Who Am I? Warrior, Poet, Seeker

There is a passage from a book by Brazilian author Paulo Coelho, whose story of emotional and spiritual hardship is one with which I resonate deeply. He writes of the “Warrior of the Light,” a phrase that evokes that mystical and mythical hero within me…

The Warrior of the Light is now waking from his dream. He thinks: “I do not know how to deal with this light that is making me grow.” The light, however, does not disappear.

The Warrior thinks: “Changes must be made that I do not feel like making.” The light remains, because “feel” is a word full of traps.
Then the eyes and heart of the Warrior begin to grow accustomed to the light. It no longer frightens him and he finally accepts his own Legend, even if it means running risks.

The Warrior has been asleep for a long time. It is only natural that he should wake up very gradually. (Paulo Coelho, Warrior of the Light: A Manual, New York, NY: HarperCollins,
2003, 85)

Much of my life recently has been a process of “waking up” from the emotional and spiritual stupor in which I have labored. I am coming to accept my own Legend, my identity and vocation, and to live within the light…and grow.

A few short years ago I thought my identity was very clear. I was working toward ordination as an elder in the United Methodist Church and enjoyed being the pastor of a growing and dynamic congregation in Vanceburg, Kentucky. Though there were certain attitudes and values within the Methodist system I found difficult to accept, overall I felt pleased with my journey. I loved my congregation and, despite my naïveté and wide learning curve, they accepted me and loved me.

Part of the reason my congregation embraced me as their pastor was that I was authentic with them. In appropriate and pastoral ways, I shared my struggles and the wounds of my past to encourage them and to offer them hope in their own journeys. I discovered that being honest about my own humanity allowed them to relate to me (and I to them!) in ways they had never experienced with previous pastors. I earned their respect and established a mutual bond of love, trust and fellowship none of us had ever before experienced.

My denominational leadership, however, found accepting my past more challenging. When they discovered how I had struggled with intense feelings of toxic shame, anger and fear that led to some very short-sighted and foolish decisions about my personal life, they passed judgment on me and treated me with a “damaged goods” attitude. Never mind I had sought and undergone intense counseling sessions with licensed, competent therapists. Never mind I was finding lasting freedom from the shame, pain and anger that had so often plagued me and fueled my self-loathing. Never mind I had the unwavering support of my colleagues, superintendent, family, friends and congregational leadership. They promptly declined my application for ordination as an elder, which, in effect, dismissed me from further pastoral service within the United Methodist Church.

This experience was, of course, devastating. Were it not for the unconditional support from family, friends and colleagues, this experience would have been a mortal wound to my soul. Through intense prayer and self-examination, I discovered I was obviously not, after all, called to serve within the confines of the United Methodist Church. I discovered I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in an organization whose values seem to be shaped more by the arrogant self-interest of corporate America than the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Don’t get me wrong: there are many faithful followers of Jesus who are working diligently and laboriously to do their part so the Kingdom of God can come in its final fullness and I applaud them. I speak here of the denomination as a whole, not specific people.

I left with mixed emotions: on one hand I was filled with anger and bitterness because I had spent the last ten years of my life working and supporting the United Methodist Church; on the other hand, I felt a profound sense of relief and joy. Why? Because the Methodist system simply didn’t fit my personality, giftedness, leadership style, vocational and personal aspirations and sense of fairness and justice. It took an intensely horrific experience for me to realize that, but when I did, it felt like a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

I have discovered there is life after denominationalism. The Kingdom of God is not defined by man-made divisions and barriers; such “authorities” and “powers” certainly may hinder the work of God, but they will no prevent the “mystery of the gospel” from being known by a world desperate for redemption (see Ephesians 6:12, 19).

I have spent the last three years gaining perspective on my place in God’s Kingdom. I have endeavored to allow God to heal my wounds by discovering meaning and purpose in them. If all things really do work for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28), then God must be present in my life, working things out according to his plan and setting my life in order. By reflecting on these experiences theologically, I am discovering how my woundedness can be a source of great healing, for me and for others.

Understanding my own identity has been a lifelong struggle for me. Like many people, I grew up in a culture filled with toxic shame, which implanted and reinforced the idea that I held little intrinsic value as a person. My only worth was defined by what I could do, not who I was. I have only recently begun to experience the great worth and value God places on me. Henri Nouwen encapsulates the human dilemma I have often faced when he says: “The question is not, ‘How am I to love God?’ but ‘How am I to let myself be loved by God?’” (Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, New York, NY: Doubleday, 1994 ed., 71)

I have so often viewed myself as being unworthy of God’s love. Consequently, much of my spiritual formation has been a struggle to reject that internal voice of condemnation and judgment and accept God’s unconditional and radical love. Praise God, because there are ever-increasing moments when I hear God gently whispering, ‘Jim, I love you just as you are. Do you hear me? I love you. You are good.’

This struggle to accept God’s love has a profound impact on my vocational identity as a pastor. How I have so often felt condemnation and judgment from myself or from some other source when proclaiming the radical, forgiving love of God found in Jesus! I would often think, ‘Who am I to offer words of hope and healing when I feel such criticism and disapproval?’ Yet, despite these feelings of hypocrisy and deception, I cannot escape the fact that I am a man who has suffered and is now called to proclaim in word and deed God’s generous love to those who are suffering. I am called to share the journey toward healing and wholeness with others and to celebrate the presence of our Lord Jesus in our midst.

In short, I am a "wounded healer." (Henri Nouwen, The Wounded Healer, New York, NY: Doubleday, 1979 ed.) I am becoming a living doxology. I am a child of the Living God, returning home from the exile of sin and death with laughter and songs of joy. I have wrestled with the angel and have wandered far into the desert, but am continually being called home to surrender to God and allow him to be who he is in my life on his terms. My heavenly Father lavishes love upon me in ways that continue to surprise, shape and heal me.

Though I currently hold no rank or credentials in a human institution, I am a pastor. I am called to offer spiritual guidance to people who seek to know the truth of who God is and who they are as people created in God’s image.

When I stand before a classroom of students or lead a Bible study or just share the Word with someone who is eager to hear, I am alive with the glory of God! I feel God’s pleasure coursing through the very essence of my being.

A few years ago I formulated a personal calling statement. It seems appropriate to include it here…

"I am called to proclaim the mystery of God
with the fighting spirit of the warrior,
the flavorful words of the poet and
the joy of the risen Christ."

I feel compelled to do this. I am coming to awareness that I may never be truly happy in life unless I live out my pastoral identity. At the end of my life, when I stand in the presence of my Savior, I want to hear these words more than anything else: Well done, good and faithful servant. Well done… (Matthew 25:21).

This calling is worthy of my very life. The words of the fictional character Arthur Jarvis, a South African civil rights leader in Alan Paton’s landmark book Cry, the Beloved Country, help describe this compulsion to live according to my vocation:

"I shall do this, not because I am noble or unselfish, but because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie Therefore, I shall try to do what is right, and to speak to what is true… I am moved by something that is not my own, that moves me to do what is right, at whatever cost is may be." (Alan Paton, Cry, the Beloved Country, New York, NY: Charles Scribner’s & Sons, 1950, 175)

Life indeed slips away. Life is far too short and we must make the most of the precious time we have.