One evening this past week, our family was about to arrive home when I remembered that we didn’t have what one of our sons needed in order to bring his lunch to school the next day. I offered to run back out. This is one of the things that I do: I go to the grocery store and I pick up dinner from restaurants. The men of yore would go out into the field, hunt, and bring their bounty back home. So in that spirit, I too venture out into the wild to track down the elusive prey that are chicken nuggets and tacos.
I dropped E.A. and the boys off at our front door and headed off to the nearest grocery store certain that this would be a quick trip. I knew what I was looking for and I even had multiple options. As long as they had microwaveable bacon or a Chicken Dunks Lunchable, I was golden. I would bring home the bounty. My kid would have his lunch for school the next day.
Yet there was a snag: our grocery store did not have either item. So I texted E.A.: “Swing and a miss on both items. Do you want me to look elsewhere or come home?” She said to try another place; again, we would like for our kid to be able to eat lunch. I drove about 15 minutes to another grocery store. A bigger grocery store. One that has not failed to have the items that are sometimes missing from the smaller store close to our house. In confidence, I strode to the refrigerated section in the back that is home to breakfast meats and pre-packaged meals for school-aged children and lazy college students.
And it was barren. There was no bacon. There were no Chicken Dunks Lunchables. It was as if there was a breaking news story in which a scientist had warned the nation that we don’t know how many pigs or chickens we have left and a panicked populace rushed the grocery stores in hopes of one last moment with pork and poultry.
I have a new office in our home and one of the things I am enjoying is decorating the space. I have placed books, Lego sets, and Funko Pops on the shelves. My wall has photos of family, places that I have traveled, artwork my siblings have given me, diplomas, etc. Across from my desk on the wall, hangs a cross that we got from a church in Reykjavik and a small colorfully-painted tile depicting Assisi. On the floor beneath them is the one item in here that I haven’t yet put up: my certificate of ordination.
I was ordained as a minister ten years ago today. It was a step with which I struggled for awhile. My Baptist roots fostered in me a firm belief in the priesthood of all believers. If you say that you are a follower of Jesus, then you are a minister. So the hierarchy implied by being called “Reverend” made me feel a little uncomfortable. I did not use the title for myself often unless I was writing my Congressperson. Despite these qualms, I did ultimately pursue ordination. I am glad that I did. I am just not totally sure what to make of it now.
I don’t serve as a vocational minister anymore; not in a church, not as a chaplain, not in some sort of parachurch organization. I am an Administrative Assistant in a hospital Spiritual Care department. In fact, I haven’t even attended a church service in maybe a year and a half save an Ash Wednesday service that I snuck off to at the beginning of Lent. I did officiate a wedding in a church over the summer; an experience that I loved and was very meaningful for me. But I don’t really know what to do about that ordination certificate. Or church.