familiar story

I have finally read Barbara Brown Taylor’s Leaving Church. I dared not read it sooner, lest it struck too close to the bone. But it was time now, and worth doing.

Her work has always felt familiar. Despite her fame, neither her sermons nor her writing seem so very different from what a lot of us do. I find delight and surprise in her words without thinking them impossible to have conceived or to have heard elsewhere. (I guess I expect rather a lot from preachers and writers.) And so it was with this. There were times when the book left tears burning, and times when I had to hold myself in place as my instincts rebelled.

What jarred most was this: there was grief, but no void. There was choice, but no real vulnerability. She makes much of the lessons of being unemployed, and what she says about finding life in the spaciousness of it makes so much sense to me. But the moment she realised she needed to leave her congregation, she received an unsolicited call from a college president asking her to teach. She had three months off before going to a job that was hers and that she wanted. It is not always like that, and there were moments when the weight of it didn’t quite ring true.

I was jealous at first, I suppose. But in the end, I was glad for her. For her it has worked. She was given a path; and that path has helped a lot of people. It is good.

Then I realised that, while I would love to receive the phone call she did, and would love to have a next step, a clear goal, a job — I would not actually trade my place for hers.

Years ago, on retreat, I consciously ran from the question ‘are you willing to give God everything?’ Last year, on retreat, I went back to that question, and still wasn’t sure of the answer. The nun I spoke with (both times) said, ‘but is that not what you did in ordination?’ Maybe. Yes. It’s what I thought I did. But most of us who are ordained have plans and visions too. They are about God. And often they are of God. But they are not always about giving God everything.

When I sat down to pray with that question last Spring, it led me to a path I hadn’t foreseen. I seemed to say ‘no’ all over again. I hadn’t the energy to try to give God everything. I wanted space for God and a room of my own; the possibility of silence and space for creativity; a life of self-offering but also a life that was not constantly eroded by the failure of dreams in the face of reality. I wanted out of Nineveh. But I tried going back. God gave me a bush, showed me how not to take myself quite so seriously, and then cut me free to choose life where I could find it.

I have found it, in many many ways. Silence and creativity. The blessing of a door to close. The freedom from constant demands; time and space to find myself again; time and space to fall in love with God all over again, and with people too. I was never not. But there is more space for it now — a space full of friendship, rivers, arches and the smell of rising yeast.

So, I understand Barbara Brown Taylor’s choices. I can sense freedom in stepping outside the church, pitching your tent elsewhere, broadening the vision. There are even moments when I am tempted to do that, and I realise it might be both wise and necessary to get on with it.

But I seem to be called to folly. Priesthood does not go away just because it becomes difficult. I stand further from the altar than I used to, and further from the altar than I would like, but that is where my vocation is centred, and where I know most clearly who I am in Christ.

‘Are you willing to give God everything?’ I’m not sure I will ever be able to answer, but I am willing to give God this: I will stand in the place of hope and vulnerability, trusting my vocation. I will hold to the belief that I am called to fulfil my vows as a priest through word and sacrament, through joy and sorrow, through life and death, no matter how much easier it would be to walk away from them. I will push at the door until there are no doors left, or until God shows me another way. But I will only push when it feels like the right door: a door wide enough for silence and creativity; for private and public space; for relationship and solitude; for prayer, communion and community. I will choose life, and choose church, and trust that both can thrive together.

I will keep asking the question, and let God to turn each no to yes.

7 thoughts on “familiar story

  1. I think the desire to give God everything is a dangerous one. I am not at all sure that it is what he wants. Generally I think he wants us to grow up, and to ‘become’. I think he wants his work done, and for us to prioritise that, but sacrifice? Nah. The akedah, for me, points at the danger of thinking God WANTS that kind of sacrifice. I’m with Micah – do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God. If you have a talent, use it to blaze his glory over your own bit of sky. And cultivate your own maturity, because just as parents want children to turn one day, into adult companions, just so does God.

  2. This will be an interesting conversation, Rosemary (but perhaps one better for the phone). I don’t see it as sacrifice, but offering, and certainly not in terms of the akedah, which I agree must leave God shouting ‘have some *sense* Abraham!’

    You know I’m all for blazing glory. I’m happy for Jophiel and co. to keep whispering in my ear.

    But increasingly, the offering is of vulnerability and not just talent. Of failure as well as potential. Perhaps this is, again, a space where we approach it from opposite directions, where for you ‘growing up’ meant trusting the glory, and for me it means trusting the lack of control?

    The question came — was phrased — I think, in Ruth Burrow’s book on John of the Cross. (at least I’ve always remembered it as such, though I never can find it there.) Neither he nor she ‘gave God everything’ in a way that deflected a hair’s breadth of their own responsibility, maturity, or offering of their own gifts.

    But then, you’ve never struck me as the sort of person who needed to read Burrows or John of the Cross. It’s your native territory.

  3. And yet that was what G MHopkins felt he wasexpereincing. It is only retrospect we see the verse born out of that expereince as a triumph.

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