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Saturday was the one-month anniversary of arriving in Syracuse. On Friday I will have been on internship a month. Nestled between those anniversaries lies another one. One month ago tomorrow marks the day I decided to drive six hours in the middle of the night to spend the day with people I love. Rationally, this was probably a terrible decision. One could argue it was not responsible of me to start internship on as little sleep as I did. But for my soul, it was perfect. I stayed on my old roommate’s couch, snuggled a friend’s new kitten, met my pastor for coffee, and generally immersed myself in the wonderful feeling of being home.

What is home? In the past ten years I have lived in eleven houses in five states, as well as several periods of extended couch surfing. In this transient stage of my life, home has become not a building, but a place where there are people who know me and love me. Thus my parents’ house in California is home, but so is Washington, DC, where I built a community for myself after college. LSTC is home. Syracuse is not home yet, but I can see how it could be. And in this strange year where most of my classmates are in diaspora across the country, sometimes it seems like Skype is home.

So here's to that ever-expanding place called home. Where people love you and the space feels familiar and safe. Even if sometimes those places are virtual.

Learning to Trust

I spent last week at the Synod Ministerium for the Upstate New York Synod. Synod Ministerium is a chance for all rostered leaders in the synod to meet for fellowship and continuing education. This year the presenter was Dr. Craig Satterlee, LSTC’s homiletics professor, which was especially nice for me. With all the new in my life, it was wonderful to have a familiar face around.

Dr. Satterlee’s presentation was on “Preaching in Times of Transition.” His final lecture dealt with how clergy can take care of themselves during times of transition. After each of the lectures was a time for questions and discussion, but it was not until this topic that the conversation really took off. I sat and listened as seasoned clergy (one man in the room had been ordained fifty-one years) struggled with the same questions my classmates and I ask. How to maintain balance? How to set healthy boundaries? How to keep a strong prayer life? How to trust God?

As I sat in that room, thirteen days into my internship, it was strangely comforting to hear experience clergy asking the same questions I struggle with. It helped me remember that this path I walk is not mine to control. I will never reach a point where I am suddenly magically a pastor. Instead it is about being open to do the work I am called to; knowing I am not able and trusting in God to get me through.

The Victor

Half the people at my internship site call me “The Victor.” My formal title is vicar, but that not being a familiar word they settled on the closest thing they could figure out. I must admit it makes me smile every time I hear it. Most days I do not feel very victorious in this new and unfamiliar place, a cheery “hey Victor” helps me remember that people here believe in me.

I preached and led worship for the first time on Wednesday night. Standing alone in the cavernous sanctuary as I was getting ready for the service, I did not feel very victorious. Shivering in the cold and dwarfed by the enormity of the space, I did not feel up to the task of faithfully leading God’s people in worship.

But it was Holy Cross day on Wednesday. And on Holy Cross day we celebrate the triumph of the cross. With shouts and praise and glorious red paraments, we celebrate the incredible juxtaposition that is Christ’s victory in the cross, God’s strength in human weakness, eternal life from death. “Foolishness,” Paul called it, “but the power of God” (1 Cor 1:18).

What a day to begin my year as “victor.” A year where I will stand in this liminal space, not yet ordained but not quite lay. As I learn, and grow, and make tremendous mistakes, I pray that I remember the way of the One I follow. One whose power is in weakness.

Re-Calculating…

Dad got me a GPS system for my birthday. He thought it would be helpful for our cross-country drive and then for navigating my way around Syracuse for the first couple of months. He was right; it has already proven to be invaluable for both of those things. The GPS got us safely from California to upstate New York, a distance of over 3,200 miles, found us restaurants, got us to attractions, and even led us to an amazing hotel right off the Mississippi River that was not listed in the AAA guidebooks. And now in Syracuse, Simon (as the GPS has come to be called) has led me safely to and from my house to such adventures as the grocery store, the airport, church, and several Starbucks (free internet!).

But as helpful as Simon is, driving with a GPS has also reminded me that while having extensive knowledge of every road in the United States, Canada, and Mexico is helpful, it is still not as good as being a human and having logic. The other day he tried to lead me into a creek, not knowing that there was a bridge out. And yesterday, on the way to my daily “find a Starbucks to check email” adventure, he directed me to a field. I can only assume that there either used to be or will someday be a Starbucks there. Right now, there is grass, and no free wireless. Simon is wonderful and he is helpful, but he is not a replacement for paying attention and knowing where I am going.

Driving with a GPS system has a lot of similarities to my life as I begin internship, I think. After all, I have been in seminary for two years now; I know a lot of stuff. A lot of random stuff. I understand two biblical languages. I can quote obscure theologians. I have read countless books on preaching and pastoral care. I know the Book of Concord cover to cover (more or less…). With everything so fresh in my mind, in terms of academic knowledge I am probably more prepared right now than I will ever be at any other point in my ministry. Right now, I am a lot like Simon.

But as much as I know, what I don’t know is more important. Because what I don’t know is how to use this knowledge. What I don’t know is how to move my knowledge from my head to my heart, to preach a sermon that speaks to people’s lives, to sit and be in a pastoral care visit and let God work through my be-ing, to translate academic theology into language that is meaningful. What I don’t know is how to be a pastor.

The time has come to turn off the GPS. To accept that I’m going to get real lost and I’m going to make a lot of mistakes. And sometimes I’m going to find myself sitting in the middle of a field, with no idea how I got there. But that is part of the journey; that is part of the adventure. That is part of learning to led God do the leading.

Heading Out

“I just don’t want to do that,” I tell God persistently. I am sitting on the floor cross-legged, knees tucked to my chest, the very picture of childhood obstinance except that I am an adult. I am pouting, I know it, I do not care. “It looks hard, and I am tired. And besides, look at all the things I am still carrying.” I gesture to the bags behind me, bags filled with hurt feelings and broken relationships. “I am already carrying all of that around, you cannot possibly expect me to have the strength to face this new challenge, not with all of that. It’s too heavy, and I am just one person.”

“What makes you think you are going out alone?” God settles herself down on the floor in front of me. She reaches out her hand and touches my forehead. Her fingers trace the outline of the place where through the waters of baptism she marked me as her child. “I am coming with you.”

“Oh,” I sigh. “Well, I still have to carry all this stuff. And it’s still heavy.”

“And about that stuff, why are you bringing all that with you anyway?” Her voice is soft, calm and concerned. I look over my shoulder at the pile of bags containing all my old grudges and anger standing behind me.

“Well, what else am I going to do with them? I can’t leave them here. And besides, I learned things from those problems. It’s just that they’re so heavy, and I’m bound to get more of them. I don’t know that I can handle anymore quite yet.”

“Since I’m coming with you, how about I carry them for a while?”

“They’re pretty heavy,” I caution, “I don’t know if you will be able to lift them all.” God looks at me, a slight frown creasing her brow, behind which her eyes twinkle with amusement.

“I am God, I think I can probably handle them,” she comments drily. She reaches around her back and pulls out her bag. It is one of those black sack-bags. You know the type, black leather, looks professional and can carry anything but the kitchen sink. God’s is sleek and sophisticated, the very picture of hip elegance. I smile. Those bags can carry a lot of stuff, but even God’s bag is dwarfed in comparison to my collection of mismatched luggage. There is no way all of my bags are going in there. God does not seem to notice the vast size difference.

“Hand me one,” she says calmly. I reach over and drag a bag towards me. At this awkward angle even I, so familiar with its weight, have trouble maneuvering it. God reaches past me, lifts it from my grasp, and without a thought, slides it easily into her bag. And then the next, and the next. She keeps going until, to my surprise, all of my bags are inside hers. Her bag does not even look full. I lean over to peer inside, but God pulls her bag back towards herself and closes the latch.

“Yours are not the only bags I have in there,” she says, smiling, “best to leave other people’s problems to themselves.” Rising to her feet, she swings the now-loaded handbag over her shoulder as if it still weighed nothing.

“Ready to go?” she asks, offering her hand as I struggle to my feet. I take her outstretched hand. I feel lighter but oddly clumsy without the bags' familiar weight

“Not really,” I sigh, as she pulls me to my feet. Even without the bags, I am still apprehensive. The memory of their weight on my shoulders is hard to forget. But God gives my hand a comforting squeeze, and smiles warmly at my hesitation. At last I turn, squaring my shoulders towards this new direction.

“If you promise to come with me,” I say softly, “I suppose I can.”

"Of course," she smiles warmly, reaching out to brush my forehead one last time. "Of course, always."

New Life and Fish Puke

I’ve found myself sitting with the story of Jonah a lot recently. Specifically chapter 2; where Jonah is swallowed—and subsequently vomited up on the beach—by a rather large fish. Prior to his unpleasant trip the wrong way through a fish throat, Jonah spends three—I would imagine fairly long and miserable—days in the belly of the aforementioned fish. Imagine what it must be like in the belly of a fish. Dark, I think, and dank. It probably smells horrible. The inside of the stomach, partially digested pieces of other things the fish had eaten recently, and stomach acids probably pressed down on Jonah from all sides, making it difficult to move. At the mercy of the fish, unsure if he would live or die, swimming through the murky insides of a stomach, Jonah must have felt very alone, very afraid, and very miserable. Jonah’s three days in the fish correspond to the length of time in which ancient Israelite tradition said it took to travel to the land of the dead. Thus it seems like Jonah went through a metaphorical death in the belly of the fish. And then on the third day, the unexpected happened. Jonah prays to God and finds himself vomited (the NRSV translates it as “spewed,” but the Hebrew yaque is much more closely translated as “vomited”) onto the beach. For Jonah this, with all its stench and unpleasantness, was resurrection and new life. Free from the belly of the fish, he set out to Nineveh.

As I mentioned in my last post, this past semester, past year really, has been a difficult one. As thing after thing piled up around me; the weight of expectations pulled on me in an almost physical manner. I mucked around, feeling like I caused more trouble than I helped. I couldn’t see my way out of a year where crises fell one after another; some major, an unexpected family emergency and the loss of a serious relationship, and some not so major. As I struggled to make it through the day, I felt dragged down, like someone was pressing on my shoulders, like slogging through mud, like swimming through the belly of a giant fish. Problems with friends, masses of paperwork, half-finished school assignments, and my own mistakes floated around me like partially digested hunks of fish food. In this year of my own fish belly I did the only thing I knew to do. I pulled inside myself. I tucked into a ball, hunkered down, and did what I needed to do. I was not thriving by any means, but I survived.

And then, unexpectedly, a few weeks ago, I felt the rumblings of change. It started with a change in the weather, the gradual shift from winter to spring, the first few brave buds poking out of the frozen soil. Then it was the shift in my course schedule, as daily work fell to the side in the focus of final projects. The end was in sight, the year could not last forever, the fish was about to release its victim. The semester came to an end, spewing me out onto the beach of summer (I joked with a friend that being vomited out by a fish is not a pleasant experience, but at least there’s light at the end of the fish throat), and I hopped a plane to anywhere but here to recover, to count my losses, and to figure out how to go forward.

Sitting on the beach, God speaks to Jonah again and sends him to Nineveh. Jonah still does not want to go to Nineveh but grudgingly, slime oozing from his body and squishing between his toes with every step, he does. And then, to Jonah’s disgust, God forgives the people of Nineveh, just as Jonah had suspected God would. Jonah laments in 4:2, “O LORD! Is not this what I said while I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish at the beginning.” I don’t benefit from this, God, Jonah laments, this is the same mess we were in when I started! I spent three days in the belly of a fish for this! God comforts Jonah, maybe this is bigger than you. More is going on here than you can see, trust me. I know you are miserable, but if I love Nineveh this much, how much must I also love you.

Like Jonah, I am learning that new life is rarely clean or orderly. I think we expect that of new life; we expect it to be, well, new. Pop Christianity says that if we only accept Jesus Christ as our personal Lord and Savior everything will be all right. Pray to God and all our prayers will be answered, we will get everything we have ever desired, life will be easy. Jesus suffered and died for our sins, and now we live as post-resurrection people free to live forever with Christ, shouldn’t that mean something? And yet, here I sit, stranded in an airport from my own stupidity, angrily picking hunks of partially digested fish vomit out of my hair, tired and frustrated and sore. Don’t I deserve a break, God? I want to yell. Hasn’t this year been long enough?

But new life is just that, life. And life is messy and complicated and sometimes smells like the inside of a fish. Jesus promised that we might “have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10), not that abundant life wouldn’t be hard. But this hard and abundant life is good. So I struggle to my feet on this beach called life, blinking in the bright sunlight, brushing seaweed and fish innards and muck off my arms and shoulders as best I can. I wish I could tell you that in the sunlight I dance and rejoice and praise the God who rescued me from the depths, but realistically it is all I can do to grit my teeth and set out doggedly again in the direction God pointed into this new life. Jesus came out of the tomb, Jonah went to Nineveh, and I too will keep on walking. And I know in front of me there are more Ninevehs, more tombs, more fish bellies. I know this post-resurrection life will not be easy. There are ahead of me more days, weeks, months, even years, where the weight of the world will drag on me so much that it will be enough to get out of bed and brush my teeth in the morning. In those dark days, as in these ones, I am grateful for good friends, friends who are willing to sit in the belly of the fish with me. Who do not try to lessen the pain, but who instead make me laugh as they assure me that yes, it really does smell that bad in here, and lean over to wipe away the hot, salty tears that leave trails through the fish ooze on my cheeks. And mostly I am grateful for a God who is “a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love” (Jonah 4:2). Thanks be to God, who is with us in life and death, on beaches and in fish bellies. Amen.

Springtime Resurrections

It’s a hard day not to feel optimistic about the world. One of those days where there’s enough of a cool breeze in the air to remind you it’s still March, but in the breaks of the breeze the sun beats down strong enough to be almost hot in its focus. The snow is completely gone and the world seems to be waking up from its slumber. You can almost hear the plants groaning as they push through the earth, stretching their tiny green shoots like a cat after a long nap. Out of the long, dark winter comes proof that God is once again doing a new thing with the world in Springtime, that the world is once again being reborn.

I think it is safe to say that this has been a long, dark year for me. The growth that has been required of me this year as I stretch and grow myself to figure out who I will be as a pastor has been hard and painful at times, and it has felt like the winter of this year would never end. Yet in days like today I remember that God is doing a new thing with me too. That through the darkness of Lent comes the bright morning dawn of Easter. That the grave is not the end, but that grace and love and resurrection are in the air. That the tiny blades of grass poking from the earth, the grave-clothes in the tomb, who I am today, is just the beginning of the story. A story that God is continuing to unfold. Thanks be to God, who works though winter, through a tomb, through us, and brings new life into the world.