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| Splinter. |
As I was driving back from worship on Sunday, I saw a line of cars stopped ahead of me. I slowed, stopped and waited in line for a few minutes. The cars ahead of me began to move forward and I realized that we were stopped for an accident site.
Now, something that I'm not sure if I've shared here is that when I started seminary, I told myself--and lots of other people--that I was going to "graduate school for theology." I was afraid of what it meant to start seminary which meant I was going to become a pastor. In my last two and a half years of learning in a seminary, I've become less afraid of what this incredibly big job means. I've learned that being a pastor means that I am invited in to the sacred places of peoples' lives. Sometimes, the sacred space is joyous, like a wedding, baptism or preaching a sermon that clicks with someone. Other times, the sacred space is heartbreaking and painful, like suicide, miscarriage and abuse.
In a split-second decision without thinking about, I pulled my car over to side of the road at the accident site and got out. I approached the police officer and said, "I'm a pastor. How can I help?" He pointed me to the family and I repeated my statement, "I'm a pastor. How can I help?"
For a girl who in 2010 didn't want to call it seminary, this was a bold step. I was shocked to hear the words come out of my mouth. The family didn't really react to me since everyone was crying and some were covered in blood. People were being loaded into the ambulances on site.
I noticed two small children--both under the age of five--standing and sobbing without anyone comforting them. I knelt down, put out my arms and they came close and hugged me. I wrapped my arms around them and held them for easily ten minutes. They calmed down a bit but would start crying each time they saw one of their loved ones in the ambulance. I led them to the side of the road and sat down on the ground with them, our backs to the accident scene. We began to throw rocks out away from things and we talked about the sky, the ground and anything that wasn't related to the accident. Eventually, one of the police officers directed the kids to go with one of the adults who was on the scene.
I don't write this to share some heroic tale of Pastor Meredith comforting the weeping children. I write this to share that as I drove away, I found myself incredibly angry at the 10 adults who were on the scene when I arrived and none of them were comforting the kids. I'm sure everyone was shaken up, but why wasn't anyone checking the kids? God, why weren't any of those adults holding those children? God, why weren't any of those adults wiping their tears and saying, "It's okay."
Why, God, why?
In a moment of clarity, I heard the words in my mind, "No. You were there. You were holding the children. You were wiping their tears and saying, 'It's okay.'"
And that's when I realized that being a pastor isn't only preaching good sermons, but it's entering into spaces and sharing God's love with people. Being a Christian is about being the hands and feet of Christ. Sometimes, those hands reach out to high-five someone in celebration. Sometimes, those hands hold a child whose shoes are stuck in a destroyed vehicle on the side of a road.
In doing sermon prep for this week, I came across this quote on workingpreacher.com by Brian Peterson:
"Given the story of Peter’s rescue from prison in chapter 12, we might expect Paul and Silas to go immediately to Lydia’s house. But this is an escape story without an escape. Paul and Silas don’t leave. Being God’s servants does not mean escape from the dangerous places, but means the opportunity to be the voice and the hands of Christ there."
And sometimes, even after that escape, we're changed by what we've experienced. See, this prison story is the third one of Acts, but the first one where someone is converted. I've been changed by my experiences as a child of God. The way that we're changed by traumas and joys isn't always measurable, but we are changed. Sometimes for the better; sometimes for the worse.
This particular experience showed me my confidence as a pastor. It reminded me how our hands, hearts, voices and butts are always to be in service of God, loving God's people as we have been taught.
After I came home from the accident and unfastened my clerical collar and changed into my sweatpants, I noticed a weird spot on my butt.
Don't worry. This is G-rated.
I realized quickly that this weird spot hurt and eventually discovered that it was because I had a splinter from sitting on the ground with the children.
Ministry is a pain in the butt.
Sometimes it hurts our hearts to be the voice and the hands of Christ.
Sometimes it hurts our bodies to be the voice and hands of Christ.
But pain makes us real. It makes us human. It makes us aware of the hearts and bodies that we have and who created us. And for this, we rejoice.
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