A theologian, a centurion, and a voice in the wilderness

It’s almost like one of those jokes: “A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar…” Such has been my ecclesiastical life, if not my spiritual life, of late.

It’s bad enough that I haven’t found the motivation to blog in the last couple of months. But I’ve felt a distinct sense of being an outsider, of not quite belonging, in my church since I returned from Iraq.

My spiritual director makes a point that perhaps my greatest fear is abandonment, since it’s something that has happened to me a number of times in my life, from the breakup of my family (though at a very early age), to being without a spiritual home for many years, to living alone, to my current situation.

I feel abandoned by my church. There, it’s on the web now, it’s out there. I feel betrayed by a church that does not seem to care for its military ministry, denies that there is even a problem, and seeks to deflect all discussion of the issue entirely.

A little background:

Those who really know me also know that I once sought to become a chaplain. You will also recall that that particular dream died rather suddenly just before I deployed to Iraq last year. Finally, you’ll recall that my vocation morphed into that of a theologian. What you may or may not know as well is that my dismissal from the ordination process broke my heart, and I’ve been struggling to pick up the pieces since I returned to Dayton.

The letter from the Commission on Ministry (COM), from about a year ago, makes only two statements regarding discernment of my call:

1. “Our discernment focused on a possible call to ordained ministry in general, rather than a call to a specific context in which one might serve as an ordained person.”

2. “After careful and prayerful deliberation, we do not believe that further exploration of the ordained ministry is called for, but want to be certain that you have an opportunity to receive the church’s blessing and affirmation of your baptismal ministry, and to explore additional resources to enrich that ministry.”

And that’s it. After two years of discernment, pain, and work, that’s the response, essentially saying, “We don’t want to bother with you.” Not even any sort of dialogue or serious spiritual guidance, just a slap in the face after a round-robin interview session that took less than half a day.

I’ve since learned to be wary of any statement which begins with anything like “prayerful deliberation.” I’ve seen and heard it far more frequently in connection with bad things than with good things—and that in itself is a very bad thing. I see the phrase as something of a cop out; to put it bluntly, a turn of ecclesiastical doublespeak meant to distance oneself from the harmful decision one has made.

I have two major theological issues that still have not been sufficiently addressed:

1. I believe that a call to ordination ought to be linked to its purpose. What is a call without its associated context? We are not called to stand at the altar and look pretty in robes but rather to perform some particular facet of God's work. I have felt called to ordained ministry, not ultimately in the context of parish ministry but to the congregation of the military. Without considering the context to which we are called, the COM--by its very nature and design--is necessarily biased toward the typical parish context and biased not only against ordained ministry to the military but also against all other particular contexts.

2. The tone—and words—of the response indicate that the COM is not interested in further discernment on this matter at all. Without further feedback, and in combination with my first point, this indicates to me an outright refusal in this diocese to explore a calling to military ministry. As a military member, I saw this even a year ago as a frightening turn of events. The outright refusal to take seriously a new call to military chaplaincy (as it is a “specific context in which one might serve as an ordained person,” as the COM’s response states) makes me feel like the diocese has taken a stance to turn its back on those parishioners who have answered the call to wear the military uniform.

What only a few of you might know until now is that I’ve been emailing about this to my bishop, and I’m no closer to any serious attempt to do anything other than sidestep each issue. So in addition to a theologian and military officer (centurion), I feel a little like John the Baptist, the voice in the wilderness who challenged the hierarchy of his day and lost his head for his trouble.

So now I’m left with some hard choices to make:

· Where does my ministry fit into the church?

· Am I called to live in the fog outside the “father’s house,” or is there a room where I can once again find a place to lay my head?

· Can I continue attending a church in which I feel like an outsider?

Well, it’s not much of a joke, but it does have a punch line…

Alleluia, Christ is risen!

This year, my Lenten experience has been...interesting. Of course, by 'interesting,' I don't necessarily mean in a good way--I mean both terrifying and exhausting.

I struggled during this Lent with a host of time management issues that have arisen from a perfect storm of my own desire to study theology (in my spare time, mind you), reintegration from deployment, everyone wanting to spend time with me, and my difficulty saying "no." While each is a good thing on its own, I've been swamped by what has become "too much of a good thing."

It all came to a head during Holy Week, when I was getting up at about 2 or 3 in the morning to write papers for school, then heading out to get to work by 7, then doing other stuff after work. By Maundy Thursday, I was exhausted, crushed, and ready to just drop everything and walk away.

I stayed in the church after the Maundy Thursday service. I watched and prayed for an hour--something that I'd done once during my first Holy Week, when my church had organized a rotating watch for the night, in remembrance of the disciples at the garden at Gethsemane, whom Jesus chided, "Could you not keep awake one hour?" (Mark 14:37). The activity died down gradually, and after about twenty or thirty minutes I found myself alone in the church. I prayed as Jesus revealed his vulnerable humanity, "Let this cup pass from me; yet not my will but your will be done" (paraphrase from Luke 22:42).

I "slept in" on Friday morning, until 6am. I returned to the church to pray for an hour before the Good Friday service. The Good Friday service was more to my mood at the time--very somber and solemn. Then I was jarred when Father Jim slammed a wooden cross onto the stripped altar. It was as though I was struck by something. It was a reminder--or perhaps anamnesis (a Greek word that translates weakly as 'remembrance' but also includes a reliving and a present experience)--of the nails being driven through Jesus and into the cross.

Incidentally, this is also a special time for all those who have served in the military. It was a centurion who, at the foot of the cross of a condemned rabblerouser, confessed, "Truly this man was God's Son!" (Matthew 27:54). And the guards posted by Pilate have their own empty tomb experience, albeit in a very different way (Matthew 27:65-28:4). (A good novel that deals with the aftermath is The Centurion's Wife, by Davis Bunn and Janette Oke. The centurion of this story is the one whose faith is praised by Jesus (Matthew 8:5-13) and who (in this novel) is assigned by Pilate to investigate the disappearance of Jesus' body from the tomb.)

I thought Easter Vigil was a bit early in the day this year, since the sun was still up after the service, but that's not important. What's important is the anamnesis of Christ's incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection, all done for us in accordance with God's will.

Alleluia, Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Fear of God? Or fear of our friends?

Last week, I attended a meeting at church (and those who were present will remember this). At the beginning of the meeting, it was appropriate that we would have a prayer. There was one problem: no one would volunteer to lead the prayer. I'm as guilty of this as anyone else; after all, I was there, and I failed to step up, at least for the opening prayer. But something occurred to me later during the meeting: This is not the first such instance I've witnessed (and thus, been a part of).

So why is it that we don't step up to lead a prayer? Now, I'm not asking why we all don't enter ordained ministry and lead a congregation, since ordination is a different issue entirely. Why don't we want to be the person to pray in public, or not even in a small group of close friends?

Now, clearly I was multitasking during this meeting, since I was taking notes at the same time as I was examining myself about this. Here's what I came up with, at least for my own experiences:

• I'm an introvert. Say what you will about small group vs. large group, but being put on the spot for extemporaneous prayer is a tough one for an introvert, regardless of group size.
• I'm not accustomed to extemporaneous prayer. As an Episcopalian (even a non-cradle one), I've grown into the Book of Common Prayer and away from the prayer for the moment (or further so). While I can pray from memory a number of the prayers in the BCP, I'm not as good at letting the Spirit move me in prayer. It's certainly a failing, because, to some extent, I'm not surrendering myself to God in prayer.
• To some extent, I'm more afraid of people than of God. A scary thought, and certainly a failing, but it's not to say I'm not a 'God-fearer.' What it does say is that I have always feared the judgment of other people.

Ultimately, though, there is hope. There is room in the introvert for change, and there is room for the acknowledgement that no matter how much our friends love us, God loves us more.

Re-integration by parts

My name is Bob, and I've been a bad blogger. (Hi, Bob.)

I've finished what the Air Force calls "reintegration time," a period of downtime in which I'm supposed to "reintegrate" with my normal life. Now that I'm "reintegrated," I returned to work yesterday to a mountain of obsolete emails--stuff that was relevant months ago but has since expired. My job yesterday was to sift through all that to find the correspondence that actually remains relevant. If you've ever returned to an office job after a time away, you know this process.

An additional task was to sort out my calendar for the next eight months. Ordinarily, an end-of-year task like that would be to sort out the next year, but I know one thing is both set and fluid at the same time (gotta love those quantum metaphors!)--my upcoming physics PhD program, which starts in the fall. I know that I'm starting that, but the course schedule is not yet set.

One item on my calendar--and one of the "parts" of my "re-integration by parts" (a bad but favorite math joke) is a much-needed trip to visit my godparents. It seems I only get to see them about once a year--a reality of living so far from them.

I'm still taking classes at United toward a Master of Theological Studies--in fact, I'm taking a heavier load in the spring semester than I have taken in past semesters, just so I have enough done that I can conceivably finish that degree part-time while I begin work on my physics PhD. Yes, I've already been called crazy for that call...

Back from Baghdad...

I returned to Dayton yesterday afternoon, after a four-day trip from Baghdad.

I've noticed a few differences in Dayton:

• What's with all the white stuff falling from the sky?
• I didn't drive a vehicle during my deployment, so I was a little leery about getting out today. But I managed.
  
• It seems strange to see all the bright colors people are wearing. For the last four months, I've seen little more than bland earthtones, whether in clothing or in the environment.
• And it's quite nice to be able to wear regular clothing again.

Now to (re)build a life for myself...

Happy Thanksgiving from Baghdad!

As I close in toward the end of my deployment, I have quite a bit for which to be thankful. In addition my previous personal inventory (see “The Golden Ticket,” below), I’m thankful for the outpouring of support I’ve received from back home. You all really have made this experience a better one.

Anyway, lest you think this is all about being mushy, I’ll try to answer the question: So what is Thanksgiving like for a staff officer in Baghdad? Well, it was actually pretty good, or maybe I’m going a little insane—it’s a short trip. There’s still a little work, but I got to get a little of a late start—a little breakfast, then a run that turned into more of a leisurely walk. I really should take a leisurely walk more often.

Thanksgiving dinner (or ‘linner,’ as we were calling it, since it was at lunchtime) was pretty good, if crowded. There were all the normal Thanksgiving foods; I had the Cornish game hen for the first time in several years. I must have missed the cranberry sauce in another crowded line, but I also didn’t notice its absence until well after dinner. I’d had the pumpkin pie several times in the last week, so my friends teased me for having gotten the same dessert again.

After ‘linner,’ it was back to the office for a bit, then outside to play dominoes under a marvelous sunset. I didn’t get to call home, though—all the phone circuits were busy, indicating that I had chosen to call home at about the same time as everyone else on the base.

All in all, it was a pretty good Thanksgiving, and much better than too many people get, especially in these hard times. Too many people are going to have trouble making ends meet, and too many people will lose their lives. Thanksgiving should be about giving thanks, especially for having the ability to celebrate a nice Thanksgiving.

Thanks be to God for all the blessings of this life.

Amen.

The Golden Ticket

A few days ago, I got what deployers call the ‘Golden Ticket’.

The Golden Ticket is the letter that releases one from the deployed position and starts the ball rolling to go home. I got mine, in its final form, a couple of days ago, so I’m going home sometime in the near future, and about eight months ahead of schedule. As it turns out, my position was identified as one of those to be cut when President Bush announced troop reductions in September.

Well, it’s not quite Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. But it will be good to go home.

Anyway, what does this mean for me?

What have I lost from the time I’ve been in Iraq?

• Well, I’ll have been here about four months. Actually, that’s not such a big deal, since I’ve served with a lot of people who are serving in twelve- to fifteen-month deployments—and, in fact, my own deployment was originally set for a year.

What have I gained for the four months in Iraq?

• I’ve gained several great friends whom I never would have met otherwise.
• I’ve gained a little perspective on some of the luxuries I take for granted in the U.S.. For example, fast internet service.
• The time away from my normal commitments has been—as someone put it—a sabbatical. It has given me the chance to figure out my own path, with less influence from what I think others might think. (Here, I’m reminded of the late physicist, Richard Feynman, “What do you care what other people think?”)
• That sabbatical has given me the opportunity to explore my call in more detail, as you’ve seen in previous posts. I’ve decided to pursue a Master of Theological Studies degree, rather than the M.Div., and later on go for a Ph.D. in theology. The initial call I felt toward the priesthood, I think, was a little push from God to explore theological education.
• And, for a couple of purely practical gains, I’ve managed to sock away a little money from not paying for stuff in the U.S.. I’ll also have a few more awards to wear on my service dress, including my first individual military decoration.

I’ve definitely come out of this deployment in the ‘plus’ column.