Moving On

By this time tomorrow, the announcement will have been made that I will no longer be leading the student ministry at the church where I attend. There are a lot of reasons for this, some mine, some theirs. After all is said and done, I think it's a good move, for myself and for the group. Still, the way that it has happened has been very stressful and more difficult than necessary. I'm not going to post specifics, but suffice to say that some of the ways in which churches (generally speaking) handle staff relationships leave much to be desired.

At any rate, within a few weeks I will have left student ministry entirely, after over ten years of working with teens. The odds are slim for my return. I simply do not have the energy left to fight the battles that need fighting. I have begun to seriously question my gifts and abilities, which is a sure indicator that I need time off, if only to regain some perspective and reassess my call and my dreams. I'm going to devote some much needed time to my family, try to sleep more, finish my MDiv, and work on writing more diligently. Hopefully, somewhere along the way I'll figure out where God and I got separated, and we can reconnect.

I'd always thought I'd be in student ministry for life. Now, at the end of the road, I'm not sure what's next.

Hope

Hope is a funny thing. It's a misunderstood thing, I think, a neglected virtue that Paul set alongside faith and love as one of three that most typified Christian spirituality. It doesn't get much press these days; I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen it emphasized in a sermon or other teaching (not counting my own). I think there are reasons for this, one being western Christianity's failure to develop a significant, meaningful theology of suffering, but regardless of the whys we are still left with an impoverished spirituality that handles disappointment poorly. I would be tempted to write of this simply on a personal level if I did not know so many people who have been faced with the tragedy of broken dreams and have had no way to speak of them from a theological standpoint.

Hope is difficult to define. For my purposes, I am choosing to forego definition in favor of description, to begin at least to put some framework around something that I am trying to think through in light of recent events in my life. Hope is anticipatory, concerned with what will be rather than with what is. It is this particular orientation that, it seems, causes us to struggle with understanding and embodying it, because it grates against our perceptions and causes us to live in tension between the present and the future.

Often, hope is portrayed as naive or innocent. It is a warm, soft virtue, like fuzzy bunny slippers or hot chocolate. It is cute and sweet, but not terribly realistic. It is found most often in romantic movies and children's songs and bumper stickers, or so we've been taught to believe. It is fine to hope, so long as we understand the realities of the present.

I don't think hope is like that. I think that hope is a hard, angry virtue. It is defiant and rebellious and stubborn. It stands in the face of the storm and screams defiance into the wind. It is irrational; it cares little for the realities of the present, stubbornly clinging to the tatters of belief that something better must exist out there, biding its time. It is painful and difficult. It gives the last of its sustenance to wandering prophets; it refuses to bow to idolatrous statues; it sees heaven through the bloody haze of pain as rocks come crashing down on its head. It refuses to release its adversary until it is blessed. It stands silently and courageously, refusing to answer its accusers. It is the source of all great deeds of biblical heroism and courage, shouting with its final breath, "Though He kills me, I will never relinquish my trust in Him."

I think that's what hope is like.

Change

I have never understood Abraham. I think that, if God showed up and asked me to kill my son, I would give Him the finger and walk away. I do not say that proudly - I simply have no frame of reference to discuss a man who can hear such a command of God and follow it as an act of faith. To Abraham, however, Isaac was more than his son, his only son, whom he loved - Isaac was the embodiment of all that God had ever promised him. His acquiescence is cryptic at best. Where is the shrewd bargainer, who attempted to talk God out of destroying Sodom and Gomorrah? Where is the hardened fighter, who bested the armies of four kings? The Abraham of Genesis 22 sounds like a broken, defeated man who has run out of responses to the strange commands of God. To me, his silence throughout the narrative speaks volumes. And yet, the only words that he finds to speak are full of some relentless, irrational hope that refuses to release God from the promises He has made - and that hope is proved right in the end.

theopraxis has always been a mix of theological and personal reflection, stemming in part from my desire to live an integrated life. My theology informs my experience informs my theology, so to speak. Last week I wrote about my desire to begin to reflect more constructively, to write about what I find wonderful and mysterious and hopeful instead of writing cynically and critically. Ironically, one week later I find myself in a position where I have nothing constructive to write. I have come to a point in my experience where I, at least for the moment, am unable to think constructively and creatively. I have come to the end of all of my answers and canned theology, and I am not certain where to turn next.

This weekend I had a conversation that brings to a conclusion one chapter of my life, possibly for good. Certain hopes and dreams that I have held for many years have now reached their conclusion, and it is empty. The road has led to nowhere; I am uncertain of where to turn next. I am not able to think constructively, because at the moment I have nothing left but to grieve for things that will, in all likelihood, never come to pass. I do not have a theology for that. Perhaps I should.

I plan to write more specifically about this soon. Certain protocols must be followed, so I am not yet free to say more than I have. My family is well and I have not sinned any more than usual, that much at least I may say. Please, if you would be so kind, remember us in your prayers as we walk through this time of change.

Renovation

I've been facing a sort of writer's block for the past few days. I have several things in mind that I'd like to write about, but I have no enthusiasm for them. I've been thinking about my approach to theology, the church, and ministry lately, and I'm detecting an increasing amount of cynicism working its way into my writing. I'm not sure I'm ok with that.

Part of building new structures, be they physical, social, or theological, involves tearing down the old. Sometimes this is because the old is beyond repair; it has lived out its usefulness and is now in need of being replaced, with gratitude for long years of service. Sometimes this is because the old no longer fits the current situation; what was once comforting and useful is now confining and hindering. Sometimes this is because the old is dangerous and faulty; new information, understanding, and examination reveals cracked foundations and flawed assumptions, and we wonder how anyone lived here in the first place. And sometimes...sometimes, this is because the renovators are overzealous, idealistic, or inexperienced, and do not know how to appraise a priceless antique or treasured heirloom.

Cynicism is an unfortunate habit, because it robs one of the ability to find value in unlikely places. Speaking personally, I find much of what passes for Christian thought in recent years to be pitiful. And, in truth, I try to live an authentic and integrous life, one part of which is truth-telling. Sometimes the walking and talking creature really is a duck, and sometimes spades really should be identified for what they are. On the other hand, when everything you see starts to quack and waddle, you might want to pause and make certain that the problem isn't with your sight and hearing.

I suppose what I'd like to start thinking about more is how to answer the tough questions, instead of just identifying the answers that I think are wrong. It's easy to take shots at megachurches and their building programs, for example, but harder to live at the mercy of others for meeting space. It's easy to bash number crunchers, but harder to live with the gnawing doubt of one's abilities that comes with stagnant growth. The problem with demolition that isn't accompanied by reconstruction is that the only thing that remains is the rubble.

Here is my attempt at renovation: I would like to think towards some degree of reconstruction, of a positive contribution to the conversation rather than just more of the same critical sniping. I'd like to think about gospel and faith and community and service in a context in which the church is considered marginal. I'd like to think about what it means to set aside power exercised in the name of God and instead take on the very nature of a servant. I'd like to speak of wonder and mystery and faith and growth and life. Mostly, though, I'd like to be able to offer up some small measure of thought to the One who knows all, and consider whether He might smile at a child's meager efforts to imitate his Father.

Frost

I picked up a book of Robert Frost's poetry last week. Rather than rave endlessly about how wonderful his work is, I thought I'd share something that I found quite meaningful.

I feel like that - or at least I'd like to.

PC

My computer is still down. A generous friend loaned me his laptop to see me through until mine is functional. I'm still missing some email addresses for a few folks that I owe responses - if you've emailed, I'm not intentionally being rude! Honest!