A little while ago, my friend Matthew asked me if I’d be up for writing about how I’ve encountered the Church as truly alive. Naturally, my first instinct was to write about campus ministry, about how we have all of these vibrant college students within and outside of our denomination (the PCUSA) who tackle faith and the questions it poses. But then I thought that might be a bit narrow-minded of me. I mean, how cliché is it for a campus minister to write about campus ministry?
There’s so much going on within the Body, I thought. Why not venture outside of your little bubble, your little world of ivory towers and Crimson Tide football, and consider what else is happening in the ecclesiastical world?
Unfortunately, this line of thinking led me down a road I did not altogether expect. Not that I should be surprised, since I’ve discovered that, when it comes to deciphering what God may be up to, there is no such thing as a foregone conclusion. But in my quest to find a living, breathing Church, I was stymied by a lack of inspiration. I just wasn’t feeling it. And how the heck was I going to write about the Church being alive when I wasn’t sure what that looked like?
Now, please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that campus ministry is the only place where things are kickin’. And I’m certainly not implying that God needs to branch out a bit. To say that might render me vulnerable to not-so-random strikes of lightning from on high or, perhaps worse, trial by PJC (Permanent Judicial Commission). What I am saying is that the proverbial rub starts and ends with me, a victim of my own narcissistic tendencies and campus ministry tunnel vision. Or, put another way, I’ve just been too dang focused upon what’s going on in my own pastoral world to even consider what’s happening elsewhere.
Something tells me I’m not the only one who has experienced this. I believe we pastors are by our very nature a narcissistic bunch, which seems counter-intuitive when you consider the “selfless” nature of our calling. It’s easy to obsess over “the perfect sermon” or to allow other people’s opinions to haunt us at night or to believe that the fate of the Church rests solely upon our shoulders. And it’s tempting to think that whatever happens within the walls of the steeple centers around us.
Of course, to believe that is to buy into a lie. And, unfortunately, it often takes something “big” to jar us out of our selfishness... which is precisely what happened to me.
First Sunday of Advent. We’re supposed to be anticipating the birth of a child, not mourning the loss of one. Yet that’s exactly what was happening in our congregation, as we sat there, dressed in black and gray, remembering all of the ups and downs of this little child, thinking about what was and what could have been. Nothing seemed right with this picture. Nothing at all.
Except...
Story after story was told about how the congregation—no, the Church—had been with this family. People they didn’t know asking about them. Flowers being sent. Visits being made. Emails asking for prayers. On and on and on.
And, on this Sunday afternoon, mere hours after we had lit a candle of hope, the pews were filled by doctors, church members, nurses, old friends, extended and immediate family, hospital staff, young and old alike. The great Body of Christ in action, responding to a call to love one another, to comfort the grieving, to reach out and offer a hand to those who could not stand on their own.
It didn’t happen the way I expected or the way I wanted, but, on that Sunday, I was reminded that the Church isn’t about one person or one family or one group or one congregation. It involves a lot more than that. And, precisely because of that, the Church is very much alive.
I know this to be true because there, amidst the sadness and grief that Sunday, was a people waiting on the past, waiting on something that once was to happen yet again in ways we cannot even comprehend, waiting on a time when we can celebrate alongside the people we mourn, waiting on a space in which we no longer have to think about what could have been.
We wait because we hope, which, on that first Sunday of Advent, seemed mysteriously providential...
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