Candidacy
On the day my friends were commissioned, I went to have blood drawn. I’ve been having these undiagnosable abdominal pains, and running some basic tests was the first step in getting an appointment at the free clinic, the only place I've found that's seeing Medicaid patients right now. I waited in line at the hospital, made small talk with the nurses, and gave away a small portion of myself so that I might find healing someday, and soon.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I roasted pumpkin seeds. We had carved our jack-o-lanterns over the weekend, Ian working on his precision carving long after I laid down my knife and started sorting the seeds from the guts, and I knew if I left the bowl out any longer, the few strings of pumpkin flesh still left among the seeds would start attracting fruit flies. While pre-service announcements scrolled and the oven preheated, I selected spices and melted butter and rinsed off the neglected seeds, preparing them for their transformation.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I did laundry, folding clothes while the organ music drifted upstairs. I tossed socks and undershirts and white rags from the kitchen into the washing machine, wondering whether or if I should put some bleach into this load. It might wash out the grey toes and red lettering on the socks, but the rags lived a rough life. They deserved the chance to regain some of their earlier sparkle. In the end, I decided against it, since the next load up would be full of clothes too nice to risk accidentally bleaching.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I made the bed. I did the dishes. I thought about vacuuming, but didn’t. I dusted. I tidied. Ian cooked. My hands found a million little tasks to occupy themselves while the October breeze drifted through my house, clearing the air. Wednesdays aren't usually my day off, but I took these two hours to myself, closing my laptop and letting the readings and the litanies and the sermon follow me around as I arranged the couch cushions and scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the table, quietly caring for the home I've helped build.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I cried.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I yelled.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I fell apart.
See, there's this line in the ordination service liturgy, and in the baptismal liturgy, for that matter, that has never sat well with me, anytime I've heard it. In the ordination service, we ask ordinands and those who are being commissioned to affirm that they will be loyal to the United Methodist Church, just like we do when people are joining the UMC, either at their or their child's baptism, or during confirmation, or as new members. We ask the clergy to affirm that they will uphold the Discipline as well, and abide by the guidance of the bishop and those in authority over them. I heard the Bishop recite this liturgical question as I moved from the living room to the kitchen, smelling the pumpkin seeds nearing the end of their roast, and while my friends said a quiet, "Yes," along with their peers, I shouted, "No!" as I pulled down an oven mitt and stuck my hand into the oven.
I was struck by this deep and true admission as I tossed a new batch of seeds in spices and butter, and I wanted to pursue it further, but I set it down as the sermon began. The preacher had taken a bold, political stand a few years before and gotten some press for it, but she brushed aside the praise some wanted to lavish on her. Instead, she wove a picture of ministry with threads of determination and perseverance and promise, and for a minute, I believed her. My chest swelled with hope and I paused, dishrag in hand, as I heard her say that sometimes in ministry, God doesn't show up. I marveled at the beauty and the honesty, the brutal, freeing truth that she was sharing with those who would be struggling with their congregations during their calls, and I thought that maybe, maybe, maybe there might be a place for me somewhere among the ranks of the ordained, one day.
And then she went on.
She went on to say that sometimes God leaves you to deal with the consequences of your mistakes, and that people will be hurt, and that you will have to do all you can to heal that hurt, and that sometimes, all you can do will not be enough.
The dryer buzzed.
I walked away.
I have struggled for years with the idea that I am not suited for ordained ministry. It's not that I hold clergy in particularly high esteem, it's that I hold myself in decidedly low esteem. I always think, deep in my spirit, that I'm not enough. I'm not healed enough, I'm not whole enough, I'm not kind enough, I'm not wise enough, I'm not patient enough, I'm not loving enough, I'm not discerning enough to be a pastor. As my time in ministry came to a close this time last year, it was confirmed for me over and over again that I was not enough. My words were not enough. My presence was not enough. Everything I had given in my year and a half as a pastor was not enough. I was not good enough to pastor these people and now everyone had ended up hurt.
I wrestled with this conviction, this surety that my failings as a minister had done irreparable harm, for months. With the constant, consistent help of others, I tamed it and reshaped it. The situation was more complicated than the story I was telling myself. Anyone would have been challenged by the situation I was in. Healing for others would happen in time, but I had to acknowledge my hurt so that I too could heal. And you know, there's a reason why David begs God to not take God's spirit from him in Psalm 51. Sometimes, God doesn't show up. Sometimes, people who are trying to care for one another hurt one another, and God doesn't show up. Sometimes, congregations hurt their pastors, and God doesn't show up.
But on the day my friends were commissioned, all of the work I had done to reimagine my situation and myself unraveled in a moment. With a few words from a preacher who did not know me and was not intending to preach to me, the old refrain came back. This was all my fault. I had wrecked it all. I was not enough.
I forced my legs up the stairs. Not enough.
I folded sheets. Not enough.
I hung shirts to dry. Not enough.
I sorted clothes. Not enough.
I started another load. Not enough.
I grabbed my computer. Not enough.
I started back to work. Not enough.
I texted love and thankfulness to each of my friends as their names were called during commissioning. Not enough.
I stored my pumpkin seeds. Not enough.
I washed the pans. Not enough.
I sat down to write this post. Not enough.
On the day my friends were commissioned, I discovered there was no going back.
For all that I have tried to distance myself from it, the liturgy of the United Methodist denomination still holds power over me. What we say and do in worship still shapes what I think and feel and believe. Worship has always been the time and place when I have felt the most honest, when I felt that I could and should bring my fullest self to the altar, when my soul would be stirred and inspired to reflection and growth and repentance and restoration. Worship means something to me. Liturgy means something to me. And I cannot stand before God and creation and say that I will remain loyal to the United Methodist Church. I cannot say that I will abide by the authority of the bishop. I cannot promise to stay in this denomination that has unraveled so much of me. And so, I cannot continue to pursue ordination in the United Methodist denomination.
There's more, of course. There always is. There's the fact that I walked out of ministry with more debt than I walked into it, despite my best efforts to earn all I could, save all I could, and give all I could. There's the fact that I endured inappropriate touches, leering looks, and sexist comments regularly during my time in ministry. There's the fact that I was threatened and verbally abused because of my racial justice work, with no recourse. And there's the fact that if my ministry profile had been taken seriously by the bishop and those in authority over me, I, like so many of my friends in ministry, should never have been placed where I was at all.
It's this last thought that hurts the most, because despite the pain and hurt of leaving as I did, I still love Whittier and the people there. I still love Sylva and the community I found there. I love the colleagues who supported me and walked with me and in many ways, I miss the work. If I had found myself ministering there in any season but Covidtide, maybe the hurt would have been more manageable, the differences more surmountable. Maybe I'd have a story that warms the heart instead of draining the soul. Maybe I'd be more willing to make promises and maybe I'd trust God to show up and help me keep them.
But that is not the world we live in.
And so, today, I went back to the doctor, 466 miles away from the church I served last year, to talk about medication and scans for the abdominal pain that has still not gone away. The pumpkin seeds are long gone, but the laundry is in progress, the bed is made, the floor is vacuumed, thanks to the furniture rearrangement necessitated by the Christmas tree, and all I need to do is rinse out a coffee cup before the kitchen can be called clean. Despite it all, I'm hopeful. The litany of Not Enough is quiet for today, and with enough quiet days, I might be able to tune it out for good. It's warmer than expected and despite the clouds, the breeze feels holy somehow, uplifting and stirring, freeing the leaves from their piles and words from my throat. There is hurt, still, of course. There is sadness and grief and loss, still, of course. But for the first time in a long time, there is freedom, too. Freedom to dream about what might come next. Freedom to imagine all that could be. Freedom to love without hiding any of myself away. Freedom to be.
On the day I told my friends that I would not be commissioned, I felt free.
And it was good.
For those who’d like to read the full text of my request to withdraw from candidacy for ordained ministry, I’ve published it here. For those who enjoy conversational podcasts, we discuss my writing of this letter in this episode of What the Hell is a Pastor.