I started down my lovely messy path in 1998 while living in Wisconsin. Jeff that long time friend was my priest then and I was in discernment to become a priest. Talk about chaos—if you ever want to encounter a mess, try becoming a priest—it’s a circus of red tape voodoo, woo-woo choo-choo churchy lingo—words like calling, discernment and vocation, countless committees, batteries of psychological tests which of course include flaming hoops to jump through like a well trained tiger. One of the first committees that I met with was at my parish, St. Christopher’s. Quite often we sat in silence. It was awkward at first, but comfortable in time. It was kind of like a Quaker meeting—a member of my discernment committee would say something and then there was silence.
Later, someone else might respond. What I remember most is my fear. I was afraid that I didn’t have my shit together.
I was afraid to really share how God spoke to me. As if… God speaking… I hear those words and I think of Charlton Heston on Mount Sinai as Moses. I wish it were that clean for me.
For me, God shows up in children, poetry and dreams. I was reticent to share that—that couldn’t possibly be what they wanted to hear… how messy that is: children are way too honest and transparent and noisy to be God’s Messengers… and poetry… well… we won’t even go there… but poetry is the space of prayer for me. Poetry is the boat that Christ invites me to get into—it is the way I am transported from one place to another, but that’s not very clean…
And dreams, well dreams… once in a galaxy far far away (well actually Florida) I had an interview (of sorts) for a church job (of sorts… this is a whole ‘nother story) and a member of the interview committee told me that dreams and their interpretation were the work of the occult and Satan. Lovely! That’s clean and easy, right?
But my good old royal messiness had to argue back sardonically ( yes, right in the middle of the interview) “Well, I replied, “So much for good old Joe in Genesis who has dreams and interprets them for others… or good old Joe in Matthew (you know, Jesus’ step-dad?) who has dreams as well and listens to them… yes, absolutely, me and the Joes are really tight with Satan.”
Needless to say in the galaxy in Florida for the job interview at a church far far away, my messy self did not get the job.
So, Dreaming, God and talking about it in the church went underground with my mess—after all, I had to be neat and dreams, well, they just aren’t usually neat and tidy… at least mine aren’t. Given my experience, perhaps you understand why I chose to hide.
Somehow, I thought my Church Discernment Committee wanted Cecil B. Demille and thunderbolt clarity—which I couldn’t deliver. I knew it wasn’t going well in my meetings— the heavens hadn’t once parted, there were no doves descending, no booming voices coming from the sky only silence and my half hearted attempts to be neat and tidy… which is not what I am called to be…
God’s call to me is clear in my heart.
God speaks to me in the colors of morning
Irises blooming with fragrance sweetly arousing,
God whispers in the song of birds,
“Come and play with me.
Play in the dirt of the garden
sleep in the morning and dream.
Come and play with me.
Pull out the play-doh
and laugh with children
until tears are streaming down your face
or you are so caught up
transfixed in wonder of their imaginations
that linear time ceases to matter
and holy time takes over.
Come and play with me.”
But who in their right mind inside the church would want to hear such mess? Certainly not the discernment team who held my calling in their hands… if the people of the good church in Florida that were in a galaxy far far away didn’t want to hear that mess, why would the church discernment committee in Wisconsin want it either?
I was really puzzled—didn’t they want neat & tidy? Why wasn’t it going well? I somehow knew that they were waiting for something… but what?
It was a Saturday night before a discernment committee meeting. I had decided that the next day I would fess up—I find a bigger sense of self, life and reality (call that God if you like) in my dreams. I said my usual prayer that night before sleeping—Holy Spirit, breath of life, fire that burns in me, send me dreams and vision. And that night I dreamed.
Later, someone else might respond. What I remember most is my fear. I was afraid that I didn’t have my shit together.
I was afraid to really share how God spoke to me. As if… God speaking… I hear those words and I think of Charlton Heston on Mount Sinai as Moses. I wish it were that clean for me.
For me, God shows up in children, poetry and dreams. I was reticent to share that—that couldn’t possibly be what they wanted to hear… how messy that is: children are way too honest and transparent and noisy to be God’s Messengers… and poetry… well… we won’t even go there… but poetry is the space of prayer for me. Poetry is the boat that Christ invites me to get into—it is the way I am transported from one place to another, but that’s not very clean…
And dreams, well dreams… once in a galaxy far far away (well actually Florida) I had an interview (of sorts) for a church job (of sorts… this is a whole ‘nother story) and a member of the interview committee told me that dreams and their interpretation were the work of the occult and Satan. Lovely! That’s clean and easy, right?
But my good old royal messiness had to argue back sardonically ( yes, right in the middle of the interview) “Well, I replied, “So much for good old Joe in Genesis who has dreams and interprets them for others… or good old Joe in Matthew (you know, Jesus’ step-dad?) who has dreams as well and listens to them… yes, absolutely, me and the Joes are really tight with Satan.”
Needless to say in the galaxy in Florida for the job interview at a church far far away, my messy self did not get the job.
So, Dreaming, God and talking about it in the church went underground with my mess—after all, I had to be neat and dreams, well, they just aren’t usually neat and tidy… at least mine aren’t. Given my experience, perhaps you understand why I chose to hide.
Somehow, I thought my Church Discernment Committee wanted Cecil B. Demille and thunderbolt clarity—which I couldn’t deliver. I knew it wasn’t going well in my meetings— the heavens hadn’t once parted, there were no doves descending, no booming voices coming from the sky only silence and my half hearted attempts to be neat and tidy… which is not what I am called to be…
God’s call to me is clear in my heart.
God speaks to me in the colors of morning
Irises blooming with fragrance sweetly arousing,
God whispers in the song of birds,
“Come and play with me.
Play in the dirt of the garden
sleep in the morning and dream.
Come and play with me.
Pull out the play-doh
and laugh with children
until tears are streaming down your face
or you are so caught up
transfixed in wonder of their imaginations
that linear time ceases to matter
and holy time takes over.
Come and play with me.”
But who in their right mind inside the church would want to hear such mess? Certainly not the discernment team who held my calling in their hands… if the people of the good church in Florida that were in a galaxy far far away didn’t want to hear that mess, why would the church discernment committee in Wisconsin want it either?
I was really puzzled—didn’t they want neat & tidy? Why wasn’t it going well? I somehow knew that they were waiting for something… but what?
It was a Saturday night before a discernment committee meeting. I had decided that the next day I would fess up—I find a bigger sense of self, life and reality (call that God if you like) in my dreams. I said my usual prayer that night before sleeping—Holy Spirit, breath of life, fire that burns in me, send me dreams and vision. And that night I dreamed.
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