- - - - - -
I
have my fingers on the keyboard, but nothing to type. The words aren't there
and my mind feels cluttered. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory is the
story I'm trying to tell, but it resists my attempts to unearth it. I fidget
uncomfortably. I'm not used to being at a loss for words.
I
know the story, though. It's the story of a stubborn boy who thought he knew
what he was doing with his life. The plans were made and the time-line was laid
out all at the young age of seventeen. He was old enough choose for himself and
nothing could upset his perfectly crafted future. It would take more than soft
nudges and a quiet whisper to push him in a different direction.
Of
all the stories I could tell, this is the most important to me. That stubborn
boy was me.
So
I get up from my chair only to kneel down on the floor. I lean forward until my
forehead is resting on the ground and softly say, "Lord, I need the words.
I don't know how to tell the story, but I want to and I need to. Let me write
about you and how you whispered to me when I thought I knew it all. Let me
write a testimony to your power, your dedication, and your everlasting love. I
want to write our story."
The memories begin with a song. Before I
try again to write, I turn it on. It washes over me, the cool piano sounds, the
flowing strings, and the familiar lyrics. I can remember again. Images begin to
form and the words are suddenly available. I write.
- - - - - -
I
am standing in an unfamiliar sanctuary. The pews look familiar, but sanctuary
pews always look familiar to me. It's the same long bench and thin cushion I've
seen at a hundred churches, the same red bibles in the pew backs as I've read
my whole life. And standing alongside me, filling all of the pews and flowing
into the aisles are the hundreds of people joining me at Michigan's United
Methodist Annual Conference.
We
all spent the day together, sitting in an auditorium listening to propositions,
reading legislation, debating, and voting by holding up sheets of bright pink
paper. This is the deep inside of the church, the legislative body that meets
once a year to handle administrative tasks. My pastor asked me to attend and I
happily accepted, not anticipating how exhausting it could be to sit and keep
up with discussion. I was ready to leave before the closing worship service
even began.
The
bishop is standing at the front now, in a flowing white robe and with a red stole
hanging from his neck. He has a very round face only accentuated by his thick,
out of date glasses. Even with his slightly stooping stature, he looks regal as
he peers around the sanctuary and begins to speak. His voice is deep and
weighty and fills the room.
"There
are some here today who have felt the call to ministry," he said. "It
could have happened this weekend or it could have been on your heart for a long
time, but God has called you to a ministry in his church. If that's you, I want
you to come up to the front during this next song so one of us can pray over
you."
And
with a nod to the musicians on stage, he steps off to the side. A few tinkling
notes on the piano ushers in the song and the congregation is quick to sing
along. Not me, though. I'm too busy watching to see who will go to the front.
Watching and wondering if it should be me walking that way.
"I, the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my
people cry," everyone sang.
There's
the first one. She's young, maybe twenty, with short dark hair and a nervous
walk well aware of how many people might be watching her make this journey.
"All who dwell in dark and sin, My hand will
save."
The
girl is joined by a boy. He's older and looks like the type of man who might
work in a car repair shop for a living, but he seems no less nervous making his
way to the front of the sanctuary than he would anywhere else.
"I who made the stars of night, I will make
their darkness bright."
I
want to join them, but I can't explain why even to myself. There was a time
when I thought I might want to be a pastor, but it was short lived and I
decided to leave the position for someone who was smarter, wiser, and surer of
themselves. Instead, I'm going to be an engineer and go build space ships. Or
boats. Or bridges. Or something. I dunno.
"Who will bear My light to them? Whom shall I
send?"
Me?
I can't become a pastor, much less walk down the aisle to the front of this
church. I can't. I won't. But I mouth the words "Whom shall I send?"
silently to myself, even as the song moves on to other lyrics. A part of me
seems to think I want to head for the front. I don't know why. I thought I had
my life figured out and this wasn't part of it.
I
feel frozen, as though this pew has latched onto me and won't let go. The music
keeps playing and the congregation keeps singing but I'm not paying attention
anymore. My eyes are trained on the front, waiting for someone else to come
forward.
But
nobody else steps up and pretty soon there are no verses left to sing. Everyone
fidgets slightly and a few people begin sitting down. I feel a sense of relief,
but tinged with regret. Regret that I didn't truly make a decision, that my
hand was forced by the length of the song.
And
as the last tones of the music is fading from the room, the bishop takes off
his glasses and looks across the rows of people.
"We're
going to sing that last verse again," he says. "I feel that there's
someone else who has felt the call but hasn't come forward yet." And he
peers around the sanctuary again, slowly, and I could swear he looks right at
me.
I'm
terrified. The bishop has never met me and has absolutely no idea who I am. So
did he really just look at me? Maybe I'm not containing my internal struggle as
well as I thought. Am I sweating? No. Have I let me face contort with
indecision? No again. Maybe he managed to lock eyes with everyone in the
sanctuary?
All
three hundred of us. Yeah. That's probably it.
And
that's what I try to believe. Still, I can't help but think that the bishop
wants me to come up just as much as I think I might want to go. The balance of
my internal battle has shifted as the bishop takes sides and makes a stance. But
I dig my feet in. I am not leaving this pew.
As
the verse comes to an end, I'm still in my spot. Victory, I think to myself.
But with the slightest lift of the eyebrow and a look at the crowd, the bishop
motions silently and everyone knows what he means. We sing the verse again.
I
will not leave this pew, I tell myself. I am going to be an engineer. I am
going to look back on this moment one day and laugh about how silly I’m being.
I glance towards the bishop and hope the look on my face tells him what I want
to say: I will not leave this pew. He’s not looking at me, but the message
remains.
And
when the bishop finally lets the song end, after the final words are spoken and
the stage has emptied, I am still in my pew.
- - - - - -
Time
passes in moments and instants and I try to forget. I try to forget the bishop’s
look. I try to forget the song they played. I try to forget how much I wanted
to walk to the front of the sanctuary. And more than anything, I try to forget
that I ever thought about becoming a pastor.
Yet
somehow it’s just a year later that I find myself again in an unfamiliar
sanctuary with the now familiar song playing. I’m in Saint Louis for a
conference about discerning a call to the ministry. Over the course of the weekend
there were workshops, speakers, worship services and small groups. I’ve had
fun. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for the card I was just handed. Reading it,
I find I have three options:
1. I feel called into ordained ministry.
2. I do not feel called into ordained
ministry.
3. I am still discerning.
Each
has a little box next to the text. I guess I’m supposed to put a check mark in
one before getting up and turning it in to one of the baskets placed at
strategic points in the aisles. If it were a test question and if I were
guessing, I'd have a 33 percent chance of getting it right. But I’m not
guessing.
If
I’m honest with myself, I know the first box is the one I want to check. I
admit that I’ve known it since before the bishop first posed the question. But
I still don’t feel ready just yet to tell the world I want to be a pastor.
I’ve
spent months running from this question and these three boxes. I ran all the
way to college; I had been running when I chose majors and I had been running
when I first signed up for classes. When people asked if I wanted to be an
engineer, I always said yes. Even this day, with the song in my ears and the
card in my hands, I still might say yes. But I’m finally well aware that this
yes is nothing more than lip service in the hope that if I have a good plan
laid out for my life, I can keep running forever.
I
never thought all this running would take me to Saint Louis. Most of all,
though, I didn’t know that when the time came to make a decision, I’d still
have so much trouble continuing to run. But looking around at the room, I’m not
the only one struggling. The other hundreds of participants are hunched over in
their chairs, silently holding the card in clenched fists.
On
one hand, I know it’s time to stop and face the three little boxes. Still, the
decision scares me a little and I fear I don’t have the courage to make a
choice. I wish the bishop were here to look lengthen the song and look
pointedly at me. He would force my hand; he would push me through my trepidation
to a conclusion. But the bishop’s not here.
So
instead I sit in my seat, expectant and ready, like a runner at the starting
line. I’m crouched and tensed, waiting only for the sharp retort of a pistol.
Except I'm holding the pistol and I'm afraid to fire. At any moment, I might do
it. I might fire the pistol. I might check the box. Any moment now.
Everyone
around me seems to get up at once to turn in their card. They step over and
around me, trying to avoid tripping on my gangly legs. And as they file by, I can
see their faces, some apprehensive, some excited, and some clearly terrified
out of their minds. Now is the time, I need to choose an option - any one of
the three - and join the ranks of the decided, the checkers-of-boxes. I move
towards the first option, but stop to reconsider.
I
can keep running if I check the third box. It's not a yes or a no. It's not
even a maybe. The third option keeps up the illusion I've been trying hard to
maintain, that I really don't know what I want to do with my life. The third
box lets me keep saying that engineering is my backup plan until I hear
otherwise, without mentioning that I've got my fingers in my ears and am
humming loudly to keep from hearing anything else.
Taking
a deep breath, I check the first box. It is both terrifying and exhilarating. I’m
going to let myself become a pastor.
- - - - - -
Full
realization doesn't hit me until several hours later. I’ve taken a walk to
clear my mind, hoping to come to terms with what I've decided. I find myself
directly under the Saint Louis arch, the huge silver beam stretched across my
vision from left to right in a decidedly magnificent fashion. Standing in the
shadow of this magnificent creation, I feel happy. I’m not afraid, I’m not
excited, and I’m not even feeling particularly emotional. I just feel happy.
Looking
out over the Mississippi, I smile from deep within and whisper the final words
to the chorus I now know so well:
“I
will go Lord, if You lead me.
I
will hold Your people in my heart.”
I
sense that looking down from above, God is happy too. We both know I checked
the right box.
I’m
going to be a pastor.
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