The Call

2009-08-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in the middle of my living room surrounded by unopened boxes and yet-to-be assembled Ikea furniture. According to Google Maps, I am 1140.6 miles away from home. I uprooted myself from winter rains and gentle summers to a college town swallowed by the Inland Empire. I left a job I loved, a family I cherish, and weekly Seahawks barbecues with friends who know my most painful moments and my favorite rib sauce. I am starting over even though I loved the life I left behind.

And yet, despite all of this trepidation over the people I left behind, I feel a knot of excitement whenever I think about where I have landed. The easy explanation is that for the next three years I am earning my Masters degree in Divinity so that I can become an ordained Elder in the United Methodist Church.

But that is just the bare bones answer. It's like saying "The United States elected a new President" or "We moved to another country." I am going into the ministry because God called me to this vocation and I said yes -- although the story between call and acceptance takes a bit of time in the telling.

My call came one Sunday afternoon, unique only in the fact that it was the first time I remember attending worship service by myself. I attend church with my grandparents and parents, so it is rare for me to not be sitting with a relative or family member. Feeling a bit untethered and uncertain, I sat behind some family friends in a different spot than our usual pew. We stood for the first hymn and I noticed the light change. The music swelled and I noticed that around me that the people joining in the hymn were not just current members of the church, but also members who had died before. I felt a voice deep into the core of my being say: "Feed my sheep." "Uh, what?" I said with all the eloquence I could muster at the time. "Feed my sheep," the voice said again, lovingly. The hymn was over, the light returned to normal, and everyone carried on with the service. I on the other hand was stunned. My life had changed.

At that time, I was about fourteen,and I wasn't about to let anyone tell me what to do with my life. Not even God. I stormed out of the church and gave God a litany of reasons why I should not be a minister. "I do not understand algebra, I do not understand boys, I do not understand you! There is no possible way that I should or could be a minister." And so, in hopes of avoiding what had happened to me, I didn't tell anyone.

Of course running away didn't seem to phase God one bit. In fact, my stubbornness seemed to make her dig in her heels just as hard as I was digging in mine. During a career day at school, my highest score was to be a Rabbi. I was asked and dutifully served on committees and directed the youth handbell choir and plunged myself into the work. "But don't think that this makes me want to be a minister," I would tell God each time I felt the slightest bit of enjoyment out of the work. The next year I had to take the career test, it suggested I should be a nun.

Despite all of this work in my church, I discovered one of the best ways to avoid telling anyone about a call into the ministry is to not talk about my faith at all. So I floated my way through church social hours and rehearsals with nods of my head and avoiding eye contact whenever the pastor asked for a prayer. I was afraid that if I let out a single word, fearing that the story of my call would come flooding out. So I hid each thought, idea, or even inkling about God deep in my heart.

I kept these all these emotions close to my heart until I went to college a place where talking and self-discovery are art forms. Taking the advice of a church member, I joined as many clubs as sounded interesting when I started my freshman year, knowing that I would prioritize which ever ones would be most important to me. I became involved in a Methodist Youth group, a bible study, and a weekly worship service on campus and realized that my faith was more important to me than I had previously let myself believe. Even more surprisingly, I had a lot to say about God, but was still too shy and nervous to let it flow out. As I watched the Chapel Peer Minister lead worship services, I felt a whisper deep down in my soul say, "Yes god, I think I want to do that." The joy and excitement that flooded through me as I saw my acceptance letter to be her replacement felt like a relief. For years I had been denying not just God, but an important part of myself.

I knew I wasn't suited to a job where I wouldn't be behind a desk from nine to five just so I could make money. I wanted to help people, to make a difference in the world. Ministry was a good fit. The tests had it right all along. Even better, I would get to spend time working for God. We had grown pretty close over the years, even if I had been trying my hardest to avoid getting tied down by God.

But, now that I wanted to be a minister I was worried. Was there a statute of limitations on a call? I had spent the last five years making list after list about why I shouldn't be a minister, was it now possible to explain why I should?

That summer between my first and second year of college, I went on a mission trip with my church to Chihuahua, Mexico. "All right God," I prayed. "If you still want me to do this, please let me know." As soon as we stepped off the bus, I saw Sami, a young adult at the mission we were assisting and knew that I was supposed to talk to her. However, over the course of the week, I realized that she and I had little in common. We were both Christian, but it was hard for us to recognize that. No, I really didn't want to talk to Sami. That was a strange idea.

The last day in Chihuahua we took a tour through the slums. We met a brother and sister. He gave up school so he could work and feed his little sister and ensure she could still go to school. He was nine. She was seven. There was a family who showed us their water tank, and the water smelled so fowl that I turned my head to hide my gagging face. I felt ashamed that I couldn't face their daily reality with more respect for their struggles. We met a woman who moaned loudly because the tumor growing out of her shoulder left her incapacitated with constant pain. She asked us to pray for her, because that was all the medicine she had money for. I had never seen, heard, or smelled such poverty. It broke my heart to see fellow my fellow human beings so exhausted and full of despair.

That night, my work team was supposed to lead worship. Our work leader asked me to give the message on the spur of the moment. Now my five years of not speaking about my faith came to haunt me. I tried to say how I felt, what I thought God felt when he saw such poverty, but I spoke haltingly, stumbling over the words. And to my utter humiliation, I cried. This was the first time that I talked about my faith in public sense. I blew it. As I sat back down on the aluminum folding chair I shook so hard it rattled against the floor. "Ah well God," I thought sadly. "I guess this ministry thing is not for me. It's not for me. "

As we were preparing for bed a knock came on my door. An adult leader asked me to come outside. Quickly throwing on a t-shirt over my immodest camisole, I walked out the door looking for the leader and saw Sami instead. She started towards me and spoke quickly. "The Lord has put on my heart to tell you your beautiful. And yes. Does that mean anything to you?" she asked with confusion. I blinked. Sami felt that she needed to talk to me too? I explained to her that I was considering a call into the ministry and asked for confirmation. We talked for two hours that night and in a small miracle, we prayed for each other, and the prayers that had irritated me so much before suddenly became beautiful to me.

The next day, I told my pastor my call story, from the beginning until the night before. And it turns out that she was looking for the right time to ask me if I had ever considered going into the ministry. God was certainly making sure that I got my answer of "YES!" to my question of "Um, can I still do this ministry thing?" that week.

So, that is the call story.

Or at least the beginning of the call. To me a call is never one specific moment, but instead a long narrative about my constantly evolving and expanding relationship with God. I am sure there will be more moments of doubt and uncertainty, just as I know that there will be more moments of confirmation and clarity. And I hope that being in this seminary, making this leap of faith by leaving my life behind and coming to this place, my call story and my relationship with God will continue to grow.

A Journey of Love and Joy

The Call