I have a high stake in the new Eucharistic community that we are trying to create space for at All Saints. My insecurities are relentless: I need to prove to the parish that even though I am the rector's wife, I am earning my salary. If I don't get it right, I reflect badly on my spouse. Somehow, if something goes wrong, it just confirms my worst fears: that I am not trying hard enough, not planning well enough, in the end, not being good enough. Along with the insecurities that take such foolish form, there is also a deep sense of call. I have been quite amazed to find out that as a priest, I am a lot about "community planting." The deep, quiet, open joy that fills empty spaces in my heart, when I am doing "start up ministry" is breathtaking and humbling all at once.
Then, there are the people I serve. I know so much about the haunted corners of so many of their lives, the places where so much is bound and gagged and put away--and I am so privileged with the gift of watching the daily, simple miracles that unfold in those self-same folks over time. My consecration as a priest continues to this day--maybe for always--made possible only by their willingness to allow me to come into their lives like I do.
About 3 weeks ago, my fellow sojourner, B. and I got very quiet inside when we began to plan the Advent liturgies for the Vineyard program. The gift we both instinctively wanted to offer was the gift of holy space. B said it better than I: "we don't want the church to be a place of demands for you this season. We want it to be a place of sanctuary and renewal." She and I worked very hard throughout the week, making our very ordinary parish house a place of worship since we can't use the new chapel yet. The creative juices flowed, music, prayers, readings, everything came together in a way that I thought was going to allow me to step back and say, "it is good. It is very good."
And then, on the sabbath, on the seventh day, I went "Oh s&^%". All kinds of unexpected, unanticipated little things happened that felt derailing. I went into a very reactive, self-critical and blaming mode. An ugly, uncomfortable, make me squirm and want to run, kind of mode. This time, though, I allowed myself to accept that I was miserable, without becoming critical about the fact that I was being so critical of myself. I simply hung in with all that stuff. Twenty four hours later, B, Spouseman and I had a debrief. We talked about what worked and what didn't, we drew from systems theory to look at Sunday from a different angle. We allowed ourselves to walk in several of the seed group members' shoes, talking about the life events we knew different families were dealing with. Imperceptibly at first, the knot of fear, insecurity and false pride that traps the Spirit in a death grip inside of me, began to loosen. I found myself moving back into a curious, grateful, more generous openness that I am capable of when I allow myself to trust the story, the Spirit, the people who are walking this journey with me.
Once there, I felt almost blinded by the realization that a huge, huge part of start-up service and ministry is simply about praying, lifting the seed group members individually and collectively, in daily prayer. Lifting the ministry, my husband, my fellow sojourner B, and myself, up to where God's grace can continue the work of transformation that will make whatever is to be possible. Part of what had shaped the worship experience on Sunday was the "me" focus of my work in the days leading up to Sunday. So obvious. So basic. So incredibly hard for me to surrender enough to do. I looked over at B and had the sense that she had been equally "convicted and exalted" by that same realization.
"The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art" (T.S. Eliot)
And so it was that on the 8th day, I was able to say, full of gratitude and joy: it is good. It is very good, this work of the Vineyard...
