WELCOME
Reflection on The Call to Ministry
It started when I was very young, the intense feeling that I was called to do some particular thing with my life. Protectively, I knew enough to keep that feeling secret and to look closely at every experience as, potentially, “the one that will make all the pieces fall into place.” Doors that others I knew cautiously or fearfully left closed, I opened: “just to see as much of what there is to be seen as possible!” Some doors I found myself clumsily stumbling through, not sure how I even got there. Each one, over the course of years, added pieces to the big puzzle – though it took many lonely decades and not a little anguish to notice this.
Now, I am an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister – an identity which is earned a-new, each day. The puzzle has taken a recognizable shape, and I find myself passing through doors I never even dared to imagine. Some of them do feel surprisingly familiar, like memories of a dream from long ago. Others are just plain startling. Breathtaking. Each moment sweeps me up in delicious awe and amazement. And, at the very same time, there is an acute sensation of discomfort in the form of questions.
Is there really such a thing as a “call”? What if it’s just a matter of self-delusion, wishful thinking? And if this really is a call, then why me, and not those many others, so much more righteous, so much more passionate and skilled? And why did it have to take so long? And why are there still so many pieces missing?
Ultimately, I tell myself, the origins of the call doesn’t really matter. Because the feeling of being called has shaped my hours, allowed me to respond over and over again to the unknown, to disappointment, fear, regret and sorrow - with courage, hope, compassion and never ending curiosity.
Why I should be given this "gift of call" is something I cannot even begin to justify. As my father used to say: “life is not fair.” He said that long before he died of a brain tumor, at the age of 54. So I hold the gift, fully aware that it just as easily could have been otherwise. Fully aware that it is a responsibility, even if wrapped in rainbow-hued ribbons!
As for those painful, yearning years: well, that’s where I hear the echoes of my mother’s voice: “pain builds character.” I resent that way of looking at things. It reminds me too much of my early days in Lutheran Sunday School. But there it is, and here I am. And I have, indeed, learned much. If nothing else, I have learned the importance of making room for the fullness of any given moment.
“Lengthen your cords and strengthen your stakes”, wrote the one to whom is attributed the Book of Isaiah. “Enlarge the place of your tent, and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out; don’t hold back.” I know what it is to unfold a tent. I know that it takes more than one, and I know how precious it is to feel the winds of the heavens then blow through it.
Why are there so many pieces still missing? This is the most frustrating question of all, and it is the one responding most directly to the first question: is there really such a thing as a call? The answer it gives, goes like this: were all the pieces present from the very beginning, were it possible to see the entirety with absolute certainty, then I would know for sure that doubt is called for!
As I see it, certainty demands doubt; uncertainty heralds in the need for trust. So here I am. And here is this trust. And here are these questions, and all these breathtaking moments of evolving ministry and unknown future. I am filled with awe and gratitude.
Reflection on the Theological Context of My Call to Ministry
While I often refer to my parental influence as having been “non-religious” and “atheist,” and as that which drove me to seek another way of understanding my place in the world, I have been coming to recognize that this may not be altogether correct.
The confusion may well have been due to the traditional definitions I had heard applied to the terms “religious” and “God.” The traditional Christian definitions did not apply to what my parents taught me about reality. At an early age I found those home-teachings too intellectually or psychologically challenging for me to accept, despite the fact that they were filled with reverence for life and for ethical exploration and integrity.
In response, I found myself drawn to a religious framework I could grasp – Lutheran. That grasping had less to do with in-depth understanding of Christian doctrine, than it had to do with acceptance in a worshipful community – a place that felt safe and nurturing. I needed to connect with a hopeful vision of the world, geared toward my own developmental process, with stories and songs and holidays reflecting order.
I believe this was particularly true because of the psychological impact of being raised by survivors of WWII. Exposure to my parents’ processing of their complicated experiences and feelings left me with a deep need for, and sensitivity to, optimistic relational context.
At the same time, my parents’ wrestlings with the horrors perpetrated in Europe left me examining motivations to goodness. In my Lutheran context, it seemed, right behavior was motivated purely by a selfish desire to attain heavenly reward, and was determined by an external source.
Having heard from my parents so many stories of war-time aggression and violence, as well as of inexplicable heroism, I came to believe two things. One was that acts of goodness must be motivated by compassion for others, in response to awareness of injustice.
The other was that those acts must be determined by an internal sense of inter-connectedness and interdependence.
I came to realize that these beliefs, and my growing questioning of church doctrine, were not tolerated in the Lutheran church. As such, I left and began to seek elsewhere a religious structure that supported what I believed increasingly to be a fragment of a larger truth. My journey of unguided religious exploration took decades. It consisted largely of reading and worship in various religious contexts, as well as of ‘mystical’ experiences during meditation and prayer.
While pursuing the former, I found myself most drawn to Buddhist concepts of reality affirming subjective human experience of attachment and suffering, while offering a larger objective perspective of reality. These concepts were mirrored experientially in my meditative states. Through them I felt empowered to find paths for movement beyond subjective experience. At the same time, they heightened my sense of compassion for the complexity of human experience. My pastoral approach to ministry is largely fueled by this influence.
During my debilitating illness and long recovery from Chronic Fatigue Syndrom (early to mid 1990’s), I felt inspired to wrestle with many of my old perspectives. Among other things, I became acutely aware of my strong desire to connect with what I called ‘God’, knowing only that this was not the Christian deity of my childhood.
Aside from sensing the insufficiency of words to describe that being, I became acutely aware of my own physical, intellectual, and emotional limitations. Having read the autobiography of Thomas Shepard (a 17th century American Puritan minister who wrote a detailed description of his conversion experience through knowledge of his own sinful nature), I found myself focusing on my limitations and feeling powerless and shameful about them. Even so, I could not come to the same conclusion Shepard did, which was that only the dual gift of an accepting heart, together with Jesus Christ, would offer relief.
Instead, I maintained a strong sense that the human gift of mind was not to be disregarded! I also paid close attention to those mysterious moments of synchronicity and healing beyond my influence.
My awareness of those moments grew when I finally rejoined religious community again. In 1998 I joined the Interfaith Fellowship and The New Seminary, attracted by that community’s expression of tolerance for diversity. It was at this time that I came across the works of Henry Wieman, who allowed me to claim the idea of ‘God’ as something helpful, even if not personal. Instead of seeking relationship with a Creator, I could seek relationship with creativity itself! The idea of ‘creative interchange’ fit very well with my early need for optimistic relational context. It also addressed my assertions regarding why people should be committed to acts of goodness.
Through the Interfaith community I developed a deep appreciation for cultural and religious diversity. I also found affirmation for my impulse to reject Wieman’s insistence that Christianity is the ideal path for such interchange. I had learned too much about the history of Christianity, and about the power of other religious systems, to believe that.
Another outcome of the Interfaith experience was an affirmation for the call to ministry that had been growing ever more apparent. In answer to that call, I enrolled in a CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) training at NYU Medical Center. Here I was confronted again with the issue of what it means to live a good life, and what the reward of that well-lived life might be. I was deeply moved by the fear that accompanied so many patients as they strove to gain reassurance of their own goodness. Very often the pain of that fear was unresolved, leading to severe crises’ of faith.
In response, I found myself drawing personally on Buddhism’s perspectives, on my intuition, as well as on what I had since come to know of ‘universal salvation.’
Over the years I had sporadically attended Unitarian Universalist churches, picking up literature and attending lectures. One of the historical figures I felt deeply influenced by was Hosea Ballou. His understanding of people as basically good, and of salvation as something universal to humanity, was easy to embrace.
According to Ballou, the consequences of bad deeds were felt during one’s lifetime; doing bad deeds inhibited the sense of peace that came from doing good. More important than what occurred after death, was what occurred during life. This, along with some other considerations regarding accountability, made me decide to finally join the Unitarian Universalist denomination. The first CPE hospital chaplaincy program was followed by a second, during which I undertook to apply to Meadville Lombard Theological School.
At Meadville Lombard I found myself most greatly influenced by what I read of Friedrich Schleiermacher (known as the father of liberal religion). During CPE I had often been asked questions regarding the nature of my authority. Since I could not point to a definitive deity, scripture, or doctrine, I had often felt invalidated. Schleiermacher affirmed the totality of my life-long experience of feelings, including the mystical experiences and intuitions otherwise rejected! As such, he affirmed my theological authority and my call to ministry.
That call is sourced by a strong sense of context. I have come to know and experience myself as embedded in a web of creative relationship I will spend my lifetime exploring, cultivating and nurturing! I see my ministry as one affirming the complexity of that web, its capacity for beauty, and for positive transformation of this world. Having come into religious awareness with my own needs, wounds and biases, I recognize the power of the subjective experience, and the difficulty of the ethical journey -- particularly when undertaken alone.
For this reason I lift up the ideals of a religious community guided by the reality of full human experience, by reflection upon that experience, and by compassionate acts of goodness for the sake of justice. I lift up the goodness within each human being, and the significance of each life’s actions. I lift up the possibility of looking back upon one’s life without fear or regret, with gratitude and peace, having left it a better place.
This is what Unitarian Universalism means to me, and it is what I hope to share in my ministry.
It started when I was very young, the intense feeling that I was called to do some particular thing with my life. Protectively, I knew enough to keep that feeling secret and to look closely at every experience as, potentially, “the one that will make all the pieces fall into place.” Doors that others I knew cautiously or fearfully left closed, I opened: “just to see as much of what there is to be seen as possible!” Some doors I found myself clumsily stumbling through, not sure how I even got there. Each one, over the course of years, added pieces to the big puzzle – though it took many lonely decades and not a little anguish to notice this.
Now, I am an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister – an identity which is earned a-new, each day. The puzzle has taken a recognizable shape, and I find myself passing through doors I never even dared to imagine. Some of them do feel surprisingly familiar, like memories of a dream from long ago. Others are just plain startling. Breathtaking. Each moment sweeps me up in delicious awe and amazement. And, at the very same time, there is an acute sensation of discomfort in the form of questions.
Is there really such a thing as a “call”? What if it’s just a matter of self-delusion, wishful thinking? And if this really is a call, then why me, and not those many others, so much more righteous, so much more passionate and skilled? And why did it have to take so long? And why are there still so many pieces missing?
Ultimately, I tell myself, the origins of the call doesn’t really matter. Because the feeling of being called has shaped my hours, allowed me to respond over and over again to the unknown, to disappointment, fear, regret and sorrow - with courage, hope, compassion and never ending curiosity.
Why I should be given this "gift of call" is something I cannot even begin to justify. As my father used to say: “life is not fair.” He said that long before he died of a brain tumor, at the age of 54. So I hold the gift, fully aware that it just as easily could have been otherwise. Fully aware that it is a responsibility, even if wrapped in rainbow-hued ribbons!
As for those painful, yearning years: well, that’s where I hear the echoes of my mother’s voice: “pain builds character.” I resent that way of looking at things. It reminds me too much of my early days in Lutheran Sunday School. But there it is, and here I am. And I have, indeed, learned much. If nothing else, I have learned the importance of making room for the fullness of any given moment.
“Lengthen your cords and strengthen your stakes”, wrote the one to whom is attributed the Book of Isaiah. “Enlarge the place of your tent, and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out; don’t hold back.” I know what it is to unfold a tent. I know that it takes more than one, and I know how precious it is to feel the winds of the heavens then blow through it.
Why are there so many pieces still missing? This is the most frustrating question of all, and it is the one responding most directly to the first question: is there really such a thing as a call? The answer it gives, goes like this: were all the pieces present from the very beginning, were it possible to see the entirety with absolute certainty, then I would know for sure that doubt is called for!
As I see it, certainty demands doubt; uncertainty heralds in the need for trust. So here I am. And here is this trust. And here are these questions, and all these breathtaking moments of evolving ministry and unknown future. I am filled with awe and gratitude.
Reflection on the Theological Context of My Call to Ministry
While I often refer to my parental influence as having been “non-religious” and “atheist,” and as that which drove me to seek another way of understanding my place in the world, I have been coming to recognize that this may not be altogether correct.
The confusion may well have been due to the traditional definitions I had heard applied to the terms “religious” and “God.” The traditional Christian definitions did not apply to what my parents taught me about reality. At an early age I found those home-teachings too intellectually or psychologically challenging for me to accept, despite the fact that they were filled with reverence for life and for ethical exploration and integrity.
In response, I found myself drawn to a religious framework I could grasp – Lutheran. That grasping had less to do with in-depth understanding of Christian doctrine, than it had to do with acceptance in a worshipful community – a place that felt safe and nurturing. I needed to connect with a hopeful vision of the world, geared toward my own developmental process, with stories and songs and holidays reflecting order.
I believe this was particularly true because of the psychological impact of being raised by survivors of WWII. Exposure to my parents’ processing of their complicated experiences and feelings left me with a deep need for, and sensitivity to, optimistic relational context.
At the same time, my parents’ wrestlings with the horrors perpetrated in Europe left me examining motivations to goodness. In my Lutheran context, it seemed, right behavior was motivated purely by a selfish desire to attain heavenly reward, and was determined by an external source.
Having heard from my parents so many stories of war-time aggression and violence, as well as of inexplicable heroism, I came to believe two things. One was that acts of goodness must be motivated by compassion for others, in response to awareness of injustice.
The other was that those acts must be determined by an internal sense of inter-connectedness and interdependence.
I came to realize that these beliefs, and my growing questioning of church doctrine, were not tolerated in the Lutheran church. As such, I left and began to seek elsewhere a religious structure that supported what I believed increasingly to be a fragment of a larger truth. My journey of unguided religious exploration took decades. It consisted largely of reading and worship in various religious contexts, as well as of ‘mystical’ experiences during meditation and prayer.
While pursuing the former, I found myself most drawn to Buddhist concepts of reality affirming subjective human experience of attachment and suffering, while offering a larger objective perspective of reality. These concepts were mirrored experientially in my meditative states. Through them I felt empowered to find paths for movement beyond subjective experience. At the same time, they heightened my sense of compassion for the complexity of human experience. My pastoral approach to ministry is largely fueled by this influence.
During my debilitating illness and long recovery from Chronic Fatigue Syndrom (early to mid 1990’s), I felt inspired to wrestle with many of my old perspectives. Among other things, I became acutely aware of my strong desire to connect with what I called ‘God’, knowing only that this was not the Christian deity of my childhood.
Aside from sensing the insufficiency of words to describe that being, I became acutely aware of my own physical, intellectual, and emotional limitations. Having read the autobiography of Thomas Shepard (a 17th century American Puritan minister who wrote a detailed description of his conversion experience through knowledge of his own sinful nature), I found myself focusing on my limitations and feeling powerless and shameful about them. Even so, I could not come to the same conclusion Shepard did, which was that only the dual gift of an accepting heart, together with Jesus Christ, would offer relief.
Instead, I maintained a strong sense that the human gift of mind was not to be disregarded! I also paid close attention to those mysterious moments of synchronicity and healing beyond my influence.
My awareness of those moments grew when I finally rejoined religious community again. In 1998 I joined the Interfaith Fellowship and The New Seminary, attracted by that community’s expression of tolerance for diversity. It was at this time that I came across the works of Henry Wieman, who allowed me to claim the idea of ‘God’ as something helpful, even if not personal. Instead of seeking relationship with a Creator, I could seek relationship with creativity itself! The idea of ‘creative interchange’ fit very well with my early need for optimistic relational context. It also addressed my assertions regarding why people should be committed to acts of goodness.
Through the Interfaith community I developed a deep appreciation for cultural and religious diversity. I also found affirmation for my impulse to reject Wieman’s insistence that Christianity is the ideal path for such interchange. I had learned too much about the history of Christianity, and about the power of other religious systems, to believe that.
Another outcome of the Interfaith experience was an affirmation for the call to ministry that had been growing ever more apparent. In answer to that call, I enrolled in a CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) training at NYU Medical Center. Here I was confronted again with the issue of what it means to live a good life, and what the reward of that well-lived life might be. I was deeply moved by the fear that accompanied so many patients as they strove to gain reassurance of their own goodness. Very often the pain of that fear was unresolved, leading to severe crises’ of faith.
In response, I found myself drawing personally on Buddhism’s perspectives, on my intuition, as well as on what I had since come to know of ‘universal salvation.’
Over the years I had sporadically attended Unitarian Universalist churches, picking up literature and attending lectures. One of the historical figures I felt deeply influenced by was Hosea Ballou. His understanding of people as basically good, and of salvation as something universal to humanity, was easy to embrace.
According to Ballou, the consequences of bad deeds were felt during one’s lifetime; doing bad deeds inhibited the sense of peace that came from doing good. More important than what occurred after death, was what occurred during life. This, along with some other considerations regarding accountability, made me decide to finally join the Unitarian Universalist denomination. The first CPE hospital chaplaincy program was followed by a second, during which I undertook to apply to Meadville Lombard Theological School.
At Meadville Lombard I found myself most greatly influenced by what I read of Friedrich Schleiermacher (known as the father of liberal religion). During CPE I had often been asked questions regarding the nature of my authority. Since I could not point to a definitive deity, scripture, or doctrine, I had often felt invalidated. Schleiermacher affirmed the totality of my life-long experience of feelings, including the mystical experiences and intuitions otherwise rejected! As such, he affirmed my theological authority and my call to ministry.
That call is sourced by a strong sense of context. I have come to know and experience myself as embedded in a web of creative relationship I will spend my lifetime exploring, cultivating and nurturing! I see my ministry as one affirming the complexity of that web, its capacity for beauty, and for positive transformation of this world. Having come into religious awareness with my own needs, wounds and biases, I recognize the power of the subjective experience, and the difficulty of the ethical journey -- particularly when undertaken alone.
For this reason I lift up the ideals of a religious community guided by the reality of full human experience, by reflection upon that experience, and by compassionate acts of goodness for the sake of justice. I lift up the goodness within each human being, and the significance of each life’s actions. I lift up the possibility of looking back upon one’s life without fear or regret, with gratitude and peace, having left it a better place.
This is what Unitarian Universalism means to me, and it is what I hope to share in my ministry.