Seventeen years
ago, in a small white clapboard church building, I received my ordination into
Christian ministry.
It was ordination not into
my particular denomination, even though the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) had prepared me and affirmed me for this calling. Rather my ordination
designated me as a minister representing the whole body of Christ in service to
the world. Then again, my personal understanding of my call comes from Ephesians: pastors are gifted by the
Spirit “to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body
of Christ until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of
the Son of God, to maturity…”
I sense a
contradiction here. Is the pastor called to serve the world? Or is the pastor’s
work to equip the church to serve the world? Are sermons always preaching to
the choir? Or is there really a way to proclaim the good news of God made known
in Jesus Christ to people who don’t know? Or all of the above?
Seventeen years
ago, I was amazed and grateful to find myself a minister in a local
congregation with my name on the door and a place in the pulpit. I never would
have imagined. Now, seventeen years later, I am pondering what it means to find
myself a minister without a church or a pulpit. These are days for
self-reflection and evaluation. These are days for re-imagining and dreaming.
What does it mean to be a minister
outside the church box?
I’m remembering my
first life. I was a starched, hopeful RN in my polished white shoes. I remember
well the instructions from my first Director of Nursing as I prepared for my
first ever nursing job: “White hose, white uniform, white hat. You know – just
look like a nurse.” I remember the sometimes intimidating awareness that, as I
walked those long hallways in my white shoes, behind every door there was a
real person with a real story and some real need. I’m sure I made a difference
for some: kind words and gentle smiles and encouragements always make some kind
of a difference. But I became exhausted jumping through the hoops of the
patriarchal doctors and the profiteering administrators so that finally I
walked down that long hallway and out the door. That’s when I discovered
community nursing, wearing blue jeans to the volunteer pre-natal clinic we created, working
on the front line with passionate collaborators to do something fresh and
creative; to put even a small patch on those endless gaping holes that are so
prevalent in our society.
Is this where I am
again?
Much has been
written about clergy burnout in recent days; about the number of people who
leave the ministry; about the suicide rates, heart attacks and depression of those
who invest their lives in service to the church and then find themselves and
their work disrespected and dismissed. I know a lot about that - as did my
father before me.
Of course there is
burnout in plenty of other professions as well. Of course the work is hard,
challenging, even intimidating in healthcare fields, social services vocations,
criminal justice systems. There seems to be something about the personalities
of people who go into these areas of work: we are the helpers, the fixers, the
martyrs and we flock to the jobs where we feel like we can make a difference in
the lives of people.
But as difficult
as it is for me to carry the pain and suffering of people given into my care,
that’s not really the part that drags me down and chokes the life out of me.
Rather it’s the startling disconnect between sharing in one person’s pathos
while at the same time enduring another person’s apathy. I remember a church
Board meeting: I sat in the room with a heart burdened over the disintegrating
marriage of a couple who desperately needed faith and community and hope. But
the discussion of the church leaders that evening centered around the dirty
coffee cups that had been left in the kitchen sink. I remember the criticism of
a woman who said my cross dangle ring distracted her whenever I broke the bread
at the Lord’s Table.
“What the heck am
I doing here?!” I asked myself.
And then - I sit
with women at the local homeless shelter, exploring how the Bible connects (or
maybe doesn’t connect) with the challenges of their lives. I serve communion to
a gay couple who had no idea church could be a safe and welcoming community. I figure
out how to schedule marriage counseling sessions around a couple’s jail time. I blog my thoughts about intersections between
faith, culture and politics into a secular cyberspace community and I hear people comment that they had no idea Christian ministers could be inclusive and
open-minded.
“Where is your
passion?” I have asked my own children. “What is it that feeds your soul and
gives you energy? Go there. Follow that.” This mother voice is now encouraging
me to believe in my passion even in the midst of discouragement and lethargy. I’m
trying to listen.
And I’m learning
to trust – yet again. When I stopped trying to “look like a nurse,” when I walked
away from the hospital box, I had no idea what a large world awaited me. When I
took the fork in the road to ordination and walked away from the fundamentalist
box of my youth, I had no idea how large the whole church of Jesus Christ would
be.
Now ordained ministry takes another turn and I can’t see beyond the bend
ahead of me. The box that once seemed so large now feels too small.
I have loved ministry. I just don't know what a
minister out of the box looks like right now.
And where will
this go?
God only knows.
Charlotte Vaughan Coyle, 2014
Ordained at First Christian Church Allen
October 12, 1997
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