The moment when it doesn't matter any more, I am jumping.
For probably 25 years this one praise song has had me bounding three times right, three times left, lifting hands higher than the sky, and dropping down deeper than the sea. I've declared God's everlasting love like this with countless kids, back at my home church in Kitchener, up at our cottage church in Cognashene, in Thailand and Cambodia that first trip 11 years ago, at Day Camps over the years both sides of the planet, and now here at Hot Springs for, oh I don't know how long. It's an exuberant explosion of music and joy and, based on the repeated requests from the kids, it never gets old.
I do. And I feel it when the song is done, I'll just be honest and - heaving breath - say so. But. So. Much. Energy fills the room! Every time! It's as if we just get lost in the joyful mystery of His everlasting love. Every time. And it's happy and wonderful and good and fun and beautiful and ridiculously satisfying.
And I am jumping three times right and three times left when suddenly it doesn't matter any more.
So now I have to get all transparent and admit that no small amount of my challenge in this past year has been adjusting to a perceived 'loss' of status. Yes. That.
Everyone totally knows that it's not in the best interest of our overall mental health if we identify too closely with the work we do and any titles or status that comes with. And we might all just shrug it off as not being a thing, not affecting us, as long as we're doing our work and - let's face it - enjoying the titles or status that come with. But when that work is gone and the titles are gone and the status is gone, it kinda turns out that it mattered after all. It's not supposed to. But it kinda does.
It's not like being Pastor has such a huge standing in the general world anyways. That part I got used to long ago. But at least it seemed to help in my ministry world. And even somewhat cynical extended family members seemed to allow me a tad more respect when I was ordained and actually received the title Reverend. (A credential I still hold but rarely use, but feel necessary to mention here only because you knowing that still matters somehow -- even when it shouldn't.)
When I came back from my initial time away, I noticed something had changed. It became obvious that much of what I had previously taken for granted in terms of a general respect and regard was attached to the role, not the person. Not with my closest friends, of course. And I was amply loved through the entire process, without question. But in terms of some of the subtle ways these things are played out, it was clear. I just wasn't as important now. Being a missionary didn't have the same clout, clearly.
I was even told I might not want to call myself that, because....well there's lots of negative stuff around the title. There was that weird guy last November who got shot by arrows, remember?
Except around here, no one calls me Pastor anymore, so what am I left with?
And it's not supposed to matter but....it does.
Until it doesn't. Because....jumping.
And it's the middle of the song when I am overwhelmed by a Presence of shalom in the most unexpected and breath-snatching of ways. And I realize that this - what I'm doing right now - is exactly what I want to be doing - right now - in this moment of it not mattering. Because you can call me anything you like or nothing at all if this is where I get to be. Here right now in the circle of treasures of immeasurable value that poverty said should not be here. But they are here, thriving and shining, and in the throes of joyful worship, no less.
And somehow, by some appointment not orchestrated by me, I have been invited into the best of the best. So it doesn't matter. Call me what you want. Or nothing at all.
Just let me jump with the kids.
