Entry-Level, and A Day to Remember

I’m on the market, the job market, that is. It’s a new experience for me this time around. There’s no system set-up to circulate my resume to every available non-profit job in the area. If I were applying for a church job in my denomination, I could look at a big long list of open positions and tell those who coordinate such searches to send my ‘stuff’ in. There’s not a big long list of open positions in Asheville’s non-profit world. Most of the time, even when something is open, it’s not posted anywhere. You have to know someone or be connected somehow.

On the positive side, some of the folks we know here are connected in significant ways. On the negative side, it’s simply rare to find an open position. In the last couple of weeks, through the before-mentioned connections, I was told about an open position with a non-profit here that works mostly as an alternative to incarceration for men and women whose offenses or crimes allow for lesser sentencing. Unlike the prison system, this organization does believe rehabilitation is possible. Nothing easy about their work, but they’ve been doing it well for a long time here. It would be a meaningful and worthwhile place to work, every bit of it God’s work. The work of salvation, even. Supporting and helping men (in this particular position) save themselves, to imagine a new and whole future for their lives. Not easy, not romantic work. Jesus’ footsteps are all over it.

I had an “initial” phone conversation yesterday with the guy handling the search for the open position. It’s an entry-level position, one that I could have applied for 10 years ago and had a shot at getting. And so I’ve struggled with my well-taught and absorbed ideas about “going backwards” or “settling” for something less than what I’m capable of. The guy I talked to yesterday even flat-out asked me why I was applying for an entry-level position. I suspect it’s likely I won’t be asked for an in-person interview. But even if I’m not, the process of the last several days has invited me to ask important and hard questions of myself.

What does entry-level mean, anyway? How important is going “up”? The organization could not function without this position. It’s the on the streets, in the courtroom work essential for it all to hold together. Do I want to be an E.D. someday (assuming I stay in the non-profit world)? You bet. But I’ll be a lot better at it if I’ve started on the ground, out in the streets. Romans and 1 Corinthians both talk about gifts, about each of God’s people being given unique qualities and skills to build the body of Christ. I’ve assumed for years that mine could only be used best on the pulpit side of life. Entry level somewhere else could just be an opportunity for me to begin to build in a different way, a new way, and yet still a part of the ever-expanding body of Christ that reaches into the pulpit and far, far beyond.

And it’s Veterans’ Day. I’ve thought about my dad, who gets a distant look in his eyes when he’s asked about Vietnam and who has spent his career always being involved in ROTC. I’ve thought about my uncle, who cannot stay in the room when Vietnam is mentioned and carries more brokenness from combat than I can begin to imagine. And then I’ve thought about the young men and women I know who serve now, each of them serving in different ways and in different places, but all extraordinary human beings who are giving their daily lives now in our country’s military.

I’m a pacifist. I want our military to lay down all of its weapons and turn them into plowshares and pruning hooks. It’s also true that I am grateful for each of those I know who have served, and for the millions I don’t know. Today I’ve remembered the names I know, and trust God knows all the others. And I pray for peace in all corners of the fragile, beautiful world that holds us all.

A Church, A Proposition, A New President, and A Baby

My beautiful wife and child


I became a member of a church today, standing in front of a crowded sanctuary full of mostly unfamiliar but kind and welcoming faces. The sleeping baby in my arms was the only thing that held the dam of tears at bay. Tears of grief and tears of relief, welling up from my heart, mingled together behind my eyes. For the first time in a decade, I joined a church as the wife, the mom. Those are my titles, my first impressions in this congregation. Not pastor, not teacher, not leader. Standing there this morning, Abby in my arms and Shannon’s loving hand on my back, was the final letting go of what has been. It also means there may just be space to move forward, enough release to see what is next for me, where God is leading on this winding road of following. Grief at losing what has been; relief for the push to move ahead.

Proposition 8 passed in California. It made the news here, of course, but not in huge ways and certainly not on the front page. There was no big outcry of anger outside of our living room that we could hear. I didn’t sleep, obsessively checking the Chronicle for results through the night. It was pretty clear by morning that a slim – but enough -- majority of California voters were determined to take away the rights of some of their fellow citizens. Why does it matter to me now, people have asked. North Carolina doesn’t recognize our California marriage license anyway. But it does matter. We took those legal vows in front of the County of Santa Cruz, friends and strangers, in a room overflowing with hope and joy and love. It matters a great deal that Prop 8 passed, saying that no more people ‘like us’ should experience that kind of hope and love and joy. The entire state should be completely outraged and embarrassed. And I wonder what I could have done more of while I was there, and even here from the other coast. I wonder why there wasn’t more outrage before November 4, why wasn’t I more outraged when the whole process began months and months ago to get Prop 8 on the ballot? I should have been mad a year ago, instead of assuming others would be and that there’d be no way such an insidious ballot measure could possibly garner enough votes. There are, of course, lawsuits and vigils happening all over California. It’s not over. Separate but equal will not rule the day, not in the end. Those lawsuits and vigils are beginning to happen in other places, too. And someday, even, our marriage license will even matter here in our home state. It took me a day or so to remember that I believe in the resurrection: the impossible happening against all odds.

Barack Obama stood in Grant Park at midnight Tuesday, and I know more than one person in the crowd of many colors that gathered also believes in the resurrection. It is no small feat to overcome prejudice of any kind, and certainly not the deep-seeded racism that is still found in far more places than most of our country wants to admit. Was this election about more than race? Absolutely. It was about change and hope and the need for certainty that there can be a new day in the United States of America. Will Obama be able to deliver on all his promises? Not a chance. Does the Democratic party have the magic keys to this new day? Not by a long shot. I’ll admit, though, that I do feel more hopeful than I have in several years about how the citizens of the U.S. might reach across the aisle, or around the corner, or even across the table and care just a little more about each other. There’s been a huge shift in this election, and I’m daring to hope it’s a shift toward one another, a move to come closer to true community.

And the baby. Abigail: our nearly 6-week-old daughter who’s sleeping right now, as is her other very tired mom. Everyday, at some moment or another, I’m still in wonder that the hospital let us take her home. She’s beautiful (I know I’m biased, but she really is), and does something new everyday. The Sunday evening before she was born, I cooked Shannon’s favorite dinner, knowing there wouldn’t be too many more days before our child came into the world. She finished those leftovers a week later, watching Abby sleep. Last time I wrote a blog entry, I was waiting. Waiting for her, waiting for God to make it crystal clear what my life here will look like without a robe and stole. Sitting in the present moment is my greatest challenge, always. And I’m still waiting.

But now I’m waiting for Abby to wake up, enjoying the sound of her breathing and her tiny hands waving around every once in awhile while she sleeps. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and Shannon even more so since she’s the one providing the food every few hours. It’s been a more than full 6 weeks. And I wouldn’t trade a minute. The name Abigail means joy. And every time I look at her, I remember that new life is sometimes a long time coming. I remember that new life explodes into the world in the midst of chaos, and even pain beyond measure. I remember that I believe in the resurrection. I believe in Jesus’ resurrection, in all its mystery and hope, and I believe in the big and small ways new life comes everyday. Abby reminds me when I forget. So does her other mom. And tonight I remember that my cup overflows, and am sitting in gratitude.

Waiting

I'm listening to the wind in the trees outside our family room's windows. It's a quiet neighborhood, mostly, except on trash/recycling pick-up days. Seems to take an unusually high number of big trucks to do all of that for some reason. I have been here for nearly a month now, and it's slowly beginning to feel like home and not an extended vacation trip with an adventure in home renovation package. Which means I can find a lot of places on my own without asking my sister or brother-in-law for directions, I put a North Carolina license plate on my car, have gotten a haircut at a local salon, and even became an official resident today with the acquisition of my North Carolina driver's license.

I have to admit, though, that it all still feels odd to not be expected anywhere in the way I have known. Setting a disciplined schedule for myself is not something I've ever been all that good at, and having all kinds of time that is mostly mine to schedule has not yet inspired much discipline for any kind of routine. Part of it is the waiting factor - knowing that when the baby arrives she will be the focus of the routine and be my 'boss' in a more complete way than any church has ever been. I pushed myself hard when I first got here to get the major things done in the house so it would be livable for us before baby comes. Now that those things are done, I'm simply waiting. And I've definitely never been good at that.

One of the opportunities in this transition for me is the chance to learn to go slow, to relax, to sit still for more than a minute at a time. Some days I've enjoyed that. Others, I've allowed the open time to make me feel useless -- a learned perspective, I know, from my workaholic parents that they passed on in abundance to both me and my sister. How often have I yearned for just this kind of space during the decade of frantic church life?

Truth is, I miss it all madly. And I know, in the very same breath that's filled with grief, this is where God would have me be right now. Learning to trust in open space, learning to find the life present in the waiting, listening to the wind in the trees in the middle of the afternoon.

Laying it all Down

New Mexico morning -- today, Tuesday Aug 26, 7:00 a.m.


I woke up this morning an hour later than I wanted to, no idea what happened to the alarm. Probably not a bad thing since I didn't go to sleep until 2:00 a.m....though not for lack of trying. The knowledge of unemployment is one thing -- my head, heart and body implementing that is apparently another thing entirely. After 6 months of functioning on 4-5 hours of sleep, I don't even know how to go to sleep. Truth is, I don't know what to do with myself in general, with all these hours of time.

There are no phone calls to make to check on this or that thing or person. No emails to send in response to the latest round of cyber communication, no work email to read, even. I'm at loose ends, and it feels really odd. It's not like there isn't anything to think about -- a 35-weeks-pregnant wife and all that means is a great deal to think about. I guess it's just that there's been so much more than that for the past several months. Like, 300 other people. An entire community to hold in one way or another. And now, all of sudden, it's not mine to hold.

I'm driving into another life, and need to lay this other one down. Looks like that isn't going to be as simple as I thought.

Light in the Desert

Sunrise over the Mojave Desert - Monday morning, 6:00 a.m.

What Remains

(Actually late Sunday evening, CA time)

I’m in Barstow, CA, a mile from I-40 – the road home. Home to Shannon, home to the new life we’re beginning in Asheville, NC. Away from Santa Cruz, away from the home we’ve had there with our church, with our friends. And away, too, from church for me. The robes and stoles will go to the dry cleaners’ soon, and be put away for awhile. They’ll be replaced, very soon, with my new job as mom-at-home.
It’s all a lot to process and feel, to say the least.

I’ve been crying for days, at one thing or another, with one person or another. And, today, with the whole church. At another point in my life, if I’d been in the crowd watching all of that unfold, I would have been one of the few dry-eyed folks there. I’d closed off much of myself, trying to stay safe from harm, protecting myself from any depth of relationship that had the power to cause me pain. It took me a few years to realize how much of life I was missing, and to discover that there was no way to give myself to Jesus – or to anyone else – without grief and pain coming into play somewhere along the way. And that I had no idea what joy was.

Church life is hard, really hard some days. There is nothing easy about being in real, messy community with a whole lot of people. And there sure isn’t anything easy about following Jesus. But as I drove away from Santa Cruz today, talking to Shannon and winding my way through those familiar streets, I knew that every hard day these past 4 years was worth it. I would trade none of it, not even the dark days. Our marriage began there, in that community of faith, with that community of friends. Our child began growing there, 35 weeks ago. (5 weeks to due date now!) And I gave my life to Jesus in a deeper way than I ever have before – because I finally learned to let go of my need for safety, for protection. Shannon started breaking down those barriers in me, and this church and these friends brought them most of the rest of the way down. I still have a lot to learn, a long way to go as I search for Jesus’ footsteps in my life, in the earth I walk on. But I’m pointed in the right direction, and more so because of the ministry I’ve shared with so many in Santa Cruz and beyond.

What remains, now, in the place of those long-held barriers in me – what remains is gratitude. Gratitude for the grief, because it tells me how much I’ve loved here, how many people I will love and carry with me all the days of my life. Gratitude for the tears, because they show me the depth of joy I’ve discovered and experienced. Faith, hope, love – and gratitude. These remain.

Last Days

It’s Wednesday night. I’ve been stressing for a couple of weeks about this coming Sunday, my last as a pastor here – and as a pastor anywhere for the foreseeable future. What scripture is right for this kind of day? What word would God have us hear for a day of gratitude, of letting go, of opening to what new possibilities are in store for us all on the other side of this farewell? I want to be profound, of course. A sermon that will stay with them forever, move them to new heights, a sermon everyone will want copies of afterwards…oh. Right. This isn’t actually about me. It’s about God. About the ministry we’ve been given and shared and grown into, and about the Christ we’ve tried to follow on the streets of Santa Cruz and in so many places beyond. It’s about the ministry they’ll continue to grow into, the new life I’m stepping into, and the footsteps of Jesus we’ll all keep doing our best to find and follow.

I know the scripture now, the liturgy has been written, the band has been given the music, a sermon title discovered. And the word itself will come – God’s word, somehow, in my frail, human speech. And the word will come in the prayers we pray together, in Lori’s voice and in Art’s magic through the piano keys, the word will move into the air in Renata’s bow across the cello’s strings, Steve’s steady rhythm behind the drums, Stan’s centering bass and Brad’s lively horn. It’ll come, because this word, God’s word, is living and breathing and ever-present.

How grateful I am for that. And how grateful, really, I am for the grief. It’s profound, this grief of leaving Santa Cruz, of letting go of this church community. There will never be another Santa Cruz for us: the place and people with whom we began our marriage, the people who prayed – and still do – every day for our baby girl soon to come into the world. And it’s the church where I’ve learned what it means to give myself to this work, to this calling of parish ministry. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this place, and they’ve all given that and more right back to me. And the grief tells me it’s been worth every hard moment, every painful wrong step, every poorly chosen word – by them and by me.

Anne Lamott says there are really only two prayers: “Thank you, thank you, thank you” and “Help me, help me, help me.” She’s right. Thank you for Santa Cruz, for community, for friends to last a lifetime. Help me grieve and honor it all, and help me carry it with me when I go.