Passion, Peace, Pathway

As the child of a military man, and as a person whose life journey has taken a few twists and turns, I feel like I have spent much of my life in liminal space—between periods of relative stability, figuring out what’s next, not quite settled, waiting for God to shine his flashlight on the dark path so I know where to put my foot. When I moved into a house in Lynnwood, Washington, in 1998, I said to whomever would listen, “I’m never moving again. This is the house in which I will die.” I have moved five times since then.

And here I am again, wondering about my next step. When I took the position as Solo Pastor at Bethany Covenant Church, I thought this would be my one and only full-time call as pastor. I planned to retire from this position when the time was right, move closer to family, and settle in for a happy and useful retirement. But in the face of dwindling resources post-pandemic, both human and material, and in spite of beautiful relationships and meaningful community-facing ministry, God said, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Now it’s time to lay it all down.” So we did. The church closed in February. The leadership team and I have done our best to shepherd our congregation into the next steps of their lives, helping them find new church homes, maintaining some small groups where we could continue to gather and encourage one another in prayer, Bible study, and fellowship.

 

So everyone gets to move on relatively easily, since this is their home and they don’t have to get new jobs—just new churches. But it’s more complicated for me, since the end of the church also meant the end of my job. So what do I do? I have been looking for new work ever since the handwriting on the wall signaled that change was coming. I have had multiple conversations, several interviews, a few onsite visits, even several requests from someone in authority to apply for certain positions. I’m doing a fair amount of pulpit supply within an hour of our home. So far, nothing has worked out permanently. 

 

I admitted to a group of friends that I’m tired of liminal space. Oh, I can wax poetic about the activity of God in darkness and silence, and I’m sincere about it. But even knowing that God is working, without knowing how God is working or what he is up to, it’s exhausting! So many moments when I thought “This is it!” have turned out to be—well—not it. It might be fair to suggest that I lack trust. It might also be fair to suspect simple human fatigue from confronting a vast unknown once again. But it’s totally fair to admit aloud to good friends: I’m tired of living in liminal space. I want to settle somewhere.

 

From the first conversation I had with the chair of the search team that eventually brought me to Bethany, I had a sense that God would indeed bring me here. I fell in love with the people, the opportunity, the work, even the struggles (mostly) from the beginning. In all the possibilities I have explored so far, I have thought, “I could do this job,” but never, “I’m in love!” I realize that not every assignment God gives us gets to be as good, healthy, and satisfying as the one I am leaving—and grieving—but it’s harder to know what is next when nothing has drawn me like Bethany did.

 

As I was sharing some of this with my spiritual director, she finally said, “The word I’m getting for you is ‘listen.’ I don’t know exactly what that means for you, but maybe think about that this week.” So when I thought about it later that week, I decided to re-enter a practice of centering prayer.

 

Often when I pray a centering or breath prayer, I inhale “Father, Son, Spirit,” and exhale something related to what’s on my mind. Sometimes I choose the words ahead of time; sometimes they come to me as I’m praying and breathing. And sometimes God reshapes the words as I pray. I am not rigid about how I approach it. Spiritual practices are tools that help us enter the presence of God, not things that must be mastered in particular ways; I adapt freely to my needs.

 

Today as I was praying, I exhaled something like, “peace, love, pathway.” I had two P words, and it made sense that all three should be P words, so the poet in me changed it to “peace, passion, pathway.” By passion I meant all that is God’s love for us, including his self-sacrifice. Then I thought: Wait. God’s love comes first, before peace, before pathway. Think about the disciples before Jesus died. They are being instructed every day by Jesus himself, but they hadn’t fully understood his love, and they certainly haven’t claimed his peace, so they didn’t understand the pathway—neither Jesus’ pathway through the cross, nor their own pathway towards making disciples and forming the church. 

 

I identify with Peter. He wanted to get an A in discipleship. But he got it wrong, over and over again. To be fair, he often got it right, too. I’ve preached on the extreme contrasts that make up Peter’s journey with Jesus: walking on water and then sinking, refusing to let Jesus wash his feet and then asking for a whole bath, acknowledging that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God and then refusing to allow Jesus to suffer and die, claiming he’d never betray Jesus and then doing so three times before sunrise. The spirit was willing but that darn flesh . . .

 

So passion first. After Jesus’ death and resurrection, the disciples could finally begin to discern, understand, and embrace God’s pathway for them. I changed my prayer to “passion, pathway, peace.” But wait again! Is peace last? Does God reveal our pathways before we experience the peace that passes understanding? Maybe sometimes, but not usually. In my own experience, there is always some surrender of my fear or my anxiety or even my will before I experience peace. Peace comes before I know what’s next, most of the time. Peter and the disciples experienced the risen Jesus before they formed the church. They prayed faithfully in the upper room after Jesus’ ascension before they received the Holy Spirit who empowered them mightily for ministry. So perhaps my prayer should be: passion, peace, pathway.

 

Inhale: Father, Son, Spirit

Exhale: passion, peace, pathway

 

The self-sacrificing love of God that enables all love, all peace, all forward motion—God is inviting me to dwell in his love, rest in his peace, and wait for my pathway.

 

The pathway is not separate from the passion and the peace. The way, the truth, and the life are of a piece—one whole from which nothing can be separated. But in my human limitation, I sense a progression in my own journey, even if passion, peace, and pathway are one whole thing from which no element can be separated. Still, if I jump to my future without passing through—or better, abiding in—love and peace, I’ll fracture the wholeness that God intends for us and miss all three. The pathway is there, permanently bound together with love and peace, even if I can’t discern it at present.

 

For now, my pathway is God’s love. For now, my pathway is the peace that passes understanding. As I rest-abide-dwell in this liminal space with Father-Son-Spirit as my companion, the next steps of vocation will become clearer to me in God’s perfect timing. And if that pathway is nothing like I expect or presently desire, I will count on God’s companionship to make it my desire.

 

With God’s help, I’ll quit trying to get an A in discipleship. With God’s help, I’ll quit trying to be the valedictorian of my own life. With God’s help, I will experience his love and peace ever more deeply so that my hands and heart can remain open to the pathway to which God calls me. Like Peter, I have mistakes yet to make. 

 

But Love leads. Peace journeys with Love. This is the Pathway.