ministerial conflict of interest?

The day is grey. After barely two weeks living in the Northeast of England, I recognise this as one of the regional moods. Grey sky. Grey air. Wet greenery, dull brownish houses and grey pavements. Only the cars and a few late flowers challenge the prevailing grey, green and brown greyness with brash bright blues or whites or pinks. Is there rain falling, or is that mist?

Yet life goes on outside my window. Neighbours come and go. Pedestrians pass regularly, striding past in jackets, rarely a hat, the misty rain doesn't seem to bother them. Some have backpacks or shopping bags or dogs on a lead/leash or even small children in pushchairs/strollers. Through the greenery of next door's garden I can glimpse the flashes of the constant stream of passing cars on the nearby main road. Life passes this house, every day.

This is the view from my desk in the bay window of the upstairs bedroom. I sit here on Saturday as the clock counts down the last minutes of the morning, and my sermon word count is still 700. By this point it was going to be at least twice that. I need to get to at least 2500 by tomorrow morning's service. Throughout my academic career this has been my problem with writing assignments: I can draft my complete idea in a word count that is no more than one third the amount I need for the final assignment, sometimes more like a fifth. Thus I spend the rest of the time pumping extra words into my core idea, developing incipient theme after implied idea until the meaning of my piece of writing is clear to anyone, not just to myself.

I expect this problem is partially connected to my personality and my natural desire to be as concise and direct as possible, but I think it is also related to my latent conviction that no one actually wants to listen (in the case of a sermon) to what I have to say. After all, sermons are just those things we suffer through on Sunday because somewhere along the way we were convinced they were good for us, rather like swallowing that Ibuprofen tablet in order to get rid of a headache. It seems to help, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if its really a placebo effect.

And now I am in the position of administering the medicine. Trying to make each weekly dose of scriptural insight interesting and palatable, rather like Mary Poppins' magic castor oil with its adaptive flavour for each drinker - lime cordial, strawberry, rum punch, what would be your favourite flavour? Yet I'm under no illusions about my ability to draft a message for a diverse group of people that, as yet, I barely know, in such a way as to feed, satisfy or effectively medicate each person in his or her own personal life.

It seems that my struggle to write tomorrow's sermon is actually tied into my larger struggles with the whole concept of 'ministry' as a vocation, and my own identity as 'student minister' in the midst of that struggle.

As part of my settlement here during my two year training and formation for ministry, the church provides half a stipend and a house. This house is now my home. The first home my husband and I have moved into and set up together. I love the house and its geographic location. Even endless grey days can't damp my enthusiasm to be living in the Northeast and no longer the midlands. In fact, I like the house better than I like the new role and the new responsibilities. This leads to the strange dynamic in which I am driven to do my 'work' out of guilt, because I owe it to the church in exchange for my awesome new home. Instead of working out of a paradigm of community, relationship and mutual support, I have defaulted to a transactional system where I'm constantly afraid I will not do or say enough, or will do or say the wrong thing, and suddenly lose this beautiful new home and the chance for a new life.

From where I am sitting, I have less and less understanding of ministry and everything attached to it every day. Sometimes I wonder if I will last the two years, but I know I'll stick it out. Two years in this house is a gift, and, after all, I owe it to the church.

Early Spring

Spring comes early here. Every year it surprises me to hear bird song in January and see the green shoots of daffodils be the first of February. The days that, a month ago, seemed impossibly short, dark and wet suddenly open up into the chill, bright sunlight and mud of early spring. This is my sixth spring in this climate, but still it surprises me every year. 

For the next four months the spring will slowly quicken around me as the sun grows warmer and lingers longer. Lexi will once more spend hours a day basking in shifting patches of light on the carpet. Gareth will begin planing Lent and Holy Week. In four months my world will completely change. 

Actually, it is less than four months now. Finally, after five years of tears and struggles I am nearing the moment of victory. The end is in sight. A few more weeks of writing, a month or so of editing and proof reading, and it will be done, sent to the printers, submitted, released. 

For the last three or four months I have thought of myself as finishing in the spring, around Easter, but I forgot how early the spring comes here. Suddenly it is close. So much is set to happen this year. My whole life will change. When I am no longer 'doing a PhD' what will I be?

There was a time that question filled me with dread. Now the fear is greatly mitigated by excitement, dreams and, above all, hope. 

The spring comes early here, and I still have work to do before Easter.