I did seven funerals within the first three weeks of becoming an ordained minister. Three of those funerals came in my first ever week of ministry. Prior to those seven funerals, I'd been to maybe that many in my whole 25 years. In the last year I've watched somebody die in their home, I've had conversations with family members while their loved one lay, un-breathing, next to me. I've pulled myself out of bed in the middle of the night and entered a room full of grieving people and prayed over the dead. I've buried people in their twenties, I've witnessed the unbearable grief of new parents who have lost a child, and I've presided at the funerals of life-long church members, as well as those who've never darkened my church door.
To put it plainly, death has taken over my life. Prior to beginning my ministry in September of 2021, I did not think I'd have much trouble with funerals. But like most people, the pandemic took a toll on me in more ways than one. Not only have I dealt with grief over lost moments in time, but I’ve also dealt with the fear of the death of my loved ones, and the very real and intense grief of the death of my bishop. Consequently, death had a more prominent place in my thoughts before I even presided at the first funeral of my ministry. But that first week, with those three funerals, made sure that death has permanently planted itself in my mind.
I've never had a particularly intense fear of death. It's only recently that I've started worrying about the death of the people around me. I find myself remembering what it felt like to grieve in 2020 and I feel my body plead that we never go back there. But we will have to. And every phone call signalling another funeral reminds me of that. I fear death, but not my own. It's exhausting to help carry people through their grief when you've yet to be carried through yours.
The problem is ministry doesn’t stop. And it unfortunately took seven funerals in three weeks to realize that there was a lot I should have done before it started. I am stuck in a space that is paralyzing. Most days I find myself wanting to escape it but there is, quite literally, nowhere to go. This is the job I signed up for. But how much of myself, of the person I believe God created me to be, do I let go of, do I give away, before I say, "No. This isn't what I signed up for?" Is it ever okay to say that? I feel like I am caught between the growing me who is trying to have more self-compassion and the obedient me who is reminded each day that I am to "deny myself." Why do these two people have to compete?
Recently, I am recognizing and accepting that all these existential questions are, at least in part, related to the grief I have not been carried through. Grief is a funny thing. I don't find myself wallowing in the memory of my bishop or thinking about the moment I learned of his death too often, yet I cannot talk about him without a lump in my throat. Perhaps I don't let myself think about him because I don't like to be reminded. Reminded that the first person who told me I could do this job is not here to tell me that anymore. He was the person who validated and verified, solidified my calling for me. And maybe it's not fair to put that on him alone, but I truly believe he was the person God gave to me to help me understand my calling. Which was both challenging and exciting, exhausting and life-giving. And it seems that without him, everything that was exciting and life-giving has slowly dissipated. They are so far out of reach I have no idea how to get it any of it back. And of course, that leaves only challenge and exhaustion.
So I am stuck. Stuck having to figure out what it is I am doing, all the while trying to dodge this dark cloud that seems to be constantly above me, threatening a storm that I hope to God does not come.
As I struggle, I am still preparing for Sunday worship. I am still writing next week's sermon. And it seems that a shockingly suspicious amount of the time Jesus speaks to me about how closely together hang the realities of death and life. Grief and joy. And all these weeks I've been preaching that message as if I understand what that really means. But I do not. Some weeks I don't even know if I believe it. Which leads me to believe that while I've been preaching to my people, I've actually been preaching to myself. It's as if God is saying, "love me. trust me. Believe in me. And you will find what you are searching for." But I'm not entirely sure I've managed that yet. But our God is not without patience. Because there is, at least, however, in this paradox, the smallest understanding of hope. There is a future where I am happy. Because the other message I've been receiving weekly from God is that He is a working God.
On the worst days. On the days when the phone rings. On the days when I wish I could speak to him one more time. On the days I wish I could just lay in bed and forget. I try to remember that. There's probably a lot I should have done before I started ministry, but the one thing I am certain I should have done is rest. I should have let myself be carried.
So, I ask God to carry me now. So that I can grieve. So that I can rest. In Christ’s name. Amen.