monuments & markers.

My life has been marked by altars; railings of wood that have stood as monuments to the movement of my life. Each altar rail has marked the passage of time, and more importantly, the progress of my heart. Though it was ages ago now, I remember with clear and vivid detail that first altar. I was eight years old, sitting along the aisle in the pew of a sweet little church. I don’t remember what my father said from behind the pulpit that evening. But I know that I felt the Lord pulling at my heart, calling me to himself. I trembled as I moved away from my seat, and as I wept over the railing’s shiny finish, asking the Lord to forgive my sin and to lead my life. I had such a real experience with God at that place that the course of my life was then set. I was Christ’s and Christ was mine.

Several years later, I found myself sitting beneath an ancient tabernacle, feeling a similar pull on my heart. As the aged tabernacle held a crowd of teenagers in worship, I heard only the Lord. And as the pastor invited forward those who wanted to respond to a call to ministry, I found myself there once again, surrendering my future at an old, splintering altar rail. I knelt there uncertain of my future, yet confident of my path. Like my father, I wanted to live my life answering the call and serving Christ in ministry. That evening was so significant to me that I can still see the blanket of the Holy Spirit covering that tabernacle. I can still hear the words of my Youth Pastor later that evening when I told him I had been called. He said, ever so calmly, “I know. The Lord told me last night that he was anointing you for ministry.” With the joyful affirmation of my parents, who saw the call in me well before I ever did, I stepped into ministry, continued my education, and later enrolled in seminary to study Youth Ministry.

At the historic altar in Estes Chapel, at Asbury Theological Seminary, my father would join my husband and me in marriage. I would join my life and call with another anointed for the call to ministry. Seventeen years ago we began to learn how to navigate life together in relationship and response to God’s call on our lives. Over our years together, I have stood behind many altars, preaching the Word, praying with those in need, administering the sacred gift of communion, and inviting others into life and relationship with the God who loves them. Through it all, I experienced more than I could have possibly anticipated, more heartbreak than I knew I could bear, and more love than I could have imagined. 

After our early years of ministry, my call and process began to take a long and winding road. I began to hear the Lord call me in new directions, growing my love for youth ministry into a pastoral call that would allow me to minister to even more people. I began my first appointment to serve in pastoral ministry in uncertain circumstances, immediately following the painful split of two churches, trying to hold together the brokenhearted who were left behind. I reenrolled in seminary to pursue my Masters of Divinity because I specifically felt the call to Ordination as an Elder in the United Methodist Church. Even though the church’s future was uncertain, my call to help lead through it was clear. As I pastored two hurting churches and reenrolled in seminary full time, I also began a painful journey through infertility and pregnancy loss. In the course of my studies and pastoral leadership, I would lose three children in pregnancy and endure many months of painful procedures and ever encircling grief. My seminary studies suffered as I tried to care for my congregation and keep myself from falling apart. One of my losses came at the tiny altar rail of my first church, as we worshiped together one Sunday morning. My studies never regained the energy they once had. I knew I would need every ounce of strength and grace simply to finish. And oh how those congregations cared for us as we carried our grief and pursued our call. As we loved them through their pain, they loved us through ours.

After all, love is at the center of faith and ministry. The pastor is called to love their church, leading them into deeper places of holiness; perfect love made real through the Holy Spirit. The pastor, and the congregation, are called to share love with others, inviting them into relationship with a loving God, who is full of grace of mercy. My brokenness, through the grief of pregnancy loss, forever connected me to the suffering and hurting people who pass by us every day, those who are using every ounce of strength to simply survive. We can offer them real hope as we share the love of Christ. We can offer them healing as God mends their pain. I only survived my pain because of Christ and his church, and now I am compelled to share my hope with those who have none. Sometimes I feel like I see people others don’t see. That I can feel the pain or uncertainty of those who are questioning God’s goodness. That connection shapes how I see ministry for myself now and in the future. I want to bear hope into the world, to those who feel far from God. I want to think beyond the church as we have always known it, to what church can be. I want love to reach into communities that churches have kept at arm's length, so they might experience the movement of God in their lives as I have in mine.

I remember having a conversation with my father just a few years ago, as he approached retirement from the ministry, and I anticipated a life-long career in a declining denomination. He said that he felt sorry for my career in ministry. He said that he worried about the challenges that would lie ahead for young pastors leading the church past decline and division, and into a new future. He was grieving for me I think. He knew that I would face more difficulty in ministry than he did. It wouldn’t be long after that conversation that I found myself standing behind the altar rail at my childhood church, and behind his pall draped casket, officiating his funeral all too soon. As I continue to grieve him, and the wisdom he offered, I find myself even more certain that my future in ministry will require leading through change, helping congregations readjust for a hopeful future, and an abiding commitment to take the church into the world.

It was just a few years ago, after crawling across the finish line of seminary, that I knelt at another altar. This one, beneath the hand of my Bishop. There, I vowed to lead people to God through faith in Jesus Christ. That commitment may come with an incredible challenge, but it also comes with an incredible opportunity. The weight of both the challenge and the privilege was not lost on me as I knelt there and answered the call again. Pastors, and parishioners, rising to the challenge means extending ourselves to offer hope for the hurting, salvation for the sinner, and reconciliation for the repentant. It means more people discovering the love of God who have never known it before. That challenge is deeply compelling to me.

I know enough of life to know that I cannot say how the next 30 years will go; what monuments and markers will move time for me. But I know the task before me. Pastors, like myself, will be tasked with reinventing church, recreating ministry, and reaching into the world. I want all the tools available to me to do that. The movement of my life has stirred up a passion both for the call and for the cause; to fresh expressions of church and a commitment to church renewal. I pray that others will find that passion with me, to give our church a hope and a future, and to offer to others what has been offered to me; real experiences and life changing moments at the altar.

both and.

There’s a sign that hangs over the altar at an old church camp. It reads,
“God calleth sinners to repentance, and believers to entire sanctification.”
If someone wandered into that old tabernacle and read that sign now, there’s a really good chance they’d have feverish visions of “Children of the Corn”. To some, the sign reads like fire and brimstone. It’s reminiscent of a t-shirt I once had that said, “Turn or Burn” across the back. (I wish I was kidding.)

For more than 100 years, people who have stepped onto those grounds have heard a call to repentance and sanctification.
Thousands have responded, many were changed, and countless seeds were planted. That old church camp, that holy place, held regular rhythm in my life. I walked its grounds, and knelt at its altar almost every summer of my life. It carved a pattern in my heart for regular return to the Father in repentance, and a deep desire to pursue holiness.

As I stepped from adolescence into the transitions of adulthood, and began charting new courses in new places, I grew distant from that old leaning tabernacle. Its memory becoming more hazy with every passing year. It would be 20 years before I walked under that tabernacle again. When I did, that old sign hung in its place with the same old call, to repentance and entire sanctification.

I’ve been stuck with those words ever since.
Repentance AND.

I’m left wondering if we’ve lost something.
If I look back on my church experience in my early life there was a clear sense that God called people to repentance. I never experienced a call to repentance in a scary or threatening sort of way. The call to surrender was always wrapped with a clear message that repentance brought forgiveness, and forgiveness brought the freedom to live in the fullness of God’s love.
In my adult life, the call to repentance seems to have faded.
In our efforts to tell the world that God loves, God claims, God redeems, we seem to have neglected the very necessary step of admitting our need for God in the first place. We take without giving. As if we believe we can be filled with all of God’s goodness without first emptying ourselves before him in repentance. That’s all it is, repentance isn’t shame, it’s not God rubbing in our failures, it’s admitting our need for for something only he can give - a fix to our brokenness.
We’ve neglected the “call to repentance” even as we’ve attempted to share messages of the new life only repentance can bring.

I wish that were our only failure.
But somehow the church has missed the call to sanctification in the process too.
We have a deeply moving Wesleyan heritage that believes in growing in perfection, pursuing righteousness, and living the marks of a Christian life. But I listen for the joyful call to pursue the likeness of Christ Jesus, and hear reassurances for our failures instead.
We’ve stopped expecting more of all believers. Instead we’ve offered messages that leave people stewing in half-hearted faith and less that satisfying results of a transformed life.

Full, satisfying faith has seen repentance, reaches for sanctification, and stands in awe of the God who makes both things possible.
Maybe we’ve avoided these messages in recent years for the fear of conviction as unnecessary and punitive judgement.
And in our fear, we’ve denied ourselves, and others, the life-changing goodness that comes with a life fully surrendered.

There must be something to repentance and sanctification.
Or surely they would have taken the sign down by now.

my church is broken.

My Church is broken.

I’m sure it has always been. The Church is people and people are broken.

But the only church I’ve ever known is fighting an all out war - taking sides, creating factions and pushing agendas. All sitting on the inside would say this isn’t the church they love. I’m sure by now, those watching from the outside would say the same.

I used to wish the Church wasn’t broken.
Now…..I wonder how God will reveal himself in its breaking.

If I believe that God can redeem all things, then I must believe that he can redeem this. That he can use it.
And that somehow behind the fogginess of fighting God is working to restore even this.

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Then, in a flash, my humanity creeps back in and I start thinking about how different people believe that redemption will come in different ways. And I start asking questions about what role we’re to play in making room for God to redeem. And I suddenly find myself distant from the peace of relying on God to do the gracious work.

I wonder how often we’ve gotten in the way of allowing God to do his redeeming by our faulty belief that we can ‘order’ our way out of this? That we can fix it with our effort. Surely we are smart enough, and pragmatic enough, and have enough peacemaking skill between these pastors to put together a plan.

Then I remember, that the times in my life when I’ve experienced the generous redemption of God, they’ve come in breaking, in letting go, in coming to my own end enough to stop fighting.

It’s not that God only works when I stop. It’s that I stop getting in the way of his work.
And in the process I signal to the God of the universe that I trust his doing more than my own.

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“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?”
Psalm 8:3-4

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I think I’ve come to my own end in fighting for this broken church.
I’m ready for things to fall apart - so God can do the beautiful work of redemption.