walking compassion, awaiting the path

As a pastor of a used-to-be mainline church in middle America, conflict is the water in which I swim. But I have a confession; I don’t like it. Actually, that’s an understatement; in truth, I abhor conflict.

Sure, we’ve forded plenty of turbulent waters over the years so I realize this confession is unlikely. Our community was the first suburban church in our city to welcome openly gay and lesbian staff, members and friends. We were inclusive when inclusive wasn’t cool. And even in the rearview mirror I can recognize that those were turbulent waters.

And they weren’t the last rapids we would face. I am also the suburban pastor who, after 20 years of marriage to a man, told my congregation that I’m not straight… and two and a half years later married a woman. At the same time I was making personal revelations, the market was tanking and, not to be outdone, our church was beginning a first-in-decades capital campaign. I have seen the rapids up close and personal. And though it would appear that I swim gracefully over the rapids, I feel a bit of a fraud.

As I remember those heady years, I remember not only the raging waters but also the extensive web of rafts that buoyed both the congregation and myself. Knowing that the waters would be rough, we’d donned life vests and helmets. This kind of conflict I’ve learned, for better or worse, how to navigate.

What is harder for me, terrifying in fact, is the low level stuff. It’s the unseen branch hidden just under the water’s surface, the sea creature that rears its head as we blithely turn the bend. The unexpected surprise that is faced without benefit of gear and guides; this is the stuff that rocks my world. Not infrequently, this kind of conflict is the toe bumping kind that I will walk miles through the hinterlands to avoid. Tragically my attempts to avoid the ripples most often create bigger waves.

Ripples and waves are inevitable for faith communities like ours that have, on the one hand, historic buildings and programs while at the same time we find ourselves seeking relevant expression for sacred truth in a postmodern world. For us, the everyday kind of conflict is everywhere. One person’s life vest is another’s anchor, a welcome mat for him is a last straw for her, and so it goes. We are so far beyond inclusive language that Father language for the sacred no longer draws ire, but the use (or not) of Christ language always draws notice. We are not called to be all things to all people nor are we seeking to find a least common denominator. We are, however, responding to a communally felt call to live and share our faith in ways that embody our values… inquisitive, inclusive, intimate, inspirational, and intentional. And as we do that we continue to find unbidden sea creatures, often within ourselves.

When the boat rocks and I feel the familiar wave of panic, my first instinct is to look down river. Increasingly I’m aware of the bend just ahead, of all that cannot be seen. All that I thought I knew about church I now realize is sinking sand. Entering the cloud of faith, my second instinct is to run to the back of the boat. The problem is that the very motion of movement can easily topple the unsteady boat. Practicing my breathing lessons, I take heart in the incarnational promise that we are not alone.

Too I take promise in the Zen teaching, embodied in Jesus’ life, that the path is by definition unclear and the call is simply to do the next right thing. In the interest of correct theology, mobs kill. But when living compassion one day at a time, even stray kittens find new homes. When we walk compassion, the path will find us.

For today, I watch the animals and see the sacred. Two weeks ago we brought home a stray kitten who’d literally been standing at the edge of life. The older cats in our home were decidedly not hospitable; in fact they were so hostile that we had to keep the little guy in a room by himself for his own protection! But they walked, each day; not seeing the future, not having a plan, and not always happily. Today I am pausing at the keyboard to watch them play, the one who hissed most venomously is now, very gently, teaching the little one to play. They walked, and the path found them.

Today it is my turn.