I've been reading the memoir of Barbara Brown Taylor, "Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith," (HarperSanFrancisco) and I found myself in the final pages of Chapter 9.
Brown narrates her journey from a being a religious seeker, or an "ecclesiastical harlot," as a priest called her, to her ordination as a priest in the Episcopal Church. Brown-Taylor writes elegantly. Having gone to see her speak several times, I think her appearance matches her prose. She is a tall woman, silver hair perfectly matched to her black clerical shirt and stiff white collar.
She doesn't wear the black shirt or the collar anymore, though. After fifteen years of ministry and serving two parishes, she was exhausted, emotionally and spiritually drained. She left the priesthood and she accepted a teaching position at a college close to the church she was serving at the time.
Chapter 9 of her book records her descent into depression and her quick escape from parish ministry. At the end of the chapter, she writes about being invited to a large pool party hosted by one of her former congregants. During the evening, she wanders past the pool where a number of children are splashing and playing. Suddenly, a fully clothed adult lands in the water, voluntarily or involuntarily, we don't know. Soon, chaos. People all around her are being grabbed and thrown into the water.
Brown-Taylor writes, "Several people hunting for victims turned toward me, their faces lit with smiles. When they saw who I was they turned away again so that I felt sad instead of glad. Whatever changes were occurring inside of me, I still looked waterproof to them."
I may have taken a long time to get to the point, but that's how I feel today--waterproof. I can't give too many details, because then I'll have said too much. Suffice it to say, I experienced one of those times in ministry where the people who normally want you to meet them where they are in life, now realize that you're too close and they're embarrassed or maybe angry that you've seen a part of them they didn't what seen. (Am I being too obscure???)
Anyhow, I find myself caught. I'm not caught in a crisis of calling where I am looking to escape my work as a pastor. However, I do mourn the fact that as a pastor, there are many areas of life where people will hold me at arm's length. I am welcome in their homes after a surgery or a time of grief and I am expected to provide that word or expression that gives comfort or hope. Yet in social gatherings, often conversation can be superficial. People don't want their pastor to know too much, or just as frightening, they don't want to know too much about their pastor.
I'm waterproof.
Taylor-Brown found redemption when someone grabbed her from behind and threw her in the pool. She writes, "I looked around at all of those shining people with makeup running down their cheeks, with hair plastered to their heads, and I was so happy to be one of them. If being ordained meant being set apart from them I did not want to be ordained anymore. I wanted to be human. I wanted to spit food and let snot run down my chin. I wanted to confess being as lost and found as anyone else without caring that my underwear showed through my wet clothes."
I'm ordained. With that ordination, I know that as long as I have that "Rev." in front of my name or people call me, "Pastor," I will always be set apart to some degree. Waterproof. I accept that for now. Thankfully, my wife and family are all too aware of my humanity.
I could write more, but I think I'll stop here. Like I wrote earlier, to say more, is to say too much. In the meantime, I'm going to roll up my pants and wade in the shallow end for a while. Scandalous!
2 comments:
That definently hits home. It can be a strange (lonely) calling, can't it? Jill and I often talk about how we know--and are known--by so many. But on another level, we know--and are known--by so few.
Love the image from Taylor, BTW--I'll have to read that one.
Sigh...I agree with that. I think maybe we are less waterproof here than we might be elsewhere.
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