Discernment

As a ministry developer, my vocabulary often centers around the words “call” and “discern” or variations on either term. I prod the people in the pews on Sundays and the people whom I counsel throughout the week to consider God’s call on them and their lives. I companion them, with pokes and prods, to discern what those calls might be. I suggest—with puzzled looks from my strongly extroverted companions—that they listen with full hearts and minds. Their quizzical expressions become even more so as I speak of the differences between listening and hearing, and as I speak of listening for the nonverbal clues to what is “really” being said.

Perhaps it is my “sensory” nature, but collecting information is a parallel activity to all that I do. Perhaps it also is natural that discernment is a constant activity for me as well. Recently, at least, it seems to be something that I am doing more proactively as well. Like the biblical prophets, I ask God repeatedly for “whats” and “hows” and sometimes even some “whys.”  The “whys” particularly coming when I find God is stretching me or showing a sense of humor.

But in the current midst of the flurry of activity, I sense a strong need for some peace—a brief respite for me to collect my thoughts and to shield me from the distractions of service. In essence, I am seeking a respite to allow time for discernment.

Although not well timed—they never are I realize—I got such an opportunity over the weekend. A spiritual retreat of silence, spiritual direction and scripture for three hours in a neighboring state. Three hours that I desperately needed. Three hours that I could devote to listening and being silent so I might hear God’s voice and feel God’s touch on my heart and soul. It was during that brief retreat that I wrote the following haiku, which I share now as I realize it speaks to my own need for continued discernment.

And, yes, God, I am listening. I await your direction.

Beauty surrounds me

In the leaves and in the mountains

The wonderous colors.

But the real beauty

Is in the faces of friends

Their smiles, tears and eyes.

Eyes that twinkle bright

Aware of the love of God

In all that I see.

A hand that is held

An arm embracing another

Empathetic love.

Being a pastor

Allows beauty to enter the soul.

Oh what a blessing!

I am so thankful

God gifted me this present

Of serving others.

I in creation

All part of the Father’s world

Let me see the joy.

Immerse me, oh God

In the beauty of service

Planting grace and love.

Allow me to serve

How you so intend me to

And to hear your voice.

Do I hear clearly?

Do I discern your great call?

Or hear my own will?

Weed out distractions

So I might hear you clearly

And bravely obey.

Theresa

St. Francis Day Reflections

While other clergy are busy with special “blessing of the animals” services in their parishes, I reflect on the fact that I live in the middle of God’s creation as a missioner in Western Maryland. It seems so very appropriate that I reflect on the locations of the churches with which I work on this, the feast day of St. Francis of Assisi.

As I look at the membership listing for the Living Stones Partnership--a partnership of dioceses, seminaries and other communities of faith involved in local ministry (see http://livingstonespartnership.org)—I realize that what led us to appreciate local ministry connects us in another manner. And that is our respective settings—our beautiful environs. Each partner holds claim to being located in “God’s country,” knowing full well that what we say and what we do are two very different things. We seem to have that unique appreciation for our environment and for the fact that we live on earth, on loan from our creator, loving God. Thus, at the very core we are a partnership of communities of faith with a sense of creation and our need to preserve it at all costs.

And that generally means living more simply and more responsibly. It also means being self-sufficient.

Living Stones in many ways is not just a partnership of communities of faith involved in local ministry. We are a partnership of communities of faith that, for various reasons, understand local ministry and the “ministry of all baptized.”  We are communities of faith with smaller parish memberships, parishes located more distant from each other and particularly more distant from institutions of higher religious education. We look to ourselves and to each other to solve problems. We look to each other for leadership. More importantly, we look to each other for the tapping and growing of gifts—giftedness from God for God, for the community and for each other.

We are adept at gifts identification, particularly in others, even though we may be hard-pressed to identify them in ourselves. The Appalachian, (or mid-western, or New England, or other) pride and humility, all wrapped into one, accounts for our unwillingness to self-identify. 

Sounds very Christ-like now that I think of it—Christ never tooted his own horn, and he certainly did not teach his disciples to do so either! Instead, he guided his followers as a shepherd, a companion and a gentle and prodding teacher.

Hmmm…perhaps I have discovered something about ourselves worth pondering further. The “ministry of all baptized” model grows out of humility and gifts identification in others in many ways. But it also grows out of a sense of independence—not one where we don’t need and help others. Heavens, we are the first to bring a home-baked pie or cake to a sick friend or pick up the phone to pass along a prayer chain message! But it is a sense of independence that gives us the fortitude to trudge on and keep to the pilgrim journey—a journey of life-long learning, seeking counsel from neighbor and friend, and helping neighbor and friend in doing what Christ taught us was and is Church—Church in the world, doing ministry. Ministry in the world, in the valley gaps and on the mountain tops. Ministry side by side along the pilgrim path.

Theresa