluck with very little to offer, they were the first to quietly put the kettle on, offer a hug, make me a cup of tea, and set the table while I collected myself, regardless of the fact that this was technically my job. They gave me the precious gift of allowing me to be human, and teaching me to embrace my own humanness as a gift from God.

From these beautiful people, I learned perseverance, resilience, and hope. Over pots of tea and walks in the neighbourhood, I experienced the love of God being given to me, even when I felt like it should have been me giving to them. Here, more than anywhere else, I learned about the truth that each part of the body of Christ is beautiful and necessary and has its own gifts to offer--none to be valued above all of the others. I learned about belonging, about being loved, about what it is to be human.

I am so grateful for this small community of people who choose, week in and week out, to love one another and share life together. I'm so grateful for the sharing of highs and lows, for the communion of casseroles and coffee, for the candlelit prayers and honest conversations. Church has forever been changed for me because of them.

And I just needed to say so today.

"Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it." 1 Corinthians 12: 27

Who Cares?

I'm usually the one in the caretaker role.

Whether it's in my work in health care, or in my vocation as a pastor, I'm usually the one doing the caring most of the time. Add to that the fact that I am in many ways a typical oldest child, and a 'teeny bit' of a perfectionist who likes to be in control--and I'm usually the one who does the caring in the majority of situations.

And I don't usually give it a second thought.

But a couple of weeks ago, while I was on vacation, I found myself in one of my happiest of happy places--sitting on a rocky shoreline beside a large lake in the heart of the Canadian Shield. I was feeling unsettled, and trying to find the words to voice my prayer to God, when the words that emerged from my mouth surprised me.

"Will you care for me, God?"

In the midst of my mental list of the cares that I was shouldering, and my attempts to give them voice in prayer, the deeper need came bubbling to the surface when I was least expecting it. But as soon as the words were spoken, I could tell that they got at the heart of something important within me.

Even as I care for others, I too need to be cared for sometimes. Even as I try my best to figure out how to love those around me, I also need to know that I am loved.

There was no immediate answering voice to my question. I'm not sure I expected one, exactly.

And yet, there was an inexplicable relief that came in simply voicing the question aloud to God. In admitting my own sense of need, and my fear that God will somehow abandon me in this season of change and uncertainty.

There were no answering words. I wasn't expecting any. But there was the solid certainty of the rock beneath me. There were the trees firmly rooted all along the shoreline, trees that had stood in that spot for generations. There was a solitary loon, its haunting call echoing across the glassy-still lake, its very presence reminding me of the God who cares for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, whose care extends to all God's creatures, no less to me.

And now, as the summer days grow shorter, and the leaves begin to fall from the trees, my first instinct is to want to fight to cling to summer and ignore the slow movement toward winter. I want to hold tightly to the reassurance of greening and growth. But autumn invites me to trust in the God who created the seasons of the year--winter, spring, summer and fall, each with their gifts, each with their challenges. It invites me to trust that as the leaves begin to yellow and fall to the ground, hinting at the colder weather to come, just as surely the green buds will reappear next year, and the cycle begin itself all over again.

Autumn's approach invites me to open my hands, to stop clinging and trust myself to the care of the One who holds the whole world in God's hands. Just as summer leads into autumn, then winter, and then  rolls back around to spring again, I'm reminded that God is a God of resurrection and life, who promises trustworthiness and steadfast love.

And if I forget these things, I have only to look around me at all the examples of life effortlessly springing forth--flowers, trees, insects, birds, the ever-present rabbits taking over the grass beneath my balcony. If God cares for these ones, surely God will care for me too. There comes a time when I too can let go, trust my care-full-ness to God, and just be held by the One who loves me. Thanks be to God!

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.