The uncovering and practice of gifts

I think I was mostly frustrated and challenged by seminary because all I wanted to do was sit around in people's living rooms with beer (or milkshakes) and talk about Jesus and theology and feminism and sometimes sports. Like, why did we have to take up all this time going to class and (ugh) learning when we could be sitting around professing and prophesying?

Well, probably because most of what we did in the living rooms of classmates was not prophesying at all. We did a lot of things, but basically none of them could be qualified as prophesying. We questioned, argued, debated, sometimes walked out. We complained (a LOT), we proved people wrong (okay, a lot of times, people proved us wrong, too), we "omg did you see this article?" almost weekly. We also spent a lot of time not being theological at all-- whether it was complaining about a classmate or professor, or just complaining about seminary in general, we didn't really do any prophesying. We did, however, drink a lot of beer and milkshakes.

But we did learn in those moments. We learned about pastoral care and what it looked like to be present for one another amidst the nonsense and daily struggle, as well as tragedy and trauma. We learned how to disagree with someone while still loving them (even if we're not so great at demonstrating it). We learned how to listen and how to speak.

And let me tell you, it wasn't easy. It was emotional and it was messy. Like I've mentioned before, I spent most of my first year in seminary sitting with Daniel and legitimately sobbing that my heart was too full and I wasn't good at any of this seminary stuff. I didn't feel like I belonged for most of seminary, actually. I kept up academically, but as full of love my heart was, I struggled to show it. And when I did, I mostly did it in unhealthy or unhelpful ways. So many people in seminary were so kind. So many of them were gentle. I have literally never in my life fit into those two categories. Passionate? Yeah. Compassionate? Ehh, I wasn't that good at showing that particular quality.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm pretty full of myself. And I do think I have most some of the qualities that make a great pastor, friend, or Christian. It's the demonstrating them part that always hangs me up. And maybe that means I don't actually possess those gifts. It's hard to tell, because for the majority of my life, I really didn't think I was given those gifts.

But the more I've learned about myself and uncovered my gifts for ministry, the more I'm convinced that it is not so much that I don't possess those gifts. I think God has given me the gifts of compassion, kindness, charity, love (and, okay, maybe not so much gentleness or patience). Because honestly, I don't think God would have called me so obviously to ministry if God had not given me these gifts. Plus, I can feel these gifts stirring inside me quite often. My heart breaks for the things that break God's heart. I ache and cry out in frustration and distress for the pain in this world. I feel deeply and fully when people experience violence and trauma. So, I know I possess these gifts deep in my bones.

These gifts have just been buried by my other characteristics and qualities for so long, that I've forgotten how to demonstrate them. I haven't practiced them enough for them to come naturally to me. I react with things like sarcasm instead of compassion. I react with passion (being appalled and infuriated by situations) instead of compassion (continuing to listen and care for a person). I spring into action quickly and sometimes carelessly, before considering all aspects or carefully considering. I am often brutally honest with people instead of being kind to them. It's not that these things are inherently bad or wrong, but they do make relationships (and ministry) for me more difficult.

Maybe it's that God gives us gifts that we have to uncover, we have to cultivate. Sure, some people are probably born kind and compassionate (I believe Daniel was, but I'm pretty biased), but others have to be formed and re-formed into living out their gifts in Christ. So that's what seminary has done for me, it has given me the tools and motivation to cultivate those gifts in myself. I'm not done yet, because God in the Spirit will likely be re-shaping me and showing me a new, better way until the day that I die. But it's happening. And it's frustrating and excruciating work (have I told you about how I only like doing things that I'm good at?), but I needed it.

So I guess what I'm saying is that that is why seminary was such a struggle for me, why I often didn't seem like I was happy. Because I felt like I was crawling out of my skin with things I'm not very good at, and learning them from deep within my bones and spirit. And those growing pains hurt.

Pray then do

I might be becoming a cynic. Maybe I was always a cynic and restaurant work brought it out in me. Whatever the case may be, I think it has done me good to be out of the church bubble I've been in for the past several years and talk to people who a) don't care for the church, b) are apathetic toward the church, or c) hate the church with their entire being. I've learned a lot and honestly, I kind of agree with a lot of what my colleagues say to me when I tell them I'm a pastor.

It's an interesting phenomenon, really.

When I'm in a casual conversation with someone and they ask me what I do, I usually say some variation of, "I studied to be a pastor," "I am a pastor," or "I work in the church." All of a sudden it's like invisible floodgates open and everything that they have ever experienced in Christianity comes rushing out (usually at me). I honestly don't mind these conversations, because a lot of times I can agree with at least some of what they say and in some instances try to apologize for what the church has done and (not very often) say, "if you'd be interested in giving it another try, I know this church..."

I was talking to a friend the other week about "everything that's wrong with the church/people who call themselves Christians," and she got on the subject of praying. She said, "I get that praying can seem really powerful for y'all, but why don't you actually do anything? Praying isn't going to fix the government or on a smaller level, feed that hungry person you just passed on the street." After talking a little bit more, she said, "praying didn't help me when I had my daughter. I'm sure plenty of people prayed for me, but no one in my parent's church stepped up and paid my bills or offered to give me a job or a place to stay when I needed it."

I couldn't agree more.

I've come to the realization that saying that we will pray for someone has become a bit of a cop out. It has become a conversation ender when we become uncomfortable. It has become a passive way of making us free as if we are making a difference when we could actually be making a difference. 

I compare it to being a "Facebook advocate/activist." It's awesome that people share photos online of their favorite causes and charities, but if we are not donating to those charities, marching in those protests, calling our senators, speaking against whatever -ism in real life, then our Facebook activism falls short. Really short.

Sometimes, though, praying is all we can do. I understand that. No matter how much money I donate to cancer research, I cannot cure my friend's cancer. I cannot assist my friend who lives 2000 miles away with the child care she so desperately needs. So I pray. And that matters.

But sometimes there is something we can do. Something more than praying. I've recently had many religious and less-than-religious friends comment about "thoughts and prayers" after national tragedies. There are a lot of us who feel hopeless against such senseless violence and we want to say something or do something to make it feel as if we can make a difference. And prayers do make a difference. But offering our prayer is only the beginning of seeking justice.

When presented with dead children, bleeding women, and crippled people, Jesus did not wait in the wings to offer them "thoughts and prayers" (Luke 7, Matthew 9). He went to them, he healed them, he offered them justice and peace. What good is saying, "peace, peace," when there is no peace (Jeremiah 6:14; 8:11)? Offering "thoughts and prayers" to people without moving into action, or at the very least advocating for action, we are healing the wounds of God's people superficially (Jeremiah 6:14). In other words, we are putting a bandage over a hemorrhaging wound instead of finding the cause and healing it.

There is nothing wrong with praying. But it cannot be passive. We must pray then do. Pray then protest. Pray then offer to cook a meal. Pray then drive her to the bus stop. Pray then step in when someone is being persecuted. Pray then do his laundry. Pray then help them look for a job or offer to be a reference. Pray then visit her in the hospital. Pray then babysit their children. Pray then call our senators. Pray then advocate for change. Pray then do.

My struggle through seminary

My parents weren't exactly "convinced" when I told them I wanted to go to seminary. To them, I think it felt like an attempt to prolong "real life" or maybe a last ditch effort to find meaning. I don't really blame them. It was pretty out of the blue, and it was almost a 180 degree turn from most of my life. And I don't think I really affirmed my decision very well throughout seminary either. I remember my mom saying quite often, "You don't really seem happy. Are you happy?" And, of course, I would immediately get defensive because of course I was happy. I was where God had called me. I was connecting to the deepest parts of my heart for the first time in my life. Of course, I am happy, mother. Leave me alone now, to be h.a.p.p.y. 

But I could see why she didn't think I was happy (I probably wasn't "happy," the way most people would use the word). I was struggling. From the very first class in seminary, I was struggling. Seminary was hard. Oh, but it was a deep deep joy for me as well. As much as it hurt to be stretched, moved, changed, broken, and molded, it brought me deep and abiding joy. I went through more transformation in the first few months of seminary than I had my entire life. I remember in elementary school I had terrible "growing pains" in my legs and feet. My body was changing and growing so fast that it was actually painful. This spiritual growing was also excruciating. So to the general spectator, or even to the people closest in my life, it probably didn't look like I was very happy.

I don't think the classes in seminary are designed to be difficult. And I didn't find them to be particularly difficult throughout the three years. Greek, of course, was like drinking out of a firehose. And I was never exactly brilliant in Greek, but I understood it enough to get by. I didn't understand any of Hebrew, and it was basically the worst (they say it's mathematical or "logical" and I'm like okay, 1+1+1=1 [Trinity joke, y'all]). All the other courses were challenging, but more so in the "make you rethink everything you've ever known and believed" sort of way. The workload was annoying for most classes, but never oppressive.

So, what made seminary so difficult? Probably the "make you rethink everything you've ever known and believed" part. My pre-seminary education was pretty normal for anyone who never really imagined going to seminary. I went to Sunday School for basically my whole life, learning about the picture-book stories like creation, Noah, and probably something about Jesus. I went to confirmation class when I was in middle school and memorized the books of the Bible (that's about all I remember from confirmation-- the fact that I had to memorize the books of the Bible, I don't actually remember the books of the Bible). I didn't attend any church camps growing up, at least not that I remember. I attended the ELCA Youth Gathering (and it was awesome), and after college I worked for the campus ministry at Ohio State while it went through a leadership vacuum.

So let's just say I didn't have any theological training beyond the couple of Rob Bell and Francis Chan books I had read in college.

So in seminary, it seemed as if every day I was being smacked by the realization that I everything I thought I knew about God was either wrong or not-exactly-right. Imagine that. At 21 years old, without any theological training, I didn't know everything. So what seemed like every day, whether it was in class or in conversation with upperclass colleagues, I had to question everything.

If you've ever gone through this kind of questioning and awakening, you know how completely exhausting it is. So as joy-filled I was by my new friendships and learning, I was also feeling those growing pains all the time. That's why when people ask me about seminary I tell them to run away quickly, especially if they aren't ready for such fast and hard growth. And maybe not everyone goes through such crazy growing pains in such a short period of time. Maybe some people are able to go through those growing pains and still remain happy. But it was the kind of pain and growth that was needed for me to get to where I am today: called by God and the church to public ministry and working (and failing) day after day to follow Jesus.

My call to ministry

When I was growing up, I was never very interested in doing anything unless I already knew I was good at it.

When I was in junior high, I wanted to be a theater star, I wanted to be a famous singer. You see, I had auditioned for our junior high school musical and the director ranted and raved about my audition. "Where have you been? Why didn't you audition for the middle school production of Annie??" (I had planned to, but I wrote down the wrong date for the auditions. Whoops.) Side note: I was running for the cross country team at the time and I was super terrible at it. I immediately quit upon being cast in the musical. I thought I was brilliant. It turned out that I was mostly just good at being type-cast as the singing-but-not-dancing lead role, who was generally blonde, stupid, and had an annoying screechy voice. But I thought I could be a star. And I was for a little while in junior high. Eventually I realized that I wasn't brilliant and found something else to obsess over.

In high school, I took a TV production-type class. We went "on-air" to make announcements to the school every day, we storyboarded, wrote, filmed, and edited PSAs, commercials, and music videos. And I was pretty good at it. I loved dreaming up concepts and watching them come to life on our old school editing TVs. So I was obviously going to be a TV talking head when I grew up. I'd go to school for broadcasting or journalism and really find my stride.

After that class, I took the newspaper class and a speech-writing class. And I was pretty good at both. I guess to be more precise, I was decent at writing articles, I was a harsh editor, and I was great about inserting myself into the right place at the right time for great photos. My photo even made the front page of our monthly newspaper. In the speech-writing class, I always got great grades, and felt wonderful giving speeches or debating, no matter the topic. I knew I would either be a journalist or a speech writer for someone important.

This delusion continued into college where I was accepted into the Media, Marketing, and Communications Scholars program at Ohio State (thank you, writers of recommendation letters). But suddenly I was a tiny fish in a big huge pond. I wasn't that good at any of these things I'd tried. I could hold my own, but there was no way I was going to excel the way my classmates did. So, with speech-writing still in my heart, I moved on to something that I thought I would be good at-- American Political Science.

And I did excel in most of my political science classes. I was good at writing exactly how the professor wanted, I loved reading Leviathan and treatises, I could remember theories and arguments thoroughly. I had written so many research papers (my favorite kind-- I'm sick, I know) in high school, that I could knock one out in a day by college. So when I talked to my advisor about taking more classes and graduating early, I knew that I didn't need to try to do anything more than political science. I was good at it, so there was no need to add a second major or a minor even. Just political science.

All this, my history with only wanting to do things I'm already good at, is why I knew I was called to ministry. Not by people, not by my own ego, not by society, but by God.

You see, I'm not that good at most of the things involved in ministry. Relationships have always been really hard for me. Small talk is excruciating. I'm an okay preacher, but only because of hard work and a lot of focus throughout seminary. I have a deep and abiding love for God's people, but I'm sometimes harsh and abrasive, impatient with imperfection and the slow laboring coming-of-the-Kin-dom. Teaching is fun for me, but I usually get way too nerdy and don't realize when I've lost people. Honestly, I would probably be a much better church administrative assistant than a pastor.

So the only way I can explain my call to ministry is in these terms: God put it in my heart. To humble me. To stretch me. To mold me. To kill and resurrect me. To prune me. My whole life, I only ever tried things that I already knew I was good at. It was never really my idea to enter seminary or ministry. After all, I spent most of the first year sitting across from Daniel in the dorm hallway, sobbing that I was no good at any of it and that I didn't belong there. (Did I mention that I'm pretty good at being dramatic?) That's how I know my call is legit. That's how I know this is where I am supposed to be. Not because I am good at it (I'm totally not), but because God has put it in my heart so obviously and fully that I honestly can't imagine doing anything else.