I recently finished listening to The Pastor: a memoir by and of Eugene Peterson, who’s most known for his work with the Message translation of the Bible.
The words and life of Eugene have been in my ears for over a month now, while in the car, while running on dirt paths and city sidewalks, while playing frisbee golf and while just sitting and being. He’s words captured me and invited me in.
He’s words also have helped me define myself. Over the years I have searched to discover what’s my niche, my talent, my purpose. Some have said educator, creative, artist, storyteller, pastor, and a few other random things.
Personally, I have always felt uncontrollably drawn towards the Church. Drawn when my eyes are full of wonder and amazement, drawn while my eyes are fully of disdain and rage, drawn when I believe in her and when I fear and loath her. I’ve tried other mistresses, retail for Apple, non-profit for our city, artist for an esteemed studio and yet during them all my attention, my creativity, my energy, my dreams, my heart was lulled back to the Church.
Back to being a creator of communities known as churches.
Back to being a creative for expressions of love.
Back to being an educator of life.
Back to being a storyteller of an ancient story.
Back to being a pastor.
A pastor.
Never really saw myself as simply a pastor. A communicator, yeah saw that. A creative, yeah saw that one too, but a pastor, no, not that one.
I’m still wrestling with it.
Wrestling if I’ll own it, believe it, live it, accept it.
There’s something glamorous about other jobs, other careers,and something so lowly, humble and hodgepodge about being “Just a pastor.”
But today was a day of emotions. Of highs and lows and expectations and disappointments.
In the past 24 hours I’ve:
Celebrated with a dear friend over the job opportunity of a life time, and the blessing of the salary that comes with it.
And yet simultaneously struggled with my own jealously as we pack up an apartment we love so we can move to into a finically more responsible place.
While packing a mom called and I listened to her cry for help in finding a home for the last of her 5 little kids. She’s being evicted soon and does not want to take her children to the local shelter. I told her I could do nothing. I then returned to packing for my move.
Pearl and I passed Zion, our 4 month old, back and forth while dancing to our packing music to be interrupted with the news from dear friends that they had just discovered they had miscarried. We stopped dancing. We held Zi close.
The clock ticked, boxes filled.
As evening came I closed one part of my life and opened another. I entered a pool party for 4th-8th graders. A world of inflatable ducks, swans, dolphins, cotton candy, grills, gaga pits, ice cream and raffles. A world of splashes, giggles, squeals, hyperactivity and play.
I swam, splashed, laughed, ran, ate, conducted water competitions, handed out prizes, thanked volunteers, cleaned, and crashed on my coach.
I crashed to the place I now write from.
Yes, I’m finding myself to be a pastor.
A pastor who in 24 hours wrestles with joys, pains, expectations, internal pride, and life.
A pastor who shares the most common of days, has his own pride to contend, who’s invited into the darkest of life, who plays in pools, who picks up trash, who comes home and kisses his sleeping wife on the forehead, tucks in his sleeping son, takes out the dog and crashes on the couch.
Yes, I’m finding myself becoming a pastor.
