Pictured above: Rev. Sam’s ordination service, August 14th, 2015
This August will mark ten years since I was ordained as a minister in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). Big milestones can provoke deep reflection, and in recent weeks, I have found myself coming back to the question I have been asked over and over throughout the last decade: “Sam, how and why did you get into the ministry?”
Ordained ministry is not your typical vocation. I am not a second or third generation minister; I never played “pastor” as a child with my friends; or announced from the graduation stage that I wanted to grow up to be a member of the clergy. Truth be told, I wanted to be a cashier. To make the journey even more interesting, I grew up as an interfaith kid (with a Jewish parent and Christian parent), in a family that embraced both traditions side-by-side. But as I look back on the last decade – and look out at our fractured world today – I keep returning to that question of how and why I followed this calling. I find myself asking God in the dark of night: “Have I done enough good – have I done any?” “Is this world broken beyond repair?” “Is preaching faith and hope too foolish for such a time as this?”
The summer of 2015, I took a daring leap of faith. As a recent seminary graduate, I said “yes” to moving from New York City down south to Asheville, North Carolina to serve a big 700-member church. I remember feeling filled with butterflies: nervous-energy mixed with fresh-pastor optimism. I was excited to help foster a space for my new community’s faith to flourish and joy to overflow.
A few days after moving, everything changed. It was reported that a white man who had been welcomed into a bible study in a historically black church in Charleston, had opened fire – leaving the pastor and eight parishioners dead. News of these horrific murders shook me to my core. I could see clearly (and closely) the vulnerability of this work, the dangers of unchecked racism, and the human capacity to cause chaos and pain.
A swirl of thoughts criss-crossed my mind: Do I still want to stay in this line of work? Am I putting myself in harm’s way? Couldn’t God call me to something easier – something else?
But a second instinct took hold: to let all that fear and sadness fuel my ministry. Maybe this is exactly why I am here. Whatever it brings, I am going to do my best to compel the pendulum towards justice and mercy. Perhaps I can do some semblance of good…
A decade later, I am still trying. I have seen, heard, shared and experienced much since then. I have sat at countless bedsides and marched in the streets for critical causes. I have spoken at city-wide vigils and preached through tears from the pulpit. I have sat at the table with people who will never see the outside of the prison walls, as well as weary souls without a home to call their own. I have encountered mentors, friends and young people, who have pushed me to be more bold and daring. I have traveled to countries in the midst of conflict and learned to communicate without speaking the same language. I have lost count of the number of people I have married, baptized and eulogized. My heart is the keeper of so many secrets and stories and struggles. And through it all, I have often found that the most challenging and vulnerable aspects of this calling, have also been the most grounding and fulfilling.
And still, I keep returning to this question of how and why I am in the ministry. I have been preaching love that surpasses understanding for ten years – has it made a dent? Has it helped make things any lighter or brighter?
When I look out at the world today, I sometimes feel overwhelmed and depleted. From my most raw vantage point, I see a global community that appears addicted to squashing the vulnerable and stripping human beings of their humanity. I see gifted teachers being deported, and children in Gaza suffering from starvation. I see trans family members too fearful to use the bathroom, and young parents unable to pay for the basics. I see an increase in bombs dropped, and a decrease in a workforce of dedicated civil servants. I see a generation of young people begging for leaders to tend to our endangered planet, and I see the ugliness of antisemitism and racism and sexism alive and well. I see folks of all ages navigating mental health crises, and people twisting sacred biblical texts into weapons that harm and belittle. I see more and more people feeling powerless to make change or going numb to all the madness.
There are times these days when I feel like that newly-minted pastor all over again – still reeling from the tragedy in Charleston and eager to run back home…away from it all. How and why did I get into the ministry anyway?
But before I can head for the hills, God somehow finds a way to answer my question, my prayer. Sometimes the voice is faint or even wholly unexpected. But through all the noise, I manage to hear it.
Out of nowhere, I find myself thinking of my grandmother who used to say: “Clergy do a lousy job of bringing people together. Why can’t religion be used to unite instead of to divide? And I remember how much I want to shift that narrative and do my darndest to build bridges.
Or I come across a piece of scripture, like Hebrews 11:1 that reads: “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” And I am filled with comfort in knowing that even though we can’t see the whole path ahead, faith is that age-old engine that keeps us moving, marching, dancing and trudging forward.
Or I hear a teenager tell me that they are reading the diary of Anne Frank. And I am reminded of her words shared as she hid for her life, “Despite everything, I still believe people are inherently good.” And I am encouraged that there are people, who have experienced suffering far worse than I have known, who still manage to choose kindness and hope.
Or I see one of the couples, from the interfaith families community I now serve in Maryland, holding hands during one of our Gatherings. I recall the adversity they pushed through in order to marry the person they love – and find this place of solid welcome. And I feel blessed to be their pastor and inspired by their courage to be trailblazers.
How and why did I get into the ministry? God only knows.
And how and why do I stay in it? I guess, I still believe in my heart of hearts that God is in the midst of all the muck. And community is the key to opening our hearts just a bit wider. And faith and hope might be just the thing to which we need to cling ever so tight (and refuse to let go of) if we are ever going to repair this world.
If I have learned anything in my ten years of being called “pastor” it’s this: so often the work we need to do is not the work we feel ready for, or even capable of doing; but God has a way of calling us in and calling us out – and equipping us beyond our wildest imaginations.
Ten years is a long time, and at the same time, it’s no time at all.
There is boundless work ahead, and I promise to keep going.
