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By Dr. Bruce T. Marshall
November 15, 2009
What is your ministry? For you, personally, what is the ministry you
are called to?
Some of you, when I pose that question, will know exactly what I’m
talking about. You might even have an answer—you might have your own
sense of ministry. Others might be puzzled. “What’s he talking
about: my ministry? I’m an accountant.” Still others might have
inklings—a sense of being called to some form of service, some means
of giving back to the community, of making a contribution to
life—but you’re not sure exactly what it might look like.
Human beings are odd creatures. For many of us—most, perhaps—it
doesn’t seem enough just to get through a day. We seek meaning, a
sense of participating in something greater than ourselves, a
mission. I think that’s what Maurice Sendak—author of Where the Wild
Things Are—was getting at when he observed, “There must be more to
life than having everything.” That is, there must be more to life
than the endless pursuit of “everything.”
This sense of something “more” to life is, I think, at the center of
ministry, of having a ministry. Ministry, as I understand it,
involves witnessing to that sense of something “more,” offering
service or testimony or taking a stand or engaging in a mission that
affirms, yes, there is something more to life.
In my time this morning, I would like to offer some thoughts on
ministry: where it comes from, what it involves, what it might look
like. From the start I want to be clear that I am not limiting
myself to professional ministry, that is, those of us who get paid
to do this work. My topic, rather, is the sense of calling that
comes to many of us: a desire to be of service, to make a
difference, to do our part—small though it may be—to making this
world a little better.
Each of us has a ministry. What is your ministry?
● ● ●
I can remember times when I experienced this sense of something
“more” to life, when I realized that there was more to getting
through a day than getting through a day.
Such as, I was in the 6th grade, playing a $25 clarinet in the
all-city elementary school concert orchestra. Our showcase piece
that year was an abridged version of Beethoven’s 6th Symphony, the
Pastoral. Now, a 6th grade band can sometimes sound pretty good. But
a 6th grade orchestra, playing Beethoven: we must have been awful. I
expect the parents and the grandparents liked it well enough, but I
doubt it was fun for anyone else.
For me, though: whatever we sounded like, objectively, that’s not
what I heard. I heard that tune—you know it: ... When we reached
that point in the music, something awakened in me, lifted me up,
filled me with a feeling deeper than happiness. Ohmygosh: there’s
something more to life, more than I had realized before I
encountered Beethoven’s 6th Symphony in the 6th grade orchestra. (I
am deeply grateful that we hadn’t tried to do Beethoven’s 5th
Symphony in the 5th grade orchestra.)
The music that speaks to you doesn’t have to be Beethoven. It can be
any kind of music when the moment occurs and you feel that lift
coming from inside. Perhaps that is your ministry: creating music
that reminds others as it also reassures yourself that there is
something “more.”
Or I recall another time when the same message came through, in
entirely different circumstances. I grew up as a Unitarian
Universalist in Illinois on the banks of the Mississippi River in a
church established in 1839. The membership has held steady at about
80 members since the turn of the century—that is, the previous turn
of the century when the 1800s became the 1900s—but that church has
hung on, by its very existence defying both expectation and common
sense. So when I was growing up it was there for me, and I went
through the whole religious education curriculum. One part I liked
was when we learned about Unitarians and Universalists who made a
difference, who witnessed for what they believed.
There was, for example, the story of James Reeb, a Unitarian
Universalist minister who been associate minister at All Souls
Church in Washington. He went to Selma, Alabama, to protest
segregation and witness for the right of all people to have equal
opportunities, equal rights. And as many of you know—some of you may
remember—James Reeb was beaten to death by a mob at age 38. His
witness for human rights cost him his life. I remember when that
happened, and even as a young person, I understood: oh, there’s
something more to life that calls us to stand up for what we
believe, even if that action puts our own life at risk.
Maybe that’s your ministry: standing up for what you believe is
right, doing something to help create a world with freedom and
justice—truly—for all. The story we heard this morning about the
quilts that pointed the way toward freedom for people escaping
slavery. The women who sewed the quilts—and held quilting bees that
were supposedly about how to make a quilt but were really about
making sure everybody knew what they meant. They had a ministry.
Those who kept track of conditions on the ground and hung out those
quilts either in warning or to announce that the way was clear. They
had a ministry. Those who kept safe houses for those who were on the
route to freedom—often white Quakers—they had a ministry. And those
who escaped: they had a ministry too. Showing all of us that we
don’t have to settle—that there is something “more,” and it’s worth
risking all in its pursuit.
When I was talking with Clara this past week about her painting and
the story it told, I was reminded of our own Unitarian Universalist
history. Our symbol, the Flaming Chalice, dates back over 500 years,
but it was first used by Unitarians during World War II. The
Unitarian Service Committee was helping Jews and political
dissidents escape Nazi Germany. They used the flaming chalice to
designate a safe house. If you saw drawing of a flaming chalice,
perhaps on a piece of paper hung in a window or even scratched in
the dirt, you knew you were on the route to freedom. Those who put
themselves at risk to help people along this route—as well as the
escapees—they all attested that there was something more to life.
They had ministries.
● ● ●
My own understanding of ministry has
developed gradually, in fits and starts, often in response to
unanticipated events. I have often been surprised by how ordinary
ministry is—and how powerful.
Like once when I was in college. A friend and I decided to take the
evening off and walk downtown to see a movie. We reached an
intersection—one that had cars coming from every which way, an
intersection we both had encountered many times before. I remember
my friend stopping at the side of the road, commenting that he could
never quite figure out those signals, but I walked boldly forth,
having noted that cars on both sides had come to a stop. What I
didn’t realize was that the car on my side that stopped was in a
left turn lane. So as I passed it, I walked into the path of another
one that had a green light. (My friend, by the way, very sensibly
stayed on the corner and watched the unfolding drama.)
Well, I got hit by that car that was going pretty fast. But I have a
high center of gravity so instead of going down, I went up. My head
hit the windshield of the car, shattering it (the window, not my
head). The upshot of all this was that after an exciting trip to the
hospital, I had done more damage to the car than the car had done to
me. I was back on campus that night, stitches in my head, my arm in
a sling, and everything else in me aching.
What I should have felt after this narrow escape was relief and
gratitude. What I really felt was stupid. I mean, what was I
thinking? My embarrassment intensified the following day when an
item appeared in the city’s newspaper which told the story of my
mishap. The story contained this memorable line, “Marshall was
apparently confused by the signs.” That line was read back to me for
the remainder of my college career.
So here I am, limping around campus, feeling foolish, and somebody
comes up to me. This was a guy I didn’t know. I’d seen him around,
of course, because he had really long hair before many men had
really long hair. He said, “How are you doing? You ok? Take care of
yourself.” That was about it. He went on his way; I went on mine.
But somehow, I felt better. I felt so much better. Maybe there’s
more to life than my own carelessness. Maybe even though I do stupid
things, I still have value. I’m still ok.
At the time I couldn’t have named it, what but I had encountered
there was ministry. Plain old ministry from someone who was not a
minister. I felt valued and of worth despite that careless thing I
had done.
● ● ●
I have another story drawn from my own journey toward understanding
ministry, both its ordinariness and its power. This one takes me
back to my days as a theological school student when I worked for a
summer as a hospital chaplain. For those who know the terminology,
it was my required course in Clinical Pastoral Education.
I was placed at a state hospital in Massachusetts for the incurably
ill. Several other students of different religious persuasions were
also in this program. About half were evangelical Christians, about
half minus one were Roman Catholic priests. The one participant who
didn’t fit into either category was me: the lone Unitarian
Universalist.
Residents of this institution were subject to a variety of illnesses
considered to be incurable. That is, these people weren’t going to
get better. But the illnesses were not necessarily terminal. The
real common denominator was that they had no place else to go. The
institution had originally been a poor farm and a few of the
patients had been born there, children of poverty-stricken parents,
and they grew up and just never left.
So in this context, what would my ministry be? What did I, as a
Unitarian Universalist, have to offer. The priests offered
sacraments, the evangelical Christians offered the possibility of
salvation. As a Unitarian Universalist, well, maybe I could organize
the residents to demand better food. Except that the food was really
pretty good. That protest was not going to get far.
I met with my small group which consisted of an Evangelical
Christian, a priest-in-training, me, and our supervisor. At the
meeting I recall, I was talking about my conversation the day before
with a man, probably in his early 90s, of French Canadian descent,
who had been at this hospital for several years. He had suffered a
series of small strokes but they were not debilitating. The main
effect I could see was that he sometimes spoke French without
realizing he wasn’t speaking English.
He was feeling low on this day I stopped by to talk with him. He
knew he was unlikely to get out of this hospital. He had no place to
go, he had no people to go to. He was feeling his age, wondering
what was ahead for him.
As I reported back to my small group, I didn’t know what to say. I
didn’t think I had anything to offer. I didn’t have sacraments like
my friend the priest, I didn’t have the possibility of salvation
like my friend the evangelical Christian. It seemed to me not a good
time to be a Unitarian Universalist.
Ok, my supervisor said, why don’t we role play.
“Oh God,” I thought. “I hate to role play.” I suspected that my
supervisor didn’t know what to say either, but in his bag of tricks
he could always pull out the “let’s role play” option.
So ok, my supervisor became the man I had spoken with the previous
day, while I played me.
“How are you today,” I said. “Oh, not so good,” replied my
supervisor, and he proceeded to go through the worries I had
reported from my account of the real conversation.
And again, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have solutions, there
was nothing I could do to change the conditions of his life. So I
concentrated on being there with him as he proceeded along his
lonely journey. I just wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone.
At the end of our role-playing, the supervisor reached over, touched
me on the shoulder, and said, “Good, Bruce. I felt ministered to.”
Oh.
Maybe there’s more to life than just having answers to our
questions. Maybe ministry has to do with those moments of connection
we sometimes form with each other, brother and sister travelers in
this life on this earth. Or at least, maybe that’s my ministry.
● ● ●
All ministries are not the same. In Paul’s Letter to the Romans, he
observes. “We have different gifts, based on the grace that was
given to us.” We are given different talents and so there are
different ways of having a ministry. There are many ways of
responding to that sense of “something more” to life.
Evangelical Christians are good at recognizing this—better than we
are. They’re good at extending the concept of ministry to all, at
affirming that everyone has a ministry. It’s a reason evangelical
Christian churches can be so vital.
I remember reading an account by a church consultant working
temporarily with a super, mega congregation—something like 10,000
members and growing. He described wandering through the building
late one night—1:00 or 2:00 a.m.—and coming upon a group of night
custodians taking a break. He complemented them on the condition of
the facilities. One of the custodians replied, “We are all
ministers. When we’re cleaning a room at night, we think about
what’s going to happen there during the day and how we can serve
that aim.”
That is, they weren’t just doing a job; they were offering service.
They had their own ministries.
I remember last year when we were still fairly new to this area, Amy
and I went to the Takoma Park Farmers’ Market to buy apples and
cider and bread. Since it was Takoma Park, there were also people
carrying around petitions to sign and handing out cards advertising
craft fairs and also there was somebody walking around with a sign
which read, “Free Flu Shots.” I first thought it was a joke, like
somebody had set up a card table at the farmers’ market and was
handing out free flu shots? I mean, it was December; it was cold.
But I couldn’t quite dismiss it. After all, I hadn’t gotten a flu
shot, and I was flying in airplanes a lot last year back and forth
between Washington and Knoxville, Tennessee. So I decided to follow
the signs and the arrows that promised a free flu shot ahead.
They led me through the farmers’ market, across the street, up the
sidewalk to a church: a Seventh Day Adventist Church in Takoma Park.
Sure enough, pasted on the window at the door was a sign reading
free flu shots. I went in and encountered several long tables set up
in a row, like for a bake sale—or if you’re a Unitarian
Universalist: a book sale. But here, sure enough, they were giving
flu shots. I filled out the forms and got in line and my turn came
and I asked the woman who was about to give me my shot. I said, “Um,
you do this often?” That is, give shots?
She said, “Oh yeah sure, I’m a nurse. I work at the hospital. I give
shots all day. But I’m also a member of this church; this is
something I can to do to serve.” She continued, “And by getting this
shot, you’re serving too because if you don’t get the flu, then you
don’t spread it to somebody else.”
Wow. That was the most cheerful flu shot I’d ever received. Several
other nurses were seated at the table, also giving out flu shots,
all just as positive, and those of us getting the flu shots were
feeling good about the good we were doing. We were all ministers
there. I left feeling great, and it wasn’t just because I didn’t
have the flu. (It worked, by the way, I was flu free all last year.)
One more example. I mentioned last week that I once had a job as a
writer for an African American newspaper in Cleveland. I wrote
profiles of people, interviewed them, found out about their work,
their families, their interests, the ways in which they were
involved. As I listened, I realized that just about everybody I
talked with was in some way involved in trying to better their
community. There were people who were foster parents, some were
involved in community organizations, some distributed food to those
who were hungry, some had started businesses in the inner city,
others were working to keep their neighborhoods drug free, some
played music to bring people together, some were artists, some did
their jobs with a pride far beyond what was necessary to earn the
dollars, still others were moving back into city from the suburbs
and making a commitment to reclaim neighborhoods in which they had
grown up.
This was inner city Cleveland where life can be rough. And yet, just
about every person I talked with had a ministry. Each had responded
to this “more to life” impulse and had found a way to serve. If I
had asked any of them, “What is your ministry?” I think they would
have known exactly what to say.
● ● ●
Is there a reason why each of us is here in this life, on this
earth? Perhaps a mission we need to fulfill? Or a message we need to
learn and convey? Or a truth to which we must witness or a value we
are called to affirm. Perhaps a journey we need to undertake.
Perhaps a vision we must seek and explore. Or perhaps we’re here for
another person: one person for whom I can make a difference.
I do not have a theology that lays out such a plan. I don’t a
theology that even makes much sense of such claims. I mean, I’m
supposed to believe that God is up in the sky or somewhere arranging
situations in which each of us is called to a ministry? I don’t
think so.
But it often feels that way. Sometimes, we encounter a situation
that seems tailor-made for us. It feels like, oh, this is why I am
in here in this life in this world. This is what I need to be doing.
This is what I’m called to be. This is how I can affirm that, yes,
there is more to life.
Albert Schweitzer was a musician, a Biblical scholar, a doctor, a
humanitarian, and also member of a Unitarian church. He was probably
best known for the hospital he established in Africa and for the
ethical principle he sought to live by that he named, “Reverence for
Life.”
In this sermon on ministry, let’s give Albert Schweitzer the last
word. He said, "I don't know what your destiny will be, but one
thing I do know: the only ones among you who will be really happy
are those who have sought and found how to serve."
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