When I was in Galveston this July, I was there by myself. I had borrowed a vehicle from my host home (I live in Eastern Oregon), and wanted to see new sights and eat seafood. Red Snapper, blackened, was the way to go at “Fisherman’s Wharf.” This restaurant was one block away from “The Strand,” which included a row of majestic old buildings that had survived “The Big One,” the hurricane of 1900. As I walked up and down that old street I wondered what it would have been like to be in Galveston around the time of the close of the Civil War, to witness the planting of the seeds of growth, and to get a sense of the optimism that people had about heading north and west, for opportunity and a better way of life.
Further inland from The Strand is a building that I thought was a stone castle. No doubt this Palace survived Hurricane Ike. As I parked to get a closer look, I realized that it had been, or is, the residence of the Catholic Bishop of the Galveston-Houston Archdiocese. It’s an impressive sight. The stonework was amazing, and the gate was intimidating. It was after-hours, so I wasn’t able to go inside for a tour.
That night in Galveston was important for me. I thought to myself, “how am I distinct from the pastors I’ve met, from those who might occupy the palace, from my good friends in the Lutheran as well as other traditions?” As the sun was beginning to set, I had made my way to the beach after stopping at a gas station for a few cheap cigars. I had decided that the way to finish my sabbatical was to smoke a cigar barefoot while standing in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the “Third Coast” according to the locals. Most all of that experience was a “new thing” for me. 1) Being alone, 2) smoking anything, 3) being in the warm waters of the Gulf Coast. It might sound a little corny, but standing there with the churning waters (Hurricane Dolly had just landed many hours south near Corpus) and having the mainland behind me was in a sense a prayer. I found myself using my surroundings and my place in them as a prayer to God.
“God, what do you have planned for me? Where are things heading? What’s my horizon? What about St. Paul Lutheran Church? What’s the next thing, and how are you speaking to them and to me, now?” Mixed with prayers of thanks for a crazy and renewing sabbatical, this was how that sunset was for me. I was thankful that I was there, and that I was nearing the end of my time away, and that I was soon going to be disarming the church’s security system on my first day back to the office. I was ready to be involved in this ministry once more.
Here are a few principles that I’ve come up with through these three months. I think they have to do with pastoral identity, with ongoing discernment of what “sabbath” may mean in today’s world, and I think they have to do with an ongoing exploration into the mystery of God who is known to us in Christ Jesus.
1. There is no “planning” to be renewed. But there is “expecting” to be renewed.
2. Christ’s ministry takes on many forms throughout the body of Christ (the Church) and the world.
3. Setbacks are an opportunity for me to release myself into the care of God and others.
4. New ideas come from all over the place.
5. There can be affirmation of one’s own identity when anonymous.
6. It takes a lifetime to figure out oneself.
7. Children love their parents.
8. Anxiety is overrated.
9. There is something special in the office of “pastor”.
10. Authority can be exercised with love and care.
There's a verse from an old hymn written by Horatio Spafford,
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
I suppose for the time being, that's a good way to describe whatever it is in me that wants to be articulated as I remember sabbatical and continue in ministry.
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