The Ringing Phone
A decade ago, I sat curled up on a couch in a chilly cottage on the coast of England, FaceTiming my mentor thousands of miles away and five hours behind me. I looked through the screen and muttered, “I think I know what I have to do.” Her nod in agreement affirmed something I have quite brilliantly resisted for most of the last ten years—my call to ordained ministry.
My idea of ministry has been fraught with ideas of how this role and work ought to look, feel, and be embodied. These “should be” ideas tend to be at odds with who and how I am—thus leading me to try and convince myself and God that surely I could not possibly be called to ordained ministry. And yet, here I am ten years later—an ordained Teaching Elder in the Presbyterian Church (USA) with five years of service in a validated ministry as a hospital chaplain under my belt and still I wonder if I heard God incorrectly; if I somehow messed this all up and gotten it wrong.
The summer before I went to seminary, my now husband, Will, and I worshipped at Montreat Conference Center. The pastor who preached, just so happened to be the current president of the seminary I was attending (Columbia Theological Seminary), we call those God winks not coincidences in our household. Her sermon spoke to our human desire to have God solve all the great problems in our lives and the world in one grand sweeping Divine gesture, a swish and flick of the great Divine magic wand. However, that is simply not how God goes to work.
Instead, the God of love, compassion, and a heck of a lot of patience moves in a continuous series of small, steady, grace filled acts and moments. When reconciliation occurs between estranged parties. When love is found, given and shared. When hope keeps us moving forward rather than remaining stuck due to the fear. When kindness, no matter how great or small, is given. When healing happens. When all the heart, soul, sweat, and tears of hard work done in faith transforms us and we catch a glimpse of progress (we celebrate the centimeters!). When people choose to live into their most authentic selves by acting, dressing, speaking, or sharing who they are no matter how grand or simple the gesture is because every time we allow ourselves to trust the good news that we are created in love and called good that is love on the move, alive, well, and very much at work.
The big bad or meanness in the world always seems like it is too great an enemy to beat and yet we are called to foolishly, joyfully, and hopefully trust that love always finds a way to win.
Love is a tough cookie, a wild and wooly thing, refusing to ever give up. We see this throughout the scriptures—God speaks and the people trust until they don’t so they stray off the path. Then God tries again and again and again—refusing to give up. Because Love simply never gives up on us.
Back in the spring, a friend of ours was salty that I was pulling against the Formula 1 driver he likes. He jokingly called me out about my comments against this driver saying, “you know, you sure are mean to be a pastor.” (I am known to be particularly sassy). Without hesitation I looked straight at him and said “yeah, what if I told you I wasn’t quite sure about this whole call thing anyway—that I personally think God might have gotten it wrong. But it seems the phone still keeps ringing.”
If we are to examine my statement closer we will discover the undercurrent of insecurity and doubt that has endured throughout my call. I take heart when I look in the scriptures and find that God has called, worked with and through countless imperfect human beings. Constantly extending grace, second (third, fourth, fifth, infinity and beyond) chances, applying different approaches when something isn’t working and the wounded one keeps missing it; God always offers nuggets of grace, affirmation, and assurances right when one needs it.
I left my ministry as a hospital chaplain at Roper St. Francis Hospital a little over a year ago and my worst fear since then has been that God is done with me. Working with and then recovering from serious burn out led me to a sense of deep disconnection from God. The fatigue, frustration, and fear had me doubting my call, my worth, and connection to the Divine.
And still, God’s grace persists.
Glimmers appeared and nourished me just enough to be able to keep going—like manna from heaven. Friendships found in my place of work that helped sustain my whimsy, joy, laughter, delight and affirmed my gifts. All the times the holy was more obvious than the hard. Or when people shared their absolute trust in me. When the doubts due to my gender, age, or appearance were suddenly forgotten because love found a way in. When “I have never met a female chaplain before” became “I have never shared this with anyone.” When I got told “you are part of our team. You are one of us.” When I could cry in my dear friend’s office and still have her call me “preacher” every time she saw me, and have her still trust me as a pastor. When I was thrown so many parties and showered with cake and tea on my last few days as a chaplain in the system. To be seen, known, and loved as you have so desperately tried to see, know, and love others is the most precious gift of all.
Now, as I find myself untethered to an active ministry, I have moments of fear, I worry that God has forgotten me or is simply done with my work and gifts. Yet, grace gets in.
Now it comes when people are not shocked when they learn I am an ordained minster. When they feel safe enough to share the rawest bits of their hearts and hurts. When someone calls me “pastor” every time they see me. When people share with me the grief that is overshadowing their joy. When people trust me enough to help them hold their heaviness. When I gather people within my home, at our table, and I remember that the Holy Eucharist was first and foremost a shared meal amongst friends. When an aching sense of gratitude at the abundance of joy, love, and community we have been blessed with clears the fog of doubt. When your best friend calls you their spiritual advisor and tells you that you were the first person who ever told you that God was love. When you receive the text message of someone’s passing because the sender knows you can help hold it.
When you go to a presbytery meeting and are met with joy and gladness at your presence. When you discover how much you underestimated your own work and presence and you discover that you did far more than you ever imagined. When you recognize the gift of belonging and that your heart has been shared with so many people and theirs with you.
It goes on and on and on because that is how the Divine works. The glimmers never cease. We simply must open our hearts to see them. The phone keeps ringing and I keep desperately jumping over furniture and running to answer it because even when I doubt God and doubt myself—I want to keep answering because answer the call has led me down roads riddled with grief, pain, and suffering but most importantly a hell of a lot of love (and yes, I cuss and I am a pastor—take that issue up with God because I already have and still, the phone keeps ringing). I may pretend to ignore its rings every now and then or let the call go to voicemail but I learned a long time ago, any attempts at atheism or disbelief on my part truly looks a heck of a lot like faith. If there is missed call notification I trust the phone will keep ringing or the call can always be returned, all by the grace of a loving God who never gives up.
Amen.
