gratitude for this terrify and beautiful time...

Five years ago my life was changed forever in ways I never expected: during my sabbatical from pastoral ministry, I discerned that just as I had once been called into pastoral ministry, now I was being called out of this work. Merriam Webster notes that "a calling" is:"a strong inner impulse toward a particular course of action especially when accompanied by conviction of divine influence." St. Frederick Buechner amplifies in Wishful Thinking:

There are all different kinds of voices calling you to all different kinds of work, and the problem is to find out which is the voice of God rather than of Society, say, or the Super-ego, or Self-Interest.  By and large a good rule for finding out is this. The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work (a) that you need most to do and (b) that the world most needs to have done. If you really get a kick out of your work, you've presumably met requirement (a), but if your work is writing TV deodorant commercials, the chances are you've missed requirement (b). On the other hand, if your work is being a doctor in a leper colony, you have probably met requirement (b), but if most of the time you're bored and depressed by it, the chances are you have not only bypassed (a) but probably aren't helping your patients much either. Neither the hair shirt nor the soft berth will do. The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.

I experienced both definitions when I was 16 years old during an alternative worship encounter at the Potter's House (Church of the Savior) in Washington, D.C. It was 1968. I tried for a number of years to avoid this calling but as one wiser than I observed: "You can run, but you can't hide." I was ordained thirteen years later trusting that I was living into a sacred vocation. In many ways this was true - and that's probably why I didn't see this coming. Talk about gobsmacked! But as I owned my exhaustion and alienation, a crystalline sense of completion convinced me that this chapter was done. My frustration was palpable. My hopes confused. And any sensibility of what God wanted for me in the future was shrouded in obscurity.

On our last night in Montreal, we finally made it to the local monastery's Taize worship. I had avoided it for nearly three months but reveled in the whole experience. Especially what I came to call a humble and downward theological geography: sitting on the floor without obvious hierarchy, sharing the homily, singing - or sitting in silence - for as long as the Spirit desired. When we left, Di said very clearly to me: "You aren't done yet. You're clearly finished being a pastor in the traditional sense. But you are too alive in the presence of the holy to be done with worship and spirituality yet." Her prophetic insight rang true even as I resisted it. For a few years, I stepped away from all public interaction with the Body of Christ. I tried to define myself as a musician - and had a grand few years making serious music. But in time it became clear that a new vocation in contemplative spirituality was luring me out of the darkness. Not back into a local congregation, mind you: I had NO interest in administration or fund raising and the petty politics had burned me out. But... but prayer and song and silence and small acts of compassion? That felt like what both Webster and Beuchner were talking about.

On Good Friday I will play a small role in our L'Arche Ottawa "Stations of the Cross" on Good Friday. Then, on Sunday, Easter 2020, I will return to my little on-line ministry of live-streaming prayer and poetry for this year's Feast of the Resurrection. I will use a simple Eucharistic liturgy and offer a few thoughts and songs concerning the embrace of Christ's resurrection and the Serenity Prayer.

In the years since one calling closed and another started to open, I have become aware that my deepest vocation is all about small acts of tenderness. I have energy - and gifts - for this. Like the Psalmist said:

O LORD, I am not proud; I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself

with great matters, or with things that are too hard for me. But I still my soul and make it quiet, like a child upon its mother's breast; my soul is quieted within me. O Israel, wait upon the LORD, from this time forth for evermore.

Somewhere over the past week I read that this is exactly what is keeping us all alive right now: small, ordinary, often overlooked acts of human and earthly tenderness. The sun that comes up. The wind that blows away the smog. The smile on the face of an unknown neighbor taking a Sunday walk. This poem I bookmarked last week helped me see with new eyes. Lana Hechtman Ayers writes: "Praise in a Viral Time."

Praise to the grocery store worker
who greeted me cheerfully
on the phone when I let her know
I’d arrived to pick up
the order I’d placed online.
Praise to her eyes blue as today’s sky
that smiled apologetically
when she said she couldn’t fill
half my order, there being
simply not much in stock.
I told her she was a hero for being here
in a time of virus to help feed us,
and she said, “We’ll all get through
this crazy time together.”

Praise to the pharmacy clerk,
arriving at the drive-thru window
her hands gloved, smile
bright as her cherry-red hair.
I told her she was a hero for helping
us be as healthy as possible
with so many spreading illness.
She said, “I have lung issues
and both my children are
immunocompromised.
Let’s all be careful.”

Praise to all those who go to work
every day, side by side with a death
virus at work, invisible as breath.

Praise to the delivery drivers,
the warehouse and factory workers,
and the farm workers laboring
tirelessly for the good of all.

Praise to the firemen and lawmen,
to the pharmacists, the EMTs,
the nurses, the doctors always
selflessly on the front lines.

Praise to the tech folks
who keep our virtual worlds
smoothly unfolding
so we can be together
in this ether of electrons.
Praise to all those online
posting messages of humor
and survival and hope.

Praise to the postal workers
even if it’s mostly bills, praise to
all the utility employees,
everyone who keeps the power on,
the water flowing cleanly, freely.

Praise to the garbage men,
praise to the cleaners and janitors
perhaps most of all, blessings
and endless praise for making
every surface safe once again.

Praise to the homeless man
who looked at my privileged self
with pity on his weather-beaten face
and said, “You can get through this,
honey. I’ve done it for years.”

Praise to human kindness
that blossoms in times of crisis,
like spring after a relentless,
crippling winter.

Praise to every human on earth,
even those who have not yet
discovered in their hearts
a way to be generous,
a way to reach out to others
in these uncharted times.

Praise to being human because
we all have the capacity
for growth and change,
and at the very least,
all can be civil,
as my counselor Jane told me
on the phone this very morning,
Most of us stop for the red light.

I am so grateful to be alive right now - at this terrifying and beautiful moment in history - and pray I have the chance to live more deeply into this new vocation.