East of Eden

Last week was the first time my family and I attended worship since the beginning of October. Life is different out here. Sometimes I imagine looking back over my shoulder and seeing the cherubim at the gate, spinning, spinning, with flaming swords guarding the gate. Not that the United Methodist Church is in any way parallel to the Garden of Eden, but it was my spiritual home for 44 years. How does one begin again outside the gates?

Have you ever had the sense that you can't go home again? You can't go back and so all you can do is go forward, and yet forward means going into the mist, into the unknown, the vast wilderness. Kind of reminds me of when I first moved to Nebraska and Larry drove me through the Sandhills of Nebraska. I could see nothing but vast openness before me and it terrified me. But now, after all these years, I can't imagine living anywhere else but Nebraska.

And so I will find my way in this new wilderness. I can't go home again. I've been too burned. It's kind of like being married for a long, long time and one day being told by your spouse, "I don't love you anymore." It takes awhile to trust enough to build new relationships and not be afraid that they will leave you too. Fortunately, I don't know that specific experience firsthand.

I have a new job, after 19 years of being employed by the Church. That, too, is another venture outisde the gates of home. I realize now how somewhat cloistered one can be working for the Church. Somewhat sheltered. People treat you differently when you're a pastor. They don't cuss around you or if they do, they immediately apologize. They don't talk about their every day lives so much; the annoying co-worker, the pressures of work, the fight they had with their spouse. They talk more spiritual talk as if that's all a pastor would be interested in. I used to see people's Sunday Self.

Now I work in an office full of nurses and social workers who know what I used to do for a living, but they never really knew me as that. They know me now as a colleague. They are simply themselves around me, they treat me like anyone else, and I can't adequately describe how refreshing that is. I'm a little nervous at times, just because it's a whole new, bigger, wider world outside the Church. Real life. New rules. During the process of ordination, they talked about pastors being "set apart" as if that was a good thing, a holy thing. But truthfully, it's an isolated thing. I was set apart from people, when I just wanted to be a person. Now I'm not-- I'm plunged into the center of life and activity and it's dizzying at times! But I wouldn't turn around and go back for anything. I can adjust to my new surroundings. I can expand my vision to wide-open spaces and experiences, even if I hyperventilate once in awhile!

Already in my new job I come across people and whole families that have been turned off by the Church-- hurt by it or even abused by it. They therefore aren't interested in spiritual care or religious talk. I can understand that and can certainly empathize. Perhaps I can be a help to them. They don't know unless I tell them that I was a pastor. My job is Bereavement Coordinator; to listen to their pain and help them find a way forward. I think I can do that, because I've had to do that myself.

Today we visited the Episcopalian Church in Kearney. I was enamored by the beautiful old sanctuary with its long aisle leading forward to an ornate altar and chancel. I confess I love the liturgy, the prayer books, the robes, processionals and music. When I was in college I had to spend a semester in Philadelphia, PA to take classes at Temple University. I lived on the North Side of Philly, which is a very decrepit and dangerous side of town. Amdist the stress of finding my way on the subway, hearing gunshots down the street, stepping over the homeless on my front step, I found peace and spiritual food at the Episcopal Church in South Philly, the historic section of the city. It was in the neighborhood of Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, Franklin Institute, etc. The oldest United Methodist Church in the United States was within blocks. Ben Franklin was buried nearby. The church was beautiful, majestic and ornate. I loved the ritual, the singing, and the preaching. I loved taking communion every Sunday. It was a spiritually rich experience, outside of my own tradition.

Today I re-experienced some of that. I didn't always know when to sit down or stand up, I needed a little coaching in what book to pick up and what page to turn to, and I didn't catch on to all the responses, but somehow the liturgy fed me. I loved the ornate robes, the processional, the crosses, the acolytes who were intensely trained for worship.

Besides that, it was the friendliest church I've ever experienced. People talked openly and freely with us, inviting us to join them for fellowship time. They were very kind and welcoming. It didn't matter who we were or where we'd been. I still feel somewhat wounded and broken walking into any Church, I confess, and today I felt like the community tended my wounds with grace without even knowing it. A woman asked me if we were Episcopalian, and I blurted out, "No, we're not anything right now." There was some pain when I realized what I said, but also some freedom. I'm not anything right now. I don't have to protect any institution, keep its secrets and act like it's all hunky dory. I don't have to lie for anyone anymore or put on a game face. I am searching. I'm finding my way. I'm not bound, but floating on a river waiting to see where the water will take me. The future is open. The path is wide open.