Hanging Up

I hung up on a telemarketer tonight.

This isn't something I usually do. Deeply ingrained within me is the idea that to hang up on someone, anyone, is rude, and that it is wrong to be rude. Even when it's a telemarketer on the other end of the line.

But. (You knew there was a 'but' coming, didn't you?) The man calling told me about the carpet cleaning special that his company was offering, and what an amazing deal it was, etc. After listening politely, I responded that I wasn't interested at this time, thank you. And he kept right on talking as if I hadn't said anything at all. So, without really giving it any more thought, in a response that seemed to rise up from some place deep inside of me, I hung up on him.

I hung up on him for every time that someone has ignored me when I said what I needed or wanted, and just kept right on with their own agenda as if I hadn't clearly stated what I needed.

I did it because what I need and want is important, and deserves to be heard and respected.

I did it because "I'm not interested" means just that. "No" means no--nothing less, nothing more!

I did it for the time when I explained my decision to leave the Mennonite Brethren church to someone, and he responded that he understood...and then promptly sent me a job posting for a position at a local Mennonite Brethren church, as if I hadn't just clearly explained my decision.

I did it for the time when, as a young adult, I carefully explained that I just wasn't comfortable driving my vehicle on a winter camping trip, and was told by the organizer that either I decided I was comfortable driving a car full of teenagers out to camp or I couldn't come at all.

I did it for the time in a classroom discussion at seminary, in which I was the only female present, when it was stated that women are 90% emotional and 10% rational, and therefore should not be leaders in the church--and I ignored my strong need to leave the room, which had begun to feel profoundly unsafe to me in that moment, for fear of proving that all women are indeed highly emotional and unfit for leadership roles.

I did it because sometimes it is legitimate to acknowledge and take care of my own needs before worrying about the perceived needs of the other person. I did it because interactions always involve two people and two sets of needs, and because I badly needed to send myself the message for once that my needs are legitimate and deserve consideration too. I did it because sometimes there needs to be an alternative to the sweet, polite, soft-spoken, and compliant standard that I all too often feel that I have to live up to as a woman within the church.

I need to begin to understand that maintaining healthy boundaries and being assertive about my own needs isn't selfish or impolite, but part of good self-care. I don't always have to sacrifice my own comfort to make sure that everyone else feels comfortable.

And, while I promise not to do this regularly, because telemarketers are people with a job to do who deserve to be treated as I would like to be treated were I in their shoes, do you know what?

It actually felt pretty good!

The Face of Christ

In my last post, I shared about a recent conversation with a church leader who chose a particularly vulnerable moment to assert his belief that I do not have the gifts necessary to serve as a pastor.

Here is the part I didn't tell you.

I left that meeting fighting hard to maintain my composure, to make it at least to the doors of the restaurant where we were meeting before releasing the tears that I was fighting back.

I made it, barely.

But wouldn't you know it, the very first person I saw as I walked out of that restaurant was a dear friend of mine whom I've gotten to know through my time at House Blend. She spends quite a bit of her time out and about walking the streets of our neighbourhood, and in the past couple of years on hard days I have often found myself taking the longer way to my destination in the hopes of bumping into her along the way.

As soon as she saw me that day, her beautiful smile lit up her face, and drove the moisture lingering in my eyes back. In her face I saw unconditional welcome, love, acceptance, and delight. In her face I saw blessing. In her face, I saw the face of Christ.

She didn't need to say a word. In fact, she's usually a woman of few words to begin with. But that smile, that face, said everything I needed to hear. It was truly a gift from God in that moment.

In the past few days, I've been reading more posts on social media about yet another incident in which a church voice has been crushing to LGBTQ people. It breaks my heart, and convicts me that I need to do much better myself in this conversation--and many others like it.

And it has also made me think about choice. One person chose to use words that crush and wound. The other person chose welcome, acceptance, and love. And one person's response made all the difference to me that day.

I'm not really sure where I go from here, and I have a lot more questions that I have answers these days. But I know this. I want to choose blessing, not crushing. I believe with all my heart that God is love, and that I am called to love my neighbour as myself. I can do better at that. I want to do better.

And I also believe that the simple act of loving your neighbour can make all the difference in the world. I believe it, because I experienced it so tangibly that day on the sidewalk. It's a lesson my friends at House Blend have been especially good at modelling for me. It's a truth that I want to carry with me always, whatever comes next.

And it might very well be THE truth that carries me to whatever comes next, one choice at a time.

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!