Theology Duck

A few weeks ago I found myself having to write a sermon on a Friday. Fridays are normally my day off so I really try not to do that, but on this particular week there was no getting around it. The other problem was this Friday was an absolutely beautiful day. Being stuck inside was the last place I wanted to be. What to do? Luckily, I live in beautiful upstate New York. I took my laptop and went to Skaneateles, a little village on the northernmost tip of Skaneateles Lake, just a half an hour from Syracuse. I got a cup of coffee and found a little park right at the tip of the lake. Here is a view from the bench where I wrote my sermon.


This duck helped.
Great text, beautiful day, friendly duck, decent sermon. The life of an intern is pretty good.

Prayer

“Listen Lord, Listen Lord, not to our words but to our prayers. You alone, you alone, understand and care.”

The lyrics above are from a song from the Taizé community in France. I led a Taizé-style worship for a while and know the song well, but the meaning of it never hit me until last week.

I’ve never been much of a pray-er. I’ve tried various types and styles and methods, but nothing has ever really stuck for me. I struggle with that. After all, I’m in seminary, I’m studying to be a pastor, shouldn’t I be good at praying.

But we were singing this song in worship last week, and I was feeling totally overwhelmed by the experience of being in a new place, juggling new responsibilities, and trying to figure out who I am in this new role that is “vicar,” when suddenly it hit me. Maybe my problem is I have been defining prayer too narrowly. Prayer doesn’t have to be carefully composed soliloquies. (As one of my favorite bloggers points out: “I leave that to the real professionals like Thomas Cramner and the Blessed Mother.”) God doesn’t need my words; God hears my prayers. Even the ones I don’t know or cannot speak; the ones “too deep for words” (Rom. 8:26).

And not only does God hear, but God cares. The God who is creator of the universe and Lord of all, cares about the worries and concerns of one small, lonely intern in upstate New York. This is, as Dr. Satterlee would say, some good news.

Home

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."