Opening chapter:
Driving into the parking lot that first morning, I noticed the new addition to the elegantly painted sign attached to two stone pillars that identified the church , “St. Phillips, Episcopal Church, Established 1890.” The addition hanging below read, “Rev. Sarah Piper, Rector”. A little squeeze in my heart region was a silent reaction to this clear evidence that I was really here, my first day of ministry, and there wasn’t any getting out of it.
All those years of seminary, all the nights of endless cycles of doubt. “Yes, I am doing the right thing!” Then “What the hell was I thinking going to seminary when I’m not even sure what I believe!” And then “Oh, well, I’ll finish the damn degree and then figure it out.” I did finish it, then on a softish belief that maybe I did have some kind of “vocation”, I went ahead and completed all the other requirements. A two year internship at an urban church in Boston and a three month chaplaincy at Mass General and endless meetings with my bishop.
But even after all of that, I still kept returning to the remark my father made when I had announced I was going to seminary. “The world doesn’t need more ministers, we need more people who act like they give a damn about this sorry mess of a world!” I had replied, “Yeah, maybe that’s why we need more ministers.” A disgusted look appeared and he went back to reading the New York Times, his Bible.
This morning as I was finishing up my 20 minute yoga and breathing exercises, my cell rang and I saw that it was from Marilyn, my closest friend from seminary.
“Welcome to the first day of ministry, Sarah!”
“I thought I was doing ministry during my internship.”
“Oh, no, that was just the preview. You’re in the bunker, now, sweetie! Good luck today!”
Marilyn had swept into the classroom in those first few weeks of seminary plunking down next to me in Hebrew Testament class. I noticed her right away as she was carrying not just the Hebrew Testament required for the class, but also a novel by Ondine Williams, a black feminist author who made wondrous fantasy worlds into spiritual adventures. Anyone who could study the Bible and carry it next to spiritual fantasy was someone I had to know. When she learned over and whispered, “And another day of the Holy Patriarchal Trio”, I covered my mouth to keep from losing it, and smiled to her, nodding.
Later in the semester, we both received terse notes added to our papers about our “irreverent and arrogant” attitude toward scripture. Having someone who could love God and still joke about “what would Jesus do” when the toilet in the ladies room overflowed was really the only way I got through those days. Marilyn would stay up past midnight with me as we struggled to answer those questions about sin and atonement. We both felt it was more important that we figure out the relevance of Jesus’ teachings to the problem of homelessness rather than whether Jesus believed he was the Messiah or if he just wanted to do good work.
So, here I was, about to walk into my first parish settlement, after having been chosen by a search committee of seven people. Five of the committee were over 70 and life- long members of this church, and two forty somethings who had moved into the newer neighborhoods when some older buildings had been condemned and demolished and replaced with “McMansions”. Last night I had attended a congregational welcome dinner where the Senior Warden had introduced me as “a breath of fresh air in our rather stale and outdated church”. I might be a breath of fresh air to him, but to me, right now, I felt more like a wisp of air about to blow away.