hearing whispers in church

In church on Sunday, with the thoughts from my previous entry very much in my mind, I listened as Pastor Amy preached on the necessity of the church. As my struggle with the concept of the modern church has grown in recent months, I found myself very attentive to the sermon. I wanted her to give me reasons to shelve the thoughts that have been circulating lately about the importance of worshiping in church-- the physical body that is church, and not every follower of Christ, the body of Christ, the church. Especially as I grow into new gifts this summer that I have previously not taken ownership of, and as I contemplate what my acceptance of them might mean for my future.

So I was listening. But the sermon only raised more questions and really settled no doubts or uneasy feelings for me. While I have begun to doubt the necessity of the modern church, I do not doubt it's importance. Ah ha, there is a difference. Surely something or someone can do good work, but still not be necessary, don't you think? Anyway, I'm saving those thoughts for later. But one of the arguments she posited was that in the time of the early church, when those first, brave, early Christians were living radically, the church was a place for them to come home to, and to draw strength from, and to find fellowship for living radically in a Roman world. These Christians were persecuted for their decision to live as Christ taught, and I imagine being a Christian in Rome was as marginalizing as it was to be Christian in Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, only ten times more intense. I never had anyone refuse to shake my hand because I was a Christian (like my father said he was taught), but I got very curious looks after I revealed I was a Christian. For me, the hard part was just being so different, alonef-- and so visibly, noticeably different (as a non-Muslim, I was only one of a very few who did not wear the hijab in Bukittinggi). And, then of course, let's make it life or death. I just can't imagine what they might have faced in pioneering a new way of life in an era like that of ancient Rome. So it's easy for me to understand that they NEEDED fellowship with the body of Christ-- why church was NECESSARY for them.

But Christianity today is not the same as it was. I won't condemn the changes that have occurred-- it is my understanding that many of those changes were necessary for our survival as a faith. But in some ways, I DO think we sold out. We began to incorporate Roman standards into our ways of living, to blend in, to survive-- standards that made it seem (and still might, depending on your faith tradition) that some Christians are above others (I'm talking about the subjugation of women to men and the justification of slavery found in the household codes of Ephesians and other parts of the New Testament). If we were still living radically, if we hadn't assimilated, maybe. If America weren't governed like we expect everyone to be a Christian, or that Christians are the majority, or if the American flag didn't find its way into our churches and "God bless America" didn't end up on car bumpers, maybe. But let's challenge ourselves for a minute here: are Christians today still living radically? Or have we BECOME Rome?

So anyway, all of this was swimming around in my mind, me thinking a million miles per second and trying to retain all of my thoughts, but still just wanting to find the comfort of complacency (please just tell me I'm wrong!), and then Pastor Amy read this verse, from Matthew. The author, here, was instructing the disciples in the ill treatment they could expect for their fulfillment of Jesus' teachings, and also comforting them that they should not fear those who would oppress them. He says, "So do not be afraid of them. There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs." Mt 10:26-27.

And it was the word, "whispered" that stood out. My mind changed tracks-- I wasn't thinking about the necessity of the church anymore, I was thinking about the whispers I've been hearing lately. The whispers about gifts and capabilities, and new callings and... ordination. About ministry as a vital and necessary part of fulfilling MY commitment to Christ. About a conversation I had with a friend about what evangelism is-- the way all Christians should live their lives, as a testimony to the powerful love of Christ-- and is not-- an oppressive, superficial get-the-word-out about Christianity, Bible distribution.

Although bringing it all back round: ordination BY a church body, yet feeling there is no necessity of church, and my own powerful desire to follow into whatever dark and scary place God calls me-- even if that means ministry and said ordination, (phew, take a breath) means only more questions and less understanding, I too am comforted by these words that nothing concealed will not be disclosed, nothing hidden will remain unknown. And while I might not be ready to proclaim from the roofs that I'm accepting this call to seek ordination, I will acknowledge that I am hearing it. And I am willing to explore what that means with my community of believers now, instead of hiding it in my heart. Now, that's progress. Let's hear it for whispers in church.

whispers of more

Tonight, I ventured downtown to meet with Mary, my advisor for the pastoral care resident position at Camp Fraser. In addition to this very important relationship, I also feel very connected to Mary in terms of my spiritual journey. In a sense, I feel as though Mary’s experience is kindred with mine, because it seems she’s already experienced so similar a calling to what I am now discerning, and because our unique circumstances are so familiar to one another’s.

So Mary speaks my language. She knows exactly what I need to hear and when I need to hear it. And she is able to make me really understand, and she listens to my doubts and understands even as she tells me they are groundless, and she empowers me because she sees my spiritual gifts. Which I don’t, yet.

So in our conversation tonight, we touched on multiple points that I’m still trying to absorb. Like, this summer isn’t about whether I have pastoral gifts, she says, this summer is about accepting them. There is no question that I have gifts here, according to Mary. I wish I could see what she is so clear about.

But in deciding where I would hold Camp Fraser Friday Debrief sessions, we went into the sanctuary. It was evening and it was dark and Mary put the lights on only in the pulpit… and then she invited me to stand behind it. And the place where it is holy revealed more to me. I stood from behind the pulpit, illuminated, and looked out into the rows of pews, the vaulted ceilings, the intricate stained glass. And I imagined people’s faces. And I had my breath taken away.

The sanctuary has never been such a place of peace before. And yet, amidst that peace, I felt a tiny twinge of fear, because I think that I can hear God whispering, but I don’t understand why. Why would He call me to this, when I feel so unworthy? So incapable? I almost said to a friend today, that I don’t think I deserve to represent the name of Christ. I’m so utterly human. I know that none of us is deserving, and yet I feel that I am even less so. Like Isaiah before he answered God’s call, I am completely unworthy – RUINED- with “unclean lips”.

So I left the church, wondering at this new revelation, this further step toward acceptance of God’s plan. And as I stood on the metro platform, watching all the different, beautiful faces walk by, the world tilted on its axis again, and words I read months ago suddenly became truth for me. Shane Claiborne says that Jesus gives us new eyes, and with these, we can look into the eyes of those we don’t even like and see the One we love. Well, I wouldn’t fathom to say that I’m where Shane Claiborne is, but I started to see a little of what he meant. I’ve never seen the face of a stranger and thought, “Beautiful, glorious work of God,” before. But as so many people streamed by me—with their children, their significant others, alone; in their work clothes, the only clothes they had, clothes that didn’t match; with their burdensome bodies, and limps, and some with their smooth, proud, steady gait—I thought, You are beautiful, and I can see God in every ‘flaw’ and ‘imperfection’—each of which He intended. And it occurred to me that while this was a major step for me in learning to TRULY VALUE CREATION, it must be remarkably easier to see God in the face of the ones that you don’t know, and will likely never know, than to see the face of God in that of the ones you know and do not like. There is always more.

As I watched people walk by, I saw a face that looked like my friend D’s significant other, whom I’ve only seen in a photograph once, and then another man who was slightly familiar… and then I saw my friend D! What a beautiful surprise, to first see God in strangers, and then to see friends among them. God is so clever. He really knows what He is doing.

I don’t. But I’m trying to learn. And I’m starting to hear the whispers of more.

God, it's hard to be called.

This week is more than crazy for me. I started my new job. I'm taking a summer school course. I'm beginning my pastoral ministry at Camp Fraser. I'm only nannying in the mornings-- thank goodness, I couldn't do anything else! And more than ever, I'm trying to remember that I am indeed equipped with all I need in order to be able to handle all of these things. It would be easy to forget on a normal day. But I'm still learning to believe that I can be used by God-- learning to believe in myself, in the woman that God created me to be, with the gifts that God has given me.

This past weekend, I went home to Texas for the first time in six months. Six months is a long time, but in the face of the tremendous spiritual and personal growth I've experienced, six months is literally a lifetime. Life has changed in those six months for me. And I found myself struggling when I was with my family, struggling to be the daughter, sister-- the CHILD that they had known me as; expected me to be, and still be the woman that I've become.

I always go home and yearn for what I know I can no longer have. Mine is a family of proximity. We're a small family here, no extended family nearby, and not good at communicating. My older sister and her husband and daughter live thirty minutes away from my parents. My younger sister still lives at home. They do things together. They see each other. They know what's going on. And I don't, because I'm busy with the life I've made for myself in DC. How can I explain what I mean by a 'family of proximity'? If you live nearby, you know what's going on and you see each other. But if you live far away, the things you miss out on are not the things that would be reported-- they are the little things, the 'daily life things' that you miss out on witnessing. And when you come to visit, you won't DO things. You won't go out, you won't make plans. You'll just be. There. Together. A family of proximity.


I come home and I realize how much I've missed them. I realize how much I miss and can never have, when I live away. But I KNOW that I'm where I'm supposed to be, and that is the hard part. I think I'll never have the life of my sister: graduate from college, move back home, get a job, get married, have a baby, buy a house. A part of me yearns for a life like that. But, without a trace of condescension, I know that I am called to something more than that. I'm not saying I won't ever own a house, or get married, or have a baby, but it will be different. And it's not going to be soon. In my life, there's something else that is coming first. It's calling out to me, and God, it's hard to be called to something shapeless when I think I could be happy with the shape called tradition.


I hadn't completely formulated these thoughts on why it was so hard to be myself until my mother called me out on it. She said, "Amy, I feel like you're a different person in DC than you feel like you have to be when you come home. You don't have to be. We know you're called to something different, something bigger." And that's when I saw a little of what my mother saw, my struggle, my desire for a life I'm not meant to have, for something I consider normal instead of abnormal, simple instead of complicated. Known instead of unknown.

Leaving home was a paradox this time. It was both easier and harder to say my goodbyes. As I pulled out of the driveway of my sister's home, I thought, "God, it's so hard to be called apart." Now that I know that my journey means there will be separation, it's easier to go-- it's easier to say goodbye when you know that God has a plan for you. But it was so much harder to say goodbye this time, to the last shreds of hope I kept that God meant for me what I sometimes want when I am scared of the life I will live instead. I will finally accept that my life will be different than what I hoped and planned for as a little girl. Different from what I have been raised to seek.

But still, I fear the sacrifices. I will miss out on the first steps, words, and consumption of solid food by my niece. I will not be there, the first person, if things I fear to mention go wrong. I won't be there to help my sister register for her first college classes. And I'm already seeing frailty and age creep across the faces of my parents. I grieve for these things I will miss as I accept that God has a purpose for me missing them.


I have begun to pray for a partner. If my course will veer off the beaten path of my family, I pray that I don't have to pioneer a new path through the jungle alone. This is a selfish prayer, but I feel that it's time. The complete and utter commitment in my heart to follow the call to the depths of the deepest recesses of Creation should merit the request for a companion. At least, I hope it does. That's a decision for God, but I can certainly make a petition. Hope for family. I leave you with images of family that will sustain me until my next journey home.