Not My Voice

At first I was hesitant to believe that this voice I heard in my head was the actually God speaking to me. I’m still not one-hundred percent certain about it. At the time, there was only one way to find out if it was or if it wasn’t God speaking to me. So I started to listen.

The Voice of God

Trusting God implies that we know what God wants us to do. That’s not always so clear and it’s not hard to find different interpretations from different people. Where is that clear voice that speaks from another realm like it did for the people in the Bible?

Approval

Is there anything harder in life than realizing your fate is in the hands of someone else? Whether it is an illness that can only be treated by skilled physicians or a jury that can vote you up or down, we all face times when we have done all that we can and then have to trust that someone else will do the right thing.

Every candidate for ordained ministry in my denomination has to be sponsored by one of the local synods of the church. (Synods are geographical groupings of churches in which a Bishop is given oversight to help them work together.) During my four years of seminary I met annually with two members of my Candidacy Committee. The meetings are meant to be encouraging and supportive, and they are in many respects, but it was also stressful. Knowing students who had been denied approval for ordination after four years of seminary and all the other requirements made the process that much more nerve-wracking.

Additionally, two members of the faculty would be brought in to meet with the student and the candidacy committee. Their job was to vouch for the academic success of the student. They asked probing theological questions about the connection between what we were learning in class and how we would apply that in ministry. In my case, the faculty members liked to play good cop, bad cop. One would ask convoluted questions about ministry that I could barely understand and the other (my academic advisor) would rephrase my convoluted answers so I actually sounded pretty good. I don’t know if this was everyone’s experience or if I simply had one good member of the faculty and one bad.

At the end of my time at the seminary I was faced with one last hurdle. I had to appear before the entire candidacy committee and the Bishop. The meeting took place at the Synod office and I was one of about four or five candidates that were being interviewed that day. Because it was a two hour drive to get there, I had arrived at the Synod office early. As I sat in the reception area and waited I thought about the way my entire future and everything I had worked for the past four years was in the hands of a roomful of people who barely knew me.

Forty minutes after she was scheduled to begin her interview, one of my fellow candidates came out of the conference room pale and sweating. She sat down and slumped with exhaustion. When I politely asked how it went she replied, “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever been through. Good luck!”

Yikes! That was not what I needed to hear. But it felt like I would be prying if I asked her anything else. So I nervously sat with her as the committee discussed her approval among themselves. In a few minutes she was invited back into the room to hear the verdict. All I could do was wait for my turn.

When the door to the conference room opened the Bishop quietly escorted her to the front doors of the office and spoke quietly to her. She nodded, turned and left the building. The Bishop then faced me and said, “Are you ready Kevin?”  and bounded across the room with his hand extended to welcome me.

Inside the conference room I was shown to a seat directly across from the Bishop on the long side of the table. The rest of the committee members were getting to their seats after bathroom breaks and coffee refills. The Bishop introduced everyone at the table and briefly outlined the procedure.

The first question came from the seminary faculty member on the committee. I kept my answer brief. If he wanted more he could ask a follow-up question but I wasn’t going to hang myself by talking at length. The second question came from a committee member I had never met. Something in my answer prompted the seminary professor to ask for clarification. As I felt myself beginning to sink under the waves of judgment, and before I could respond, the Bishop interrupted.

“Let’s cut to the chase. Kevin, we know we’re going to approve you for ordination. What we want to know is if you can serve in the same synod as your dad. I’d like to have you be a pastor here in this synod.”

“My dad and I get along well,” I said. “I think it would be best if I wasn’t in a neighboring town so I can develop my own style of ministry. But I know I would enjoy seeing him at synod assemblies and conferences.”

“Well then,” the Bishop continued, “I don’t see why we need to take up any more time with this. Why don’t you have a seat in the reception area while we make this official and we’ll call you back in here in a few minutes.”

And with that, I was approved for ordained ministry. I can’t describe the relief and elation that I felt. It had been a long journey from the first day I sensed the call. And it would be several more months before I would actually be ordained. There were a few hoops left to jump through but they were minor.

I can see the importance of having an approval process for ordained ministry. Not everyone who feels the call is right for the job. And I’ve personally heard the call to ministries that, in the end, I haven’t been chosen for.  I always try to see how my involvement in the process can be beneficial to me and also help those who are responsible for choosing the people to lead those ministries.  But nothing ever feels so good as having that sense of self validated, of having someone else say that they see in you what you hope is really there.

When Someone Trusts

It really is amazing what kind of growth happens when someone trusts us.

Sitting on the sparse grass and sandy soil just outside of Cedar Lodge the kickball rolled, bounced and arced its way around the circle. With each pass the name of the intended recipient was shouted.  “Brian!” “Scott!” “Darren!” “Chris!” “Scott!” “Chris!” “Mike!” “Rodney!” “Jonesy!” I keep track of who is getting the most passes and who is getting the least. I memorize the faces and try to burn the names into my memory. This is my tribe, my group, my cabin, my boys, my campers. We’ll be together for a week and the sooner we get to know each other’s names the better.

The ball keeps going back and forth across the circle faster and faster and I am suddenly aware that six sets of parents have just dropped off their pride and joy. Some were handed over with a gush of relief and the dream of getting home to a quiet house. Others reluctantly let go of their son’s hand and would loiter around the edge of the parking lot until we hiked off towards our cabin. They would come back on Saturday morning, six days from now, to eagerly embrace their child and listen to them recite everything that happened during the week.

Every summer during college I worked at a Bible camp in northeast Iowa. 500 acres of rocky, hilly, forested terrain in the middle of corn and hay fields provided a natural playground to hike, run, explore, swim and get out of a normal routine. We would read from the Bible, tell stories, sing songs around campfires, play flashlight tag after dark, make crafts, swim in the giant pool of freezing water and talk about God and creation. Other groups, with older kids, would go canoeing or backpacking away from the main camp. We would cook over an open fire, eat trail lunches and stop at the Canteen for an afternoon ice cream cone. For six days I was responsible for keeping this group of boys alive, healthy and having fun.

Sensing that a couple of the boys were getting tired of the game we stood up and started out for the cabins at the south end of the camp. Some, who had been to the camp in previous years, wanted to know if we were going to things they had done before. One wanted to know when we were going swimming. One wanted to know when he could start a fire. I make a mental note to keep that one busy and make sure the matches are always in my pocket.

When I was a kid I was dropped off at Bible camp myself so it seemed natural for a parent to leave their kid at camp for a week. As a 19-year-old counselor, now responsible for six young lives that were not my own, I wondered how they could do that. Why would a parent leave their kid with me, a complete stranger, for an entire week?  Why would someone trust me like that?

I remember being awestruck by that realization. As someone who has taken their own kids to camp I know how hard it is to drive away and trust them to a college-aged young adult who has never met them before. But I also know how much a child can grow in one short week and how it begins to prepare them to be independent one day.

Having people entrust me with the lives of their children helped prepare me for ordained ministry. In addition to the practice I get leading worship around a campfire or preparing a Bible study or listening as a lonely child lamented the fact they were with you and not at home I also learned what it was like to have someone trust me with one of their most precious possessions. Later, in ordained ministry, I was floored by the way people would trust me with the memory of a loved one’s life at a funeral. I was honored to be brought into families at holy and sacred moments like a birth or death, a baptism, a confirmation, a wedding or anniversary. I am still surprised that people entrust me to speak their fears and longings, their joys and sorrows in public prayers and worship.

When someone trusts me like that I never want to let them down. I know that sometimes I do and at other times I live up to the responsibility.

What completely amazes me, though, is the way that God trusts me with all of creation and with the life that has been given to me. When I forget that trust is a gift and only see it as a burden, well, that’s when I tend to fail. But when I recognize that something precious has been put in my hands and that I can help nurture and encourage it towards its’ intended purpose it humbles me and fills me with the joy I need to do a good job.

For those who have trusted me over the years, Thank You.