Cathedral

The Long Walk 

Until the processional hymn started one Sunday recently, I thought it was just a turn of phrase to describe your knees as knocking.  But mine quivered quite definitely as I stepped into the nave of the cathedral, eyes fixed on the prayer desk a long, long way in the distance.

Before Christmas, I was on placement for two months at St Columb's Catherdal here in Derry.  It was a Sunday-only placement, so basically it was in-parish training at leading various bits of services.

I chose St Columb's for several reasons.  Mainly, it's close to home and I already travel 3.5 hours on Sundays during term time.  Also, cathedrals tend to be on the formal side of worship so a good option for learning the 'rules', which later in other parish contexts I might be more inclined to bend.  

St Columb's Catherdal, the highest point in the city,
dedicated to the saint who founded Derry as a monastic site
in the fifth century

The first week, I went along to observe.  The Dean has done an amazing job in these days marked by dwindling congregations -- there were about three hundred regular parishioners there plus visitors.  That's up from when Dean Morton started.  We had a beautifully printed booklet-style order of service.  It was a big service - a Eucharistic celebration marking 400 years of relationship between The Honourable The Irish Society and the walled city it planted here in North-West Ireland.  The Bishop of London was there, the Right Reverend and Right Honorable Richard Chartres DD KVCO to give him his full title.  The civic functions of the Cathedral would be a recurring theme of my later reflections: Remembrance Sunday at the Diamond, the Festival of Nine Carols and Lessons, attended by mayors, councillors, a representative of the Queen even.  That was all quite strange to me, a new-ish Anglican who spent the intervening years in various free churches.

That first visit, I felt a bit like I was in a plane, and we passengers heard voices from the cockpit but we couldn't really see.  Partly because there's an enormous choir at the front between the congregation and the sanctuary where clergy sit, and partly due to beautiful carvings atop each pew end, unfortunately for someone of my little stature, just at eye level.  But our worshipful flight was smooth and at all times I felt myself securely in the hands of people well-trained to do what they do.  The choristers in particular sounded worthy of recording.  It just took some getting used to, joining my prayer to the voices of the 'pros' instead of saying and singing it all congregationally.

A week later, I robed and reported for duty.  And as I say, it was a long, long walk to the front.  That first morning, I reverenced the altar (do they even do that here? there aren't any candles on the altar!) and slipped into my seat at the south end of the altar.  Or as I still like to call it, right turn.  I knew there was a sequence of bowing to my seniors but I didn't even tackle that the first week.

As I said intercessions, I realized I was now the disembodied voice from the front.  It was disconcerting, I thought, not to see the congregation, not to make eye contact.  As always, what most terrifies me is the practical stuff - turning on and off the radio mic is a particular concern of mine; no one needs to hear me strain to sing the melody of the offertory hymn if I forget the off button!

Then, I assisted at communion.  It was the first time in a long time I'd used the first form of the service.  Rather than 'The blood of Christ keep you in eternal life' said to each communicant, it was the wordier (though very lovely) 'The blood of our Lord Jesus which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life; drink this in remembrance that Christ died for thee and be thankful'.  I had the honour of administering the Promise Chalice, and thankfully there were no major mental blocks (although a few people did get an abbreviated version of the words of administration).

Mistakes, I made a good few.  Once when taking the collection plate from the church wardens to give it to the Canon presiding at communion, I trod on my cassock on the step.  There were many kilos of coinage on the very large, solid silver plate and it almost turned ugly.  I learned that sometimes you have to point your toe and step very straight, like a tango move, to avoid a cassock disaster.  Funny the things you need to learn.

Much more importantly, as the weeks passed, I became increasingly aware that as big and important as the cathedral is, it's still a parish church.  The Parish of Templemore takes in a good swathe of the city centre and, crucially, the Fountain, that last Protestant enclave west of the Foyle.  It's where people get baptized, married, have funeral services.  As you enter, as well as carvings and plaques, there's a shopping trolley for donated food items to be distributed.  It's a living community of ordinary people from all walks of life.  It's not primarily a tourist attraction or a museum, or even guardian of the older traditions of the Church of Ireland.  It's a church community.  And a vibrant one at that.

Eight Sundays just wasn't enough, in the end.  I still don't know exactly when to stand/sit/kneel/walk/bow, but that doesn't worry me so much any more.  I know now that cathedral worship is still worship, and a cathedral is still a church.

Does God love introverts?

I recently read Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking by Susan McCain.  

I also watched her TED talk not too long ago, loved her message, and bought the book.  She had me in the first minute, at the bit about taking a suitcase full of books on holiday as a child.

Cain charts the rise of the 'extrovert ideal' in Western cultures, and how we 'innies' find ourselves exhausted trying to live up to the alpha, gregarious, outgoing expectations of the modern world.  And it's tough, she says, when people assume we all need to be in open plan offices, working collaboratively, and that the best ideas are the ones we can defend and persuade other team members of in a focus group.

It always feels good when someone else vocalizes how you feel but don't want to admit.  When Cain says she prefers to work alone independently on something for a while, I get that.  At college, I sometimes feel like I am ready to say something in class about three minutes after the topic changed.  I enjoy teamwork - it's just that I like to know what my bit is and get on with that myself.  On the other hand, I'm only too happy to dwell on an essay question for a few weeks and feel ideas percolate, and reflect on experiences in a journal.

It's not a self-help book really, though I suppose you'd find it in that general area of Waterstone's.  And it does suggest how society might better harness the contributions of introverts, and how in turn introverts can cope better with roles that require them to step out of themselves.

One fascinating insight was the evangelical's dilemma: does God love introverts?  Cain went to Saddleback Church in Lake Forest, California, and met with local pastor Adam McHugh, an avowed introvert.  McHugh demonstrated how some churches make extroversion a prerequisite when recruiting clergy, and implicitly teach extrovert characteristics as Christ-like.

But, says McHugh, evangelicals need to cater for the introverts in their pews, and they might do that by promoting listening as well as talking, incorporating silence and mystery into worship, and aim to include in their ranks some reflective, quiet leaders who can bring other perspectives.

Cain and McHugh go to church together, and compare notes afterwards:

"Everything in the service involved communication," he says with gentle exasperation.  "Greeting people, the lengthy sermon, the singing.  There was no emphasis on quiet, liturgy, ritual, things that give you space for contemplation."

It seems that "If you don't love Jesus out loud, then it must not be real love." (p. 69)

Back when I was testing a vocation to ordained ministry, leadership was one criterion for selection that I constantly questioned.  If by leadership they meant alpha male style, nope, not for me.  Apart from leadership, what of all the visiting, the meetings, the coffee and conversation after services?  

Would I cope?

Cain claims that introverts particularly need to believe in what they do; it's not the fun and excitement of a job, but the values and convictions that drive us.  I'm sure extroverts have values as deep-running as any introvert, but the idea is that extroverts can get energized by the process of launching a product whether or not that product is something of personal value to them.  Introverts find it harder to get revved up about a project they wouldn't choose to be involved in. 

Cain gives three key steps to choosing a career or project, that gave me some comfort those first weeks at college:

1.  Think back to what you loved to do as a child, and what you wanted to do when you grew up.  I wanted to be a doctor.  I was fascinated with people and how we work.  But as I got older I realized I liked books and words and ideas more than test tubes and dissection.

2.  Pay attention to what you gravitate to.  As a teacher, I loved to provide pastoral care and see people develop.  As a student, I loved words, stories.  Politically, philosophically, whatever you call it, I'm drawn to big questions, and to mystery. I like the idea of being counter-cultural and subversive, and I feel a responsibility to make a difference.

3.  What makes you jealous?  We envy those who have what we desire.  I feel pangs of jealousy when I hear of people getting their writing published, involved in fresh liturgy, pioneer ministry, privileged to be there to pray for people at the deepest points of human need.

I think I've chosen well to be here.

Being Israel

For one million shekels*, answer the following question:

What does 'Israel' mean?

A.  He who believes in God

B.  He who conquers through God

C.  He who struggles with God

D.  He who is chosen by God

* Not really.

The answer is C - He who struggles with God.  Remember Jacob?  He meets God in a mysterious encounter, wrestles with him, and ends up limping off.  From then, he has this new name.  You can read it yourself in Genesis 32.

It's nice to have such a macho metaphor for life with God.  I think that will resonate with a lot of people.

Anyhoo, I think I limped off from college on Thursday.  I don't quite know what happened, but I felt suddenly overwhelmed by questions.  Big questions.  I'm not sure the answers I come too will be quite the ones I expect, or of I'm honest, hope for.  I got antsy, frustrated at hearing things I didn't want to agree with, but mainly at feeling completely unable to articulate any alternative.  

My thoughts were soupy, swirling and bitty, hard to pin anything down with a fork.  Scary.

Now, I'm not into wrestling as a sport.  But even I know, if you're wrestling with God, you will be overcome and have to surrender at some point.  And during those exhausting moments of wrestling, resisting, depleting energy, it also means we are in God's intimate embrace, his arms around us.

So I guess wrestling, struggling, is OK.  Limping off is OK.  Because it's good to be changed.  It actually feels good to go ten rounds with God and come off worse for wear, but having encountered Him.  Does that sound mental?

I actually think that's a better option than not wrestling, not struggling, never being challenged and knocked out of joint and changed.  It helps to know that it's all part of Being Israel.

So.  Back to Dublin later today for another round.  I thought a couple of years ago that I'd done my struggling and changing, emerging as some kind of post-evangelical.  Oh man ... it's starting to look like that was just a warm-up.

Profane Language

 As you might know, I am a huge geek, and was delighted to be given details of books to get and read, so as to get a bit of a head start before semester one begins.

 

So I am learning Hebrew.  (It's really fun!!!)

 

I've made several attempts over the years to gain a reading knowledge of Hebrew.  I've always had a penchant for Old Testament stuff, and I think that a knowledge of Hebrew will be a great help in the future for the teaching role within ministry.

 

Plus it's really fun!  (See?  Geek.)

 

Two Sundays ago, I preached on the Lord's Prayer from Luke 11, and as part of my preparation I read some of Kenneth Bailey's masterpiece, 'Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes'.  It's a great book for seeing familiar passages afresh and a-challenging.

 

Bailey reminds us that Jesus didn't go about talking Hebrew.  The educated Jew understood Hebrew, yes, and used it as the language of the synagogue.  And your average Joe would've known some passages of scripture and prayers in Hebrew.

 

But the language people spoke in the marketplace, in the street, the language Jesus would have taught in, was in fact Aramaic. 

 

Hebrew was the sacred language of a sacred culture - Israel.  Aramaic was everybody's language precisely because it was no ethnic group in particular's language. 

 

And when Jesus' disciples asked 'Lord, teach us to pray', WOW he said Abba, the Aramaic word for (Our) Father!

 

Not, in Hebrew, Oh Lord God of our fathers Abraham, Isaac, Jacob ... but he made us all brothers and sisters, Jew and Gentile, by teaching us to call God Abba.

 

Bailey talked me through each line of the Lord's Prayer, with loads of illuminating pointers from cultural and linguistic studies.  But it was the use of an everyday, earthy lingua franca for prayer that struck a chord in me. 

 

I'll keep battering away at the Hebrew, because it's the language most of the Bible is written in, and when I preach and teach I don't want to get confused with different translations.

 

(And it's really fun!)

 

But Jesus' use of a non-sacred, non-ethnically partisan language challenges me to take great care as I approach ministerial training.  I won't be there to learn to speak Churchese.  Rather, I need to learn the ideas of the Bible and, crucially, how to translate them into the culture, the language, of ordinary people.

That's what I took from the day's gospel reading.  Even harder, perhaps, than mastering those elusive Hebrew verb patterns.  But - I predict - also fun.

Staying in Legenderry

Sarah and I have decided to stay in Derry.  My course, the MTh for ordinands, runs just half the weeks of the year, and we feel extremely settled in this town we have come to call home.  I only moved here in my mid-twenties, yet this is the place I was confirmed and we were married, and where Sarah has found a fulfilling role working for the Bishop, and we have found our spiritual home at Christ Church, and made friends.

Derry feels like a world apart.  It has its own identity.  When Belfast-bound, coming over the Glenshane Pass, suddenly Mid-Ulster stretches out in front of you.  Flat, green.  Tame?  You are now entering Norn Iron.  Coming back the same way, this point feels like entering a transition zone, a sort of special administration nestled between 'Norn Iron Proper' and County Donegal.

In Belfast, Maghera, Newry, Omagh, the lingo is referred to as 'Norn Iron' - what's the craic wi' them waines? [what about those children].  Yer man's wil' [he's terrible].  In 'Stroke City' (L/Derry), this idiom is called 'Pure Derry'.

Yes, there are some Derryisms not readily understood far past Altnagelvin Hospital or the service station in Bridgend.  Where else could you be 'up a tree in Rosemount, mucker'?  But I'm often struck by the readiness to designate anything Hiberno-English, Scots-Irish, or regional, as 'Derry, hi'.

This sense of specialness works both ways.  Bad grammar is found everywhere.  But when 'Derry Wans' say 'I done it' or 'I didn't say nothing' (heard just as often in London, Manchester, Glasgow or downtown New York), poor grammar is labelled 'Derry' too.

There's an inferiority complex just scratch-deep underneath the surface of this proud and wonderful city. 

I ought to be careful here, because I've learned that while Derry Wans can be their own fiercest critics, beware any blow-in who dares to weigh in!

I'll be brave and mention the few things that I don't like so much about Derry.  I've already mentioned the fact that true Derryites can be very (too) down on themselves and their city.  I really hope that City of Culture status can change that, but to do so, we have to remember why Derry was chosen in the first place - because of who she is, not because of the programme of big events and names brought in from elsewhere.

Another aspect of life in this city that I'd love to see change is the use of the name.  Setting aside for one moment the whole Derry/Londonderry/Doire debate, it's sad to hear 'Derry' used as a synonym for 'Cityside' (i.e. west bank), as if the Waterside (east of the River Foyle) were another city altogether.  Thankfully, the Peace Bridge is in place to help mend the psychological gash that runs through the town.

Would Derry fit any better into a United Ireland?  I don't know that it would!  Apart from political arguments based on history, economics or cultural ties, if Derry feels so far away from Belfast, I'm not sure how easily it would relate to Dublin. 

Whatever happens with the constitutional status of 'The North', I think Derry will always happily (and post-modernly) accept its own uniqueness, hard to tie down, making the porous nature of the border work for it, with all but the most stubborn of ideologues revelling in the existential complexity of who and where Derry Wans are.

I think Derry will continue to operate as an unofficially 'special jurisdiction' for years to come.  And I'm very glad that we'll continue to enjoy living here for a bit longer.

Selection

Three months ago, I drove from Derry to Newry for the Selection Conference that would determine whether I would be recommended for training towards ordination.

 

All that is pretty wordy, but people discerning a vocation to ordination get used to couching things in careful terms.  For example, 'recommended for training towards ordination' means just that, because you aren't selected for ordination until a couple of years further down the line.

 

I arrived just on time, and a bit stressed, at Dromantine Retreat Centre, just outside Newry, Co. Down.  It had snowed and Mid-Ulster traffic was down to a crawl.  This was my first big solo drive after passing my test.

 This place is a maze.  Key.  Nice lady giving housekeeping instructions - there's no way I'll remember all this.  Room.  Hmm nice view.  En suite, great.  Coffee dock.  Sounds good.  Oh wait.  Probably should pray first. 

 

That was the jumble of thoughts the first half hour.  Not as I had planned it.

 

Then I accepted the inevitable: this would be a caffeine-jacked two days.  I went to the aforementioned coffee dock.  There I met others in the same boat - this was the great thing, we knew each other already from the Foundation Course.

 

There were three interviews over the two days.  My first, by two lay people, was that afternoon.  I waited outside the room, and could just hear the conversation as they prepared by leafing through my mammoth application form.  I heard 'interesting' - was that good interesting or bad interesting?  I heard comments on writers I'd mentioned - Rob Bell seemed to evoke a reaction.  Why on earth did I go and mention him?!

 

I moved away from the door.  Not a good idea to overhear interviewers talk about you before they meet you.

 

What did they ask me?  I can't remember much.  I do remember thinking some questions were really three different questions, and I didn't know where to start.  I think I was trying to say the right answers, more than I was trying to be honest.  That caught me out.

 

I remembered a really good answer that another person had given to the question 'why ordination'.  But I couldn't remember it well enough to re-formulate it.  So I had to give my own - and I have no idea to this day what I said.  (See below for the outcome!)

 

Thank goodness for chapel that evening.  The nerves were jangled after that first interview.  I had the distinct feeling I'd said at least a couple of the things they tell you not to say!  I knew from the looks on some faces that my answers hadn't exactly elucidated things.

 

Oh well.  At least they fed us well.  The gluten-free menu was great - good job for my waistline (and mental health) it was just two days.

 

The last thing on the programme for that night was a group meeting with the chaplain, who talked openly and frankly about life as a parish priest.  The more he talked, the more I wanted it ...

 

It's so dark out there in the country, and when I pulled the curtains there wasn't the slightest chink of light in the room.  Unlike most others, I slept soundly until six the next morning.

 

On Day Two, I felt very serene.  This is what happens when you have people praying for you to stay calm.  There was absolutely no human reason to feel this way, because I was about to go into the academic interview with the Director of the Theological Institute!

 

The focus was on learning in the broader sense of the word.  Life experiences, whether these had been integrated.  There were a couple of curve balls.  What would you say in a short talk on the topic of ...  I got Holy Communion (we all soon realized everyone got a different topic).  After the interview, I realized I hadn't said any of the more obvious things.  I may have gone on a slightly mad tangent.

 

Some of these questions were probing, bordering on difficult.  This was also the shortest interview.  One of those ones that's over before you know it, and you wonder what on earth you can have said that was sufficient in such a short time.

 

Coffee dock.  After every interview, some candidates came straight to the group.  It might not have been altogether helpful to arrive fresh from an interview and debrief, while others were waiting out the minutes until they were next up.  But it's what I needed.

 

I tried not to go overboard at the three-course lunch, in case it left me sleepy for my third and final interview: clergy (one Bishop, one other ordained person).  I also felt keenly aware that I was sitting at a table with selectors.  'More water, Reverend?'

 

Last interview.  I felt wrung out by this stage, and could only be myself.  All the interviewers were very good, but the Bishop exuded a sense that it was OK to be open and frank.  I think this is where I most opened up.

 

Some questions were similar to yesterday's - was this a second chance?  Others got me excited - church growth, new approaches, parish mission.

 

And it was over.  It was out of my hands completely - not that it ever really was in my hands to begin with.  I could do no more. 

 

We said some difficult goodbyes, because unless everyone was selected, this would be our last time all together. 

 

And the next three weeks were the longest wait of my life.

 

*          *          *

 

I was selected.  I go 'back to school' in September.

 

And I remembered recently the great answer someone else gave to the big 'why ordination' question.  I'm glad I didn't think of it during my interview, because their answer wasn't mine, and as it turns out they aren't going to train for ordination (yet, anyway).

 

My advice for anyone going to a Selection Conference:

 

It feels like a bubble, and it is.  Remind yourself of the outside world and call a loved one at the end of each day.

 

Don't drink way more coffee than normal.  It will be tempting to do so.  But you need to sleep and not feel twitchy.

 

Read the ordination service before you go.  Think about what appeals most to you about it.

 

Take a trashy book (as well as something non-trashy).  There is a lot of waiting round, and it's a heavy couple of days.  Chewing gum for the brain helps.

 

Take a walk, or similar, for a few moments before and after each interview.  I really enjoyed listening to 'Yes and Amen' by Matt Redman.  I got to know the words by heart - and they're really good!

 

Make sure you know (and can verbalize) what you'll do if the answer is 'no' or 'not yet'.  It's important that life as we know it doesn't depend on one outcome.

 

If you can, use public transport.  My long drive there got me stressed, and on the long drive home I was exhausted.

 

And most of all, be honest and don't give other people's answers!  I'm so glad I couldn't remember that other person's 'good' answer.  No two journeys are the same. 

 

 

 

Strange, new places

So, I've got my student number and am officially set to start the MTh course in September.  As well as being an ordinand at the Church of Ireland Theological Institute, I'll be a post-graduate student at Trinity College Dublin.  I can experience Freshers' Week all over again!  Although, unfortunately,  lectures start earlier than I recollect from my hazy arts student days in Edinburgh.

Overall, I'm super-excited.  It's no secret that I love learning new things.  It was no great drudgery for me to do the Foundation Course that has become a pre-requisite for anyone training in the Church of Ireland for ordained ministry; I loved it.  My main frustration was that paid employment got in the way - part-time study is hard!

Still, as I start reading material in preparation for September (yes, I know only the saddest of geeks on the course actually do the pre-reading!), it does make me think about where I'm headed.  The thing about learning is that it changes you.

Over the past number of years, I've changed my mind in some quite fundamental ways on a lot of what the Bible says, perhaps especially in Genesis which has come to be one of my favourite books.  I feel like I know more useful theology, that I understand more of who God is and who we humans are, and what we're for and where we're going.  Some of the BIG questions in life.  But I also realize I'll never read the Bible in the same way again.

I decided for a while that I'm not an evangelical any more, and then I realized I can't just undo all the experiences that shaped me earlier on, so maybe I am an evangelical after all.  Who decides what an evangelical believes anyway?

I'm in a very different theological place compared to where I stood at the start of my theological studies.  All well and good and hallelujah.

The problem is, I like it here.  I really like it here.  And I know that, come September, I'll be challenged to move on.

Abraham was called to journey out, without knowing where exactly he was headed.  It's a good metaphor for learning, I think.  As an ordinand, I feel called to something, and that includes training and study, but I don't know where I'll end up.  Not geographically, and not in other terms either.

In particular, I think about post-modernism and historicity, relativism of truth.  I'm a bit nervous about asking those big questions (especially applied to the New Testament) because I don't know what answers I'll get, or what conclusions I'll arrive at.

So is it better not to ask those questions in the first place?  [I just typed 'maybe' and then I deleted it, because it sounded like the obvious next word in the sentence, but I don't believe it myself.  So, no.  No, it isn't better.  Easier, but not better.]

'Not in Kansas, Toto' kind of sums up how I feel about my faith, having been called to study, to move, to be challenged to face up to hard questions about the Bible.  Easy answers have been decimated.  Trite, pious sticking plasters have been ripped off with varying degrees of pain. 

It's a strange, new, post-evangelical world.  We're not in Kansas, Toto. 

Door Marked 'Yes'

So, for a few years now I've been wondering what to do next.  In my twenties, there seemed to be no limits - I could be a teacher, and a missionary, and be involved in politics, and write, and do a PhD, and and and and

but.  Then I was around the 30 mark, when we realize maybe every door opened means another several doors are closed.  Because we have finite time and energy.

And all the time there was this little voice niggling.  Train as a priest.  Or presbyter, pastor, whatever you want to call it.

'But I don't really know what ordination is for!'  I protested.  I can do all the things I enjoy without being ordained.

And ordained people have to kind of toe the church line - theologians can get away with more, they have more freedom to say what they want!

It's too hard, too expensive to go back to study, too big a commitment ...

My motives aren't completely clear.  I think I want to study theology full-time, I'm not sure it's entirely unselfish ...

There were a million reasons not to.  And yet here I am.  The Bishop has given the green light for me to train towards ordained ministry in the Church of Ireland.

It has been a long process.  First, I had to take the brave step of telling another human being - how do you tell someone you feel called to ordained ministry?  What if they laugh, what if they tell others?  What if they burst out, 'what you?!'.

Then there were the initial chats, with clergy and others, about motivation - why? why now? why me? why this?

And then the Foundation Course, the gist of a theology degree by distance learning over a year.  Church and Ministry; Biblical Studies; and perhaps scariest off all, Matrix of Christian Theology.  At some points I expected men in black coats (or indeed white coats) to offer me the red pill if I wanted out, to wake up and remember nothing.

And more recently, the Bishops' Selection Conference.  Two days at the beautiful Dromantine, where it really is pitch black when you switch the lights out, in the middle of rural County Down, with 16 other hopefuls, three bishops, and panels of other clergy and lay people.  Lots of personal questions and a few curve balls, and unhealthy consumption of coffee as we all waited to hear from others as they emerged from interviews.

Ordination is one of those things I don't think I'll ever understand.  It's enigmatic: as soon as you think you have it figured out, what it is and why, it eludes you again.  But after all these years, after all the recent study and discernment, man did I want it!

The process has been a great one.  By this point, if it had been a 'no' I'd have been gutted.  Which says a lot really.

Morning Walk

Between services at the Muff and St. Peter's churches yesterday, I enjoyed a bracing walk through a much underrated park in Derry, along the river from behind Sainsbury's to the steps under the Foyle Bridge.  I couldn't even tell you the name of it!

 

I don't often blog about walks (food, yes) but this one was spectacular.

 

The grass was crystalline with frost; the winter sun hung low and searching; the sky looked limitless, big, bright and blue.  Perfect morning's weather for a good old think.

 

So I thought.  And prayed.

The thing weighing most on my mind was a course mate who found out recently that she won't be sent to Dublin in the spring time to be considered for ordained ministry.  I don't know if she saw it coming, but I sure didn't.  I felt pretty floored by her news, so I can barely begin to imagine how she must be feeling.

 

Because even if we couch plans in very tentative terms, remembering to say all the if's and should's when we share our future dreams with other people, inside I think we can't help but become attached to those plans.  I know I have it all mapped out in my imagination.

What if I get bad news, too?  What if I get a 'no' and have to reconsider what I do with my life?  It'll be painful if the path I end up treading doesn't take me via the place I've imagined.

 

I'm doing a foundation course with a view to training for ordination in the Church of Ireland.  My bishop recently agreed to send me to a selection conference just before Easter.  I think I should hear either way within a couple of weeks of that.  I suppose I've kept it quiet because there's always the chance I could get a closed door at any stage, and realize I'm going no further in this direction.  And because I find it easier to share good news afterwards than risk making myself vulnerable!

 

Or to put it another way, it's easier to blog about chocolate fondants three years later when they work, than when they don't! (For obscure reference, see previous post!)

 

I think I'll be OK, eventually, if they say no.  Hugely disappointed, because as I continue to journey with others on a similar path, and as my course progresses, I realize I want it more and more.  But OK, because there are actually few things I want to do in a dog collar that I can't do without one.  Lay people can preach and teach, visit, pray, lead worship, train and equip others, ...  I would see it as a great privilege to say the prayer of consecration and declare people husband and wife, but these in themselves are not burning desires of mine.

 

So, I'm still figuring out why exactly I want to take this next step.  Release from paid employment to give more time to the church?  Indeed.  Chance to do an MTh?  Absolutely!  But neither of those quite justifies the drastic step of ordination!

 

If it is a 'no' next year, at least I'll know.  And I'll think of other ways I can satisfy my craving for theological study, and other ways of serving.

 

So, for now, I'll keep wrestling with that little voice.  The one that asks more questions than it answers.  How annoying!  But ultimately very, very satisfying.  "What are you called to do?  What about ordained ministry?  But then, why would you need to?  And why would you want to?  And if they turn you down, what then?"

 

More walks required on frosty, clear mornings ...