Grace and Truth

This summer I completed my 11th year at East Chestnut Street Mennonite Church in Lancaster, Pa. I’ve been here long enough now that the anniversary comes and goes without fanfare. In fact, I rarely think about it myself. That feels good. No jailhouse calendars for me.

In those 11 years, I have occasionally found myself in over my head. Sometimes because of my own error. Sometimes because of someone else’s. And usually because of some combination of the two. Whether it’s a conflict or a crisis, there are times when I’ve felt out of my depth and floundering. Such times are lonely and disheartening. They can even cause me to question my vocation.

I’ve been told that such times come for every pastor. When I’m trying to keep my head above water, knowing that others are struggling is cold comfort. OK, I’m normal. But I’m still going down for the third time.

Then the Holy Spirit grabs my hand. Here’s how. Someone walks into my office and offers to help.

I mean no disrespect when I say that it’s like Jesus walking into the room. Or, to stick with the drowning metaphor, like someone tossing me a lifesaver. It’s an unimaginable gift.

This has happened to me twice now in my time at East Chestnut Street. I can’t explain the circumstances that led me to despair or the particular shape and substance of the lifesavers. But without those lifesavers I’d not be here. I might not be anywhere, at least not as a pastor.

They rescued me personally and vocationally and gave me the support I needed to make it through. Like Peter being hauled back into the boat by Jesus, I was wet and ashamed but miraculously still breathing.

We Mennonites talk a lot about the priesthood of all believers. It’s one of our catch phrases, one we’ve grown so accustomed to we think we invented it. In fact, we probably borrowed it from our old enemy, Martin Luther, who said something like it in commenting on 1 Peter 2:9.

In any case, we use the language frequently and for multiple purposes. We use it to ward off potential clerical power grabs. (Who needs ordination, anyway? Aren’t we all priests?) We use it to remind ourselves that all are called to a sanctified life. (We are all priests, so let’s act like it.) And we use it to insist that worship belongs to all, not to elite, seminary-trained pastors (whoever they may be).

I find another meaning in my experiences of rescue. We are all called to saving acts. We are all called to be on the lookout for a sister or brother in trouble and reach out a hand and help them.

Our culture has not trained us for such saving acts. It insists that we decide in advance whether someone deserves saving. It gives us formulas for just how long someone ought to suffer before we act. It even allows for cases where we turn our backs and wait for the sound of splashing to stop.

But Jesus calls us to another way. When we see a sister or brother, a pastor or stranger, even an enemy, lying by the side of the road, we are called to lift them up and take them to the place of safety and healing. Jesus calls us to imitate him and save the lost and the drowning. Behave like priests, in other words, lifting the sinful and the sinned-against into the presence of the God who is love.

Some may still believe pastors are perfect, somehow holier or wiser or stronger than other Christians. But I’m glad they don’t go to my church. I’m glad to be part of a community of believers that not only calls me to engage in saving acts but understands I may well be the one in need of saving. A community that is a priesthood of all believers is always ready to offer a lifesaver, no matter who is drowning.