I’m preparing for a major event in my ministry called an ecclesiastical council. My denomination holds these for people they’ve been accompanying as we discern ordained ministry. It is one of the final steps before someone is able to be an ordained minister in the denomination. The truth is, I’ve been preparing for this for years. The first EC I attended was in my second year of div school. I was feeling hopeful about ordination as a part of my path, and many of the advisors in my life were suggesting I attend one. It meant so much to me that my first EC was for a Black woman, Rev. Karlene Griffiths Sekou. She was so poised and thoughtful and insightful and creative, and her intellect blew me away. While I was so encouraged to see a Black woman in my denomination absolutely rocking it, I was also intimidated by her wisdom. Was there any way I could learn as much as she knows? Could I speak with such rootedness and determination about my faith? Could I lead with such passion and vision? Who I must become to succeed as a minister of Christ?
Karlene’s amazingness notwithstanding, the question of who I have to be in order to serve as an ordained minister of the Church has been a loaded question for me. I carry around a fair amount of baggage that for years I was sure would inhibit my ability to be present or speak meaningfully with others. I have struggled with feeling like I’m not enough: The disappointments and pain of my family has created a tender spot that often causes me to doubt if my faith is genuine. Most of the things I was taught were indicative of a meaningful life as a follower of Christ, I no longer believe in. Was my embedded theology the gatekeeper that I believed it to be for so long, or was it just a holdover from people who were doing their best, that I can shed and leave behind?
If, during an EC, the community votes to approve you, then you are able to seek a call to ministry, and upon receiving one, you are ordained in a ritual service full of joy and seriousness and Spirit. There’s something to be said for the idea that ordination is a bigger party than a “board” meeting where you share your theology, ethics, and ministry experience with your community, and then a bunch of delegates vote as to whether they can affirm your call to ordained ministry. Ordination has all the ritual, all the pomp, all the sacredness and Presence, and it has gifts! But somehow, this feels like the moment with the higher stakes for me.
I’m thinking about all the councils I witnessed. All of them have been online, because COVID, but all of them have also been exciting and enlightening and inspiring. I was at Rev. Noah Brewer-Wallin’s I remember standing at the card in my kitchen and trying to make tea while we cheered them on. I was at Rev. Lexi Boudreaux’s delighting in her joy. Just recently I was sitting at my dining table squealing and cheering at Rev. Jasmine Buchanan’s. It has consistently been a beautiful and energizing experience for me to witness the way in which these people have claimed their faith so beautifully. The love of Christ has been a liberator, not a rule-maker, and it has inspired them to use their gifts in service and pursuit of love, community, and justice.The process of discerning ordination in my denomination has invited me to wrestle with what I think ministry is writ-large, and what my ministry looks like in this world. These are words I would never have used to describe my work ten years ago, and they still make me a little itchy in some places. Discernment has also been an invitation to listen to Spirit and to be attentive to Her nudges, silences, and sensations. I’m grateful for the path that I’ve been on, and though I’ve often been impatient and frustrated, there’s also a part of me that’s grateful that it’s taken the time that it has. It’s hard for me to imagine being the version of myself that I am right now any sooner than this. I know the reality is that Spirit is going to continue to work in me, that this council is a major moment, and it’s also a new beginning, a threshold crossing for me.
I also know that I’ll still have to pay rent, and watch my sugar intake, and try not to roll my eyes at my partner. I know that my life doesn’t suddenly become larger, more magical, or easier than it is today. Racism will still exist; Roe was still overturned; police will still kill Black folks for existing; and the earth will continue to groan under the weight of corporate toxicity.
More than an expansion into, this threshold feels like I am laying something down, or laying myself down somehow. Something in me is prostrating or surrendering, like my desires and hopes and goals are important and meaningful to me, but maybe if I’m lucky, I might be holding them a little less tightly. I was hoping to achieve for so long, to cross finish lines and earn accolades and succeed. Even now, I don’t deny that there is privilege in these things: there are doors that unlock or open, tables that grow an extra seat, for achievement and success. But I’m grateful that I’m thinking less about what looks good on paper and more about what allows me to meet the work I’ve been put here to do. There is a way of being and living and serving that I am invited to live into, that I want to spread into, like water or warm oil: soft and spacious, not rigid or “upright.” Right now I’m feeling loosed of the expectation to be a thing. Right now, I don’t have to perform a version of myself in order to qualify, be of service, be of use to God. The fear I felt of who I must be in order to serve is melting. It is such a relief.
My deep hope is that the community I’m sharing my journey and ministry with agree with me, and with God, that my call is genuine and true, and that they can affirm me as an ambassador and servant of our denomination. Nothing about this is accidental or circumstantial, I feel in alignment, and I hope that my community agrees. But whatever the outcome, I feel hopeful about the work of Spirit in my life.