a terrifyingly familiar path

People often describe me as tough. As much as I would like to believe I am strong and brave, I have about decided I am a lot more tender, a lot more raw than even I would've thought. Maybe I really am getting back to that vulnerable place where I used to live. Lately it just seems like there is not enough grace in the world. People talk to one another and treat one another any way they please, and there is not enough emotional roominess to forgive and accept our humanity. And every time I see this, and feel like I might be one of the precious few who even notice it, I immediately worry that my being nice to others does nothing to make it better. It is everywhere: at the office, on the road, on the sidewalk, at home, in my own mind. In moments when I receive the rudeness, disrespect, blame, or disparagement that is not mine to receive, I realize the futility of being honest, forthright, or nice--that's probably why more people don't bother with it. It's extra work with less payout. Cutting corners, white lies, deceptions, and finger pointing too often get people further with less work, like greasing the rails (and yes, I realize that sometimes this path ends in disaster). Even so, I can't stop trying to be helpful, kind, honest, and straightforward with people. In some ways, being vulnerable and adhering to my strict moral compass are the only genuine aspects of my day. One of my best friends used to say that he admired my vulnerability. Several years ago, I abandoned that vulnerability, choosing self protection over openness. However, I feel like as painful as it is to live this way, there is a different kind of strength in refusing to yield to the disinterested, entitled, aloof, cavalier attitude of the vast majority of contemporary American society. The vulnerability, it turns out, is what allows me to live freely in the face of our vapid materialism and insatiable greed.

All of these philosophical realizations have led me to some very different conclusions about my future. Because I've been consumed with figuring out my place in the world...and feeling pulled down a terrifyingly familiar vocational path...I haven't wanted to blog about it or really even talk about it much. At some point, I began asking myself what I thought was important. I didn't really have the right answers, but I started searching for an answer. Then, one night my gf and I watched the film Magnolia. The final climactic scene is a dying man (Jason Robards) whose hospice nurse (Philip Seymour Hoffman) contacted the man's estranged son (Tom Cruise). The estranged son finally decides to visit his dying father. In the scene, the son is coming to terms with his father (who is, I believe, comatose or close to it at this point) and their history. As the son weeps for his father, the nurse looks on, sobbing also. He (the nurse) bears witness to the pain of both the father and the son; he is the constant sentinel throughout the film, even turning away a nurse who comes to relieve him. When the film ended I continued to cry...a lot. My gf kept asking what was going on, and I could barely speak. All I could say is, "The world just needs more of that, more grace." It was clear what was important. Sharing those powerful moments of humanity with people in need of presence is important to me. I feel "called" (for lack of a better word) to sit with pain, to stand in the face of fear and show compassion. My vocation is supposed to be one of the most difficult things I can imagine. After seeing that film, and connecting many dots across the years, I finally think I understand my vocation: to be a chaplain. Emotional though I am, I also feel like I am a young person who constantly lives near the border of life and death--not for myself. Losing my brother at age three and dealing with many more deaths throughout my young life (both the elderly and the young), and watching the decline of my grandparents, I am not afraid of death. While it is sad and sometimes hard to watch, I am not afraid of declining health, either. In fact, standing strong in the face of our humanity has long been part of my identity. Although some might insist that I am a talker, I am pretty sure those same folks can vouch for the fact that I am also good at listening and being present. Grace is something I understand, even if God is something I do not. When my own life is over, the legacy I want to leave is one of grace--offering grace at every opportunity. It's the lesson I'd want to teach my children and the first thing my friends thought about me. Life has offered me so much spiritual spaciousness, so much forgiveness, so much grace, even at my age. The most authentic expression of gratitude I can imagine is to share that grace with people who find themselves in need of kindness and empathy.

Because becoming a chaplain means being ordained I am convicted that the United Church of Christ (Congregational) church I've been attending is my new church home. The community is deeply involved in social justice and is committed to inclusiveness--which includes ordaining glbt persons. They have a very lovely, open way of approaching who or what God/Jesus is, was, or might be. They care a great deal about coming together as a community for fellowship and service. This church feels so comfortable, so much like home. It makes me very sad to think that I have to move away from the UMC, which I've always felt was the church that chose me as much as the other way around. It sucks that I have to leave the UMC to live authentically. It sort of sucks that it's taken this long, circuitous route to determine that I do feel drawn to make my life's work within the Church. At the end of the day, it turns out that I am just crazy about Jesus...and even the disciples. The Gospels seem to pay homage to the human condition, how inescapable and encompassing it is, even for the best of us.