On Vocation, Gifts, and Calling: Part 1

Recently I've been thinking a lot about vocation, the deepest invitation to participate in God's mission in the world in meaningful and faithful ways.

The pursuit of vocational clarity has actually been lifelong. From the first inklings of a call to ministry while portraying the prodigal son in a fourth grade musical through a change in college major to more recent retooling for nonprofit and nursing home administration, I've sought to align my employment with God's blessing of who I am (vocation). 

Vocation still remains somewhat elusive, and I was compelled to explore the question further during the recent five year ordination renewal process in our denomination. Ordination in our tradition is understood as vocation tied to employment; to be ordained one must be personally called by God, affirmed by the church, and have a functional position through which to live out that call.

For some ministers the requirement to link vocation with employment can prove distressing. At this point in my life, my call to ministry is inherent in my work, but not explicitly linked to ordination. As a development and fundraising officer in a Christian retirement community, my work is about raising money. As a minister, that same work is about tending people's soul journey. It always is. 

The need to once again affirm my calling to ministry, show my continuing education, demonstrate vocation linked to employment, and renew the covenants which I originally made with the church over 27 years ago might have seemed like a no-brainer to many. In fact, many pastors and ministers treat the renewal process as just one more hoop to jump through in order to maintain their status. I know, because in the past I have, too.

This renewal period, however, led to harder discernment on my part. What is my vocation? How is God calling me to be of use in this world? What are the deeper passions of my life? Where might I best live out my faith, and under what circumstances?

In addition to those somewhat esoteric questions, I also was confronted with some more specific, contextual dilemmas. Is the Church of the Brethren as it's currently focused a tradition that I can continue to align with? Given my experiences in and treatment by leadership in the church, is this a body that I can safely continue to be accountable to? Have I failed God and the church in ways which would preclude the continuation of my leadership?

These questions, coupled with ongoing efforts to expand my skill set and employability, compelled me to reflect intensely on the ordination review process. The unsettledness in my spirit needed to be addressed before responding to the rote inquiries of the renewal process. It would have been easier to simply check the boxes, but it wouldn't have been faithful.

After a long period of procrastination and discernment, I did complete the required documents. I also included an unsolicited letter detailing some of my wrestling. Over the next few blog posts, I will share the essence of that letter and further explore questions of vocation, gifts, and calling. 

Faith for me is about surrender and alignment. I surrender to the will of God and seek, to the best of my ability, to align my life with that will. Sometimes I fail completely, or fall short in part. Sometimes those shortcomings are a result of sin. Sometimes those shortcomings are a lack of adequate discernment. Sometimes those shortcomings are simply the hidden mysteries of God, into which I move even without absolute clarity, so not shortcomings as much as faithful stumbles. 

In the end, however, I constantly strive to know the call of God on my life, to recognize and cultivate the gifts God has blessed me with, and to pursue meaningful activities of work and ministry. Whether I can see clearly or not, God remains constant and clear. And so God gives me the faith, courage, and hope to carry on.

Tired.

Facebook wanted to know what's on my mind.

At the moment I'm just sitting here being verbally abused by a 25 yo son who has no genetic ability to reason and refuses to do the things he needs to do to be safe and well (you know, like not go outside in a thunderstorm during a severe heat warning).

Lately, though, I'm feeling an exhaustion like no other exhaustion I've ever felt, and not the good kind.

I'm not sharing this for sympathy. It's nothing new. Tired's been piling up for years. It's the daily life we have.

        But here's the thing.

If you think you "know" what other people's experiences are, like white folks knowing black folks' experiences, or single folks knowing parent-with-children folks' experiences, or urban folks knowing rural folks' experiences, or neurotypical parents knowing what it's like to be a special needs parent, or doctors and nurses caring for Covid patients when you're not even a medical professional, or ..... then you aren't really paying attention.

If your m.o. is to evaluate and judge people whose experiences are vastly different than your own based primarily on your own experiences, then you have a lot of growing up to do. If you think that you "know" something about someone's situation but you've never walked a mile in their shoes, let alone taken a stride nearby, then your privilege is definitely showing.

You may dismiss or mock me and my white male privilege for being tired, and I get it. Really I do. Plenty of people have told me to "get some rest," "take care of yourself," or just "suck it up." But before you do, maybe you could come lace on my shoes.

If your experience or ideas require you to invalidate another's, your understanding is wrong. And if your primary way of moving around in the world is with disdain and dismissiveness toward people and movements and principles that you don't even understand, your memes aren't worth the bytes they're lighting up.

 As for me, I am tired.

Tired.

    ... of Covid-19. Tired of people dying.

        ... of threats. Tired of self-righteous saviors.

            ... of incompetent leaders. Tired of politics.

                ... of self-interest. Tired of broken systems that refuse to go.

        

                    ... of being angry. Tired of being scared.

                           ... of my Christian faith being used as a weapon.

                                ... of patronizing do-gooders.

Tired of being tired.

And yet, my exhaustion pales next to how tired those whose very lives are always at risk must be. I can only imagine, and learn, and show compassion, because I will never know. I can contribute to what changes I can, and refuse to leave those who are weary to just make it on their own.

I may be exhausted, but there's still work to do. It will be easier if we do it together, especially in these days with physical distancing and unclear futures.

What's REALLY on my mind, Facebook? All these things, and more.

But right now I'm too tired to write another word.

It Has Been Far Too Long

JUNETEENTH

It has been far too long

since our soul's been at rest,

since we had peace built on the truth that our God makes us one.

Long the days since we've known

that our lives are entwined,

joined by our breath, fused in our blood, oh, yes, it's been far too long.

There's a pain to share

and a sorrow to carry;

a trust to build

and a love to grow.

How long? How long? How long?

It has been far too long for us all.

~~~~~~~~~~

It has been far too long

since the dignity held deep in our hearts for one another

loosed unafraid;

when our courage would match

the injustice we see,

changing our world, dreaming a dream, oh, yes, it's been far too long.

There's a pain to share

and a sorrow to carry;

a trust to build

and a love to grow.

Too long. Too long. Too long.

It has been far too long...

It has been far too long...

It has been far too long for us all.

You don't understand, and I don't either

Today is day 2 of week 6 of me and our son Benjamin practicing physical distancing. My wife's not far behind, checking in at the start of week 5. Our two other young adult children have had to adjust, too, one moving home for web-based college courses and weekends as an "essential" worker, and our other a full-time "essential" worker. Both are retailers that happen to sell groceries.

This whole Covid-19 thing is hard for everyone. Many of you still have to risk your health and the health of those you love in the workplace. You do this in service to your fellow humanity, and we're grateful. Many of you have suddenly become work-from-home employees. Within your personal family space you're now expected to carve out protected turf and hours for your employer. Many of you are unemployed and are spending your days navigating systems that were not designed for the stress of this time: unemployment, health insurance, debt load, etc.

Many of you have become instant home-school parents. Coupled with the above realities, it's really too much to expect any reasonable human to manage. Some of you are suddenly alone, distanced because you are single, or sequestered because you live as part of a particularly vulnerable community. Too many of you are facing long days with partners who are uncaring at best, hurtful at worst.

Some of you have lost loved ones. We've all lost admired ones. Some have been ill and have recovered. Some are ill now and fighting, struggling. We all have reason to wonder.

We're in these strange and anxious times together. Whether you believe that Covid is "real" (and I still can't conceive of why anyone wouldn't) or are convicted that it's some great political scam being pulled on the globe (check your sources, please), we all share in the frustration, awkwardness, and tension of the time.

Most of us have some mental frameworks to apply to this crisis. Those frameworks may be inadequate. They may be unsatisfactory. They may not be the "right" ones. But as neurotypical folks, we have ways of making uncomfortable sense of what's going on. 

My son with Williams Syndrome does not have those mental frameworks. The foundation for those frameworks is literally missing from his gene array. His gapped-out seventh chromosome mind has nothing to hold these days together with, and the things that typically provide a substitute for that logical shape are essentially taken from him. Physical distancing has eliminated the few "tricks" we have to keep the peace and provide at least a limited amount of focus for each day.

What's that look like? Well, for the last three mornings it looks like 4:30 a.m. attempts to head outside in order to watch the workers renovating a nearby building, followed by repeated battles to keep him safe and redirected throughout the day. The battles are epic: he has a colorful vocabulary and somewhere along the line has learned effective insulting. He's threatening, and there's enough history to know that he's not just bluffing. His head-strong willpower is fueled by a very real inability to understand any logical argument. His frustration leads to anger leads to..... well, lots of things.

Three days ago the police met him on the street. Through a story told by Ben and an interpretation rendered by the officers, he ended up in the back of an ambulance and bay 14 in the local ER. None of it was remotely necessary, and with Covid 19 on the loose, fairly troubling. But this was the result of an anxious and confused adult who doesn't understand what's going on. You decide whether I'm referring to Ben or the officers.

The truth is, I don't understand what's going on either. I'd love to write like so many encouraging blogger-parents of kids with special needs that the joys far outweigh the trauma, that I have learned the intended lessons of grace, and that somehow I have discovered powers that I never would have known I had if it weren't for parenting Ben.

Sure, some days I feel that way. But not today.

Today I see that my mental and spiritual frameworks don't satisfy my need to make sense of our family in the midst of this crisis. I realize that pandemic distancing mostly reflects a daily reality for Ben and me and reflects many points in our family's social history. Uncovered within me is a level of frustration that has the potential for violence. Today my compassion and patience have very real limits.

I am angry. I am sad. I am overwhelmed. I am exhausted. And largely I am, like a lot of parents with developmentally disabled kids, lonely.

I'm not writing for sympathy or for "help." I'm writing so that you who have no idea what it's like to parent a developmentally inhibited adult child can hear the raw and painful truth. I'm writing so that those of you who are facing your own new challenges (and maybe even demons) during these days will have the courage to recognize your (ugly, confused) self and trust the truth of your situation. I'm writing so that we might consider how our own privilege and perspective is never definitive for someone else, but is imperviously representative of the truth we carry in our own lives.

For my fellow sisters and brothers in the Judeo-Christian faith story, this is a Psalm 22 moment. Please don't try to religious jargon it away. Yes, I have faith and a relationship with God through Jesus. It's a real one, and a lifelong one. But it's messy, and today that's the best I got.

Sometimes the hardest thing to admit is that we don't understand, that all the books we've read, lectures we've attended, sermons we've internalized, podcasts we've listened to, classes we've taken, and experiences we've had haven't actually prepared us for the physically distant space we're in. 

Right at this moment, that's exactly where we are.

Ben doesn't understand, and I don't either.  

And that is hard. 

And that's OK. It's all we've got today.

Heart holes

Two weeks ago I found out that I have a hole in my heart. It's just a tiny hole, or at least the doctor thinks so. Tomorrow's test will be more conclusive. There's no reason that I should have known earlier, although it's been there since shortly after I was born, when the foramen ovale didn't close as expected.

One out of four people have this PFO, although only some know it's there. Mine was discovered when I went to the emergency room to explore symptoms resembling a heart attack and stroke. Blessedly there was no heart attack and no evidence of a significant stroke, but an echocardiogram done with bubbles revealed this heart defect.

When a PFO is present, there is a risk of stroke. Clots can travel through and to areas of the heart and brain that otherwise would not be allowed. These clots can obviously cause problems. 

I am glad that the problem was discovered prior to a major episode. Now it can be monitored and/or repaired as required. 

Not everyone is so lucky with their ailments. I'm thinking of my niece Marica. I'm thinking of my Aunt Joyce. I'm thinking of former colleague and friend Mary Jo. I'm thinking of Uncle Dick and Evy. And Dudley. And Mark. And so many others who had some type of "hole" that wasn't diagnosed or couldn't be treated effectively enough.

Actually, this is the second time I've discovered a hole in my heart. A few years back, without knowing what it was, I experienced heart-hole symptoms. Unfortunately there was no e.r. to go to for that particular hole. It wasn't treatable with an aspirin a day, and there was no "button" or "umbrella" procedure to close it permanently. 

My attempts to self-medicate weren't sufficient, either. In fact, they were harmful. 

In her book "Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy," Anne Lamott talks about how we "fold" ourselves in order to show achievement, to protect those around us, and to shield ourselves. "We got creased in those places such a long time ago that it seems hopeless to begin the great unfolding now. Our integrity got broken. ... Big parts of us got broken, parts of our hearts, minds, and beings." (pp. 46-47)

When I read these words this week, I was reminded of the hole in my heart which had been forming for many years of my life, and which only around 2012 began to show through my folds. It emerged as an existential crisis, an identity crisis, a professional crisis, a spiritual crisis and a marriage crisis. Some might categorize it as a mid-life crisis. The process was painful and rough for me and many others around me. I definitely didn't handle it all well, but perhaps that's exactly what uncreasing the folds reveals: that anyone can have a hole that isn't easily closed. 

"I want to unfold. I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie." These words from Rainer Marie Rilke, which Lamott quotes, resonate deeply with me now. Much of my life had been a lie, not in the willful, agnostic sense, but rather in the obedient, suffering sense. In the end, however, I found what I needed for the resulting hole to heal. And I learned that life without folds leaves one vulnerable, and some may take advantage of that vulnerability, but in the end it's the only way to live.

Hearts and holes are on my mind this week as my Church of the Brethren sisters and brothers gather in Grand Rapids, MI for the Annual Conference. This ecclesial body had a lot to do with my first hole. I went to many conferences with my heart hole hidden away in a fold.

I think there are a lot of heart holes converging on the convention center and Amway Grand Hotel this week. Some folks are well aware of their holes, where they originated, how they've been (mis)treated. Other folks are living with so many folds that they have no idea whether or not there's a hole, or how big it might be. Some might suspect a hole, but don't really want to know.

Collectively, I sense a big hole in the heart of the body right now. Again, some see it clearly, others not at all, and some simply ignore it. 

There are two approaches to heart holes (trust me, I've experienced them both!). One approach, ignoring it and concealing it, made it much worse. If it had been a biological hole, it would have killed me. Since it was an emotional and spiritual hole, when it finally showed up there were no physically fatal consequences, although there were some incredibly agonizing and difficult steps toward healing. 

The second approach, like with my PFO, shows that when we know something's not quite right, good pursuit of symptoms can lead to significant discoveries. Those discoveries then lead to a thorough exploration, and the information gathered from the exploration will determine active steps to live better with or correct the problem.

Something is not right with us Brethren. There is dis-ease among us. No matter our theological ideology or our political -ism, we feel it. There is a hole in our heart, and has been for quite a long time now. We've tried covering it up. We've tried folding it in. We've tried any number of "treatments." And yet it's still there. 

I wish I knew what the solution was. If it were as easy as writing the 'correct' position paper on any number of topics, I suspect it would be cured by now. But it's not. If energetic blended worship could fix it, we'd be all better. If an adequate amount of ice cream and toppings were all it takes, our consumption would have cured us. But none of this has happened.

The symptoms are still prevalent. Leader attrition. Pastoral burnout. Fighting. Mission abandonment. Distracting folds. Non-essential activity. Judgement. Fear. Self-righteousness. Division. Power play. 

The cure for a broken heart is pretty elusive. The pain from a broken heart is incredibly hard to share, both to offer and to receive. The fix for a degenerating condition perpetuated by poor habits and years of folding is terribly uncomfortable to confront. 

There is a liturgical element that might help us here. Confession may be the most powerful healing practice we have. (and the most under valued one) Confession is the act of unfolding, of exposing the heart holes, and facing our lies. In the openness between us and God, in the fullness of Christ's community, the healing begins. 

If we Brethren have a hole in our heart, as I suspect we do, it's time to acknowledge the symptoms, press out the folds, and begin healing. What would happen if in place of new statements or stronger speeches or better insight sessions or substituting leaders or more lively worship we would enter a season of confession? Not just a few minutes, or even a few hours, but a season. Days. Months. Years even? Of course the Annual Conference program and agenda are already determined for this week, but what if.....???

Tonight I am praying for heart holes and their healing. For my own heart holes, both of them. For the heart holes of friends I know well. For your heart holes, even though I may not know you personally. For the Church of the Brethren's heart hole, as elusive and hidden as it may be. 

My prayers resound with confession, that precious act of faith which declares that there is hope in the face of the unfolding. Hope is known by many names: Grace. Mercy. Forgiveness. 

Mostly, though, we know it as Love, the kind of love that heals heart holes. 

I AM AFRAID

You know, I really have almost no fear about terrorists from foreign countries. I know the stats on the likelihood of being a victim, and my odds are very slim. For those whose lives have been affected, I know there is a different perspective. When any of us has our life changed by an event, it heightens our awareness of those types of things. And when they hurt we want to protect ourselves and others from them happening again. So I get why some people feel that way about terrorists, but I frankly don't share that fear.

What I fear far more are the hundreds of ways we are terrorizing each other here in the U.S. As the parent of a young adult with special needs, I am far more concerned with the hatred that our POTUS and cronies are fertilizing in my neighbor's heart and home, and when I'm honest and stop being self-vigilant for too long, the hatred being tempted in my own heart, hatred directed at the vulnerable of this world, and toward the powerful, too.

The tone of voice, the combative posture, the self-righteousness disregard of history, law, and reality, and the impulsively repulsive carnage being imposed into real people's lives is unconscionable. The lack of regard for basic human decency and contempt for those things which are beyond their own experience or far-too-limited capacity to comprehend is vile.

I don't actually hold very high expectations for government in general. I have never believed that our politicians are responsible for granting us the kind of life that, as a Jesus follower, I long for and work for. But there are certain standards of decency, postures of humility, perspectives of compassion, and a respect for humanity that I do believe serve as the hallmark for "successful" government.

Here in the U.S. I have always thought that what gave us our place of privilege in the world should be, and to a large extent has been, these things: decency, humility, compassion, humanity. Clearly we've not been perfect, for the conundrums of politics and nations frequently mean our officials are working in muddy waters. Republican administrations and democratic administration alike, I've felt for the most part that we've at least given it the 'ole college try.

I don't feel that way right now. I feel that our most powerful leaders, and many of us ordinary Americans, are instead more interested in proving self-righteousness, exercising unfettered power, satisfying greed, and perpetuating division.

Like many of you, I AM AFRAID, but what I am most afraid of is what we, of what I, am in danger of becoming. As I see it, the danger is not out there; it's in here - in my heart, and my hands, and my voice, and my actions.

Like each of you who've read this far, I love my family: my wife, our three kids, my parents, sister, cousins, you know, the whole deal. A special needs child has a unique place in the heart of a parent, and our son Ben in ours. But I am afraid for him, not because some terrorist hell-bent on destruction will come for us, but because YOU, yes YOU, my friend and neighbor and sister and brother, may fall prey to a heart of hatred.

It was Peter, one of his closest disciples, that denied Jesus three times. So before you say, "Not me," I implore you to stop, take a deep breath, and examine what is being birthed within you. Resistance is one thing; hatred is quite another.

The policies of our government will come and go. From my p.o.v. it's not primarily the policies that are the problem; it's the hardened hearts that are fashioning them, and the hearts, like yours and mine that are being shaped by them. We cannot give in. We. Cannot. Give. In. - to the hateful and dehumanizing forces that are wrestling for control.

I will start by examining what is within me. I will work, so that love will win. And, with God's help, I will not be afraid.

Into the Webbed World

Today I sent a piece of me into the webbed world.

An email, a message, a text, a chat, a tweet;

I can’t remember which.

It really doesn’t matter.

Into the webbed world it went,

Rich with wisdom,

Full of expectation,

Bare with honesty.

Into the webbed world it went

In search of a reply;

Anything would do.

“Thanks.”

“Hello.”

“Like.”
"Maybe."

"Yes."

“No.”

Into the webbed world it went,

This byte-sized piece of

Thought synapse,

Probing inquiry,

Smart observation,

Information request.

Into the webbed world it went.

Audience known:

You.

Friend.

Consumer.

Audience unknown:

You.

Friend.

Consumer.

Into the webbed world it went:

Truth.

Opinion.

Perspective.

Into the webbed world it went,

Testing,

Probing,

Challenging.

Into the webbed world it went.

My dreaming.

What I imagine.

How I hope.

Into the webbed world it went.

But who knows

Where it arrived?

If it was heard?

Will it be kept?

Does it really matter?

I can’t remember which:

An email, a message, a text, a chat, a tweet.

Today I sent a piece of me into the webbed world.