One Turn

“$134,500.”

My jaw hit the floor. At best, I would have guessed a couple thousand, which would itself have been justifiable cause for celebration. But I had long forgotten about the copy of the will that had been sent to the library many months ago and had begun this particular day with no expectations whatsoever. A seemingly routine call would change everything.

“How much?!” My elevated tone must have implied insult on the other end of the call, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Is that not enough?” the executor replied. After reassurances to the contrary, we shared a laugh and then commenced discussing the details of the late Mr. Lee’s bequest to the Clear Lake City-County Freeman Branch Library, which I had been managing for just over a year. I then would do my best to wait patiently for the check in the mail. In other professions, such as my wife’s chosen field of chemical engineering, cash like that is chump change, here and gone in the course of an afternoon. In a public library, it’s a windfall of serious capital. We had just won the lottery.

Nine years previously, I had trepidatiously begun my career as a public librarian at this branch, which was on the cusp of closing the doors to its third architectural iteration, circa 1970s, and reopening in a state-of-the-art facility almost four times larger directly across the parking lot. At the forefront of my mind was my uncertainty from the first day I was placed alone on the reference desk whether having earned the degree would prove time and money well-spent, or if I should have instead opted for choice number two — to be all I could be in the U.S. military. Had I selected the latter, which I nearly did, the following year would have further altered my fortunes in the service of my country after the tragic collapse of a pair of towers on home soil. It’s anyone’s guess where I might have found myself deployed and what fate would have awaited me in some remote corner of a world in conflict. As it would happen, I selected study over soldiering, and so I landed among books instead of a battlefield.

After a year as an entry-level librarian on the front line of public service at this branch in and around the Johnson Space Center community, I nearly threw in the towel and ventured to other less turbulent waters, so to speak, or so I thought. I knew not what to expect after taking a job working for the general populace, and I certainly didn’t expect to be treated so poorly and ungratefully by the everyday folks I was sincerely trying to help. More often than not, the interactions were admittedly positive, and I proved myself capable of pinning down the answers they sought. But it’s true that one bad apple can spoil the bunch, in this case the bunch being the collective patron interactions in a given day. A single, truly negative encounter is a pall over one’s work day if you allow it to be, as I did time and again. I’d had enough of this entitled crowd, and so I would roll the dice and see if I could find better patrons elsewhere.

I was still too green to understand that working directly with the public simply opens yourself to encounters with difficult people. It comes with the territory. Changing the scenery is no solution. They’ll find you. In almost 18 years in the profession, I’ve observed there are many long-time front-liners who remain nervous and perplexed about this reality and who continue searching in vain for a remedy that will never present itself outside of themselves.

In any event, I attempted an escape to another large municipal system and was offered a position. Upon arriving for a day of preliminaries and paperwork, I stepped unwittingly into a HR disaster. At least one of many new-hires was wise to the dysfunction and walked out within the first 15 minutes, expressing her disgust at having wasted a day of vacation for this. I, on the other hand, decided to stick it out. The situation did not improve. By the time the day was done, it was discovered that none of us were informed about documents we were required to bring with us, after repeated inquiries they still had not determined at which of the many branches each of us would be placed (an important detail when searching for a spot nearby to lay your head), and, oh, by the way (as we all were departing in the late afternoon on our long respective routes home), there is one more stop here in town we neglected to tell you about; you’ll have to use additional leave time from your present job in order to return and take care of it. As if this weren’t enough, I was provided one final disappointment — I was not being hired for the position for which I interviewed but a step and pay grade beneath it.

Now, I do believe in providence. The 8th chapter and 28th verse of Romans I often forget to apply duly to any and every circumstance. This was a rare moment when a prayer for direction earlier in the day when circumstances began to deteriorate returned an answer as clear as fine crystal. The inept crew at this particular HR department were hardly working for the good of those they called and, by all appearances, were under the impression they were paid instead to sabotage their employer by repelling new-hires. On the flip side, I left with the bittersweet certainty that I should stay put where I was, and I was fortunate to learn that I would be welcomed gratefully back to the branch in Clear Lake, two-week notice notwithstanding.

______________

How does one determine the will of God? Why, in that moment, did I interpret circumstances as an indication he wanted me to stay where I was? Why could it not, from an agnostic perspective, simply have been what it was on the face of it — an incompetent organization in desperate need of improved hiring practices?

I can’t imagine a scenario in which I could irrefutably prove to anyone that God was indeed guiding me that day. I am not a skilled apologist, I have learned, so I’ll make no attempt here. I do think, however, that if all of us were honest with ourselves, there is plenty that each of us accepts on faith, though the substance of that faith may differ. As for me, I have seen and experienced enough, especially while I was under my parents roof, that convinced me of a good God who is involved in the world, and it has informed and shaped my faith over the years. But I also don’t believe I had no choice in the matter; I wasn’t irresistibly compelled to believe, though it could be argued I would be foolish and stubborn not to. Choice, I find, is still left to us, though God may be sovereign. It is just a part of what it means, I think, to be created in his image.

Dostoyevsky may have said it best in his novel “The Brothers Karamazov,” suggesting that we may willfully apply our preconceptions when interpreting events, personal or not, particularly if one is a realist/unbeliever:

“The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also.”

I wouldn’t say I encountered miracles as much as intervention that day. Nevertheless, it is left to us to choose an interpretation based on the substance of our faith. I could have proceeded with the move, I suppose. The truth was, I was running from a difficult situation in an attempt to make my own life more comfortable, or so I thought. There is value in facing challenges, though many of us are conditioned to interpret them as a sign to seek an easier, more convenient way.

While I believe God was making use of circumstances to influence my decision, there was another hard truth I needed to understand — running from a challenge may involve nothing more than running towards another. Life isn’t always best lived seeking one simple, convenient, and pleasant path after another. If it’s not the frustration of dealing with contentious patrons, it will undoubtedly be something else. And sometimes, one difficult choice, one turn, if you will, is all that’s needed to make a world of difference in your life or mine.

______________

John Lee Hancock, like me, grew up in the blue-collar, chemical refinery town of Texas City. I would venture to guess that our similarities end there, but I have found it curious that there isn’t a movie director in present-day Hollywood whose films I am almost guaranteed to appreciate more consistently than his. In any event, his film “The Highwaymen,” released in 2019 on Netflix, tells the story of the manhunt for notorious killers Bonnie and Clyde from the perspective of the former Texas Rangers commissioned to track them down. Leading the pursuit is Frank Hamer, played convincingly by Kevin Costner, with Woody Harrelson in the role of his partner, Maney Gault.

Midway through the plot, Hamer pays a visit to Clyde’s father in Dallas. Perhaps seeing little to gain from either in the investigation, the pair use the encounter instead to wax philosophic on the nature of choice and fate. “One turn on the trail,” each utters familiarly, suggesting the notion of a course in one’s life set and determined irrevocably once a pivotal choice is made. While the elder Barrow’s imploring for his son takes issue with the idea that the choice reveals one’s inherent, inescapable nature, Hamer illustratively applies the phrase to himself, describing a single moment chosen in his youth that, he believed, dramatically altered and fated his life’s profession. The choice, the one turn, changed everything.

______________

My wife and I were once good friends without a hint of attraction between us. I still believe friendships can evolve into some of the best marriages, but that’s a topic for another time. Over a decade ago, I don’t remember precisely when, she was in the process of purchasing her first home, and I happened to be the friend available to whom she first decided to show it. We turned into the neighborhood, down the street, and then parked alongside the curb in front of the house. She excitedly shared the details with me for a few minutes seated there in her sedan.

Now, at that moment, I had no idea about what the years ahead held for me and how this casual afternoon stop was as much about what was in store for me as for her. Had my future self spontaneously appeared in the back seat to drop unwelcome spoilers, I wouldn’t have bought a thing he was selling; I wouldn’t have been prepared to hear any of it:

“Let me tell you what’s about to go down, Jim. First, this house. Take a good look, because a lot is going to happen right here for you. Your name will eventually be on the title. Yes, you heard that right. You don’t know it yet, but this is also your first home, which leads me to my second surprise. The girl seated next to you is the one you’ve been after for so long. She’ll figure it out before you do, but once you recognize it, you’ll have difficulty imagining anyone else better suited for you. Cue wedding bells. Third, you two will start a family right here. Maybe that’s not surprising, but here’s the kicker — you’re going to forgo the baby stage and acquire three older kiddos in one blow. Oh, also, they will bear absolutely no resemblance to you whatsoever. I’ll just leave it at that. Fourth, that great big library you unsuccessfully tried to escape several years ago? They’re going to put you in charge of it. Yes, you. Moreover, you and the staff will be afforded rare but rewarding opportunities to make significant impacts on the community, impacts that will be publicized even outside of the city and state. Much of it will begin with a phone call you aren’t expecting about the generosity of a man you’ll never meet.”

I never for a second would have believed any of that. But it did, in fact, happen. And it might not have had I ignored how I was being directed and had instead effected my flight a few years previous.

Time and hindsight reinforce anyone’s faith, I find. The downside is, of course, the waiting. I feel as if I daily face doubt about the goodness of God while dealing with one irritating, sometimes disheartening, challenge after another, especially in this stage of life raising kids in the home. Assurance can be long in coming while buried in the grind. But when I pause to look back on that day and see all of the remarkable things that have followed because, I believe, I obediently chose to stay, how could I not believe in a good God?

We’re taught in Scripture that not one of us is beyond the grace of God; not even a single choice can alter that. However, time isn’t returned to us, which makes each choice more valuable as the minutes slip away. It’s the earliest turn that stands the best chance of affecting the greater share of all those that follow. And that’s good news for those who believe in a good God.

Dropout

“. . . the great evil of the church has always been the presence in it of persons unsuited for the work required of them there. One very simple sifting rule would be, that no one should be admitted to the clergy who had not first proved himself capable of making a life in some other calling.”

– George MacDonald, “The Curate’s Awakening”

I reluctantly cracked open the heavy tome a fourth time, attempting to plow once more through the Old Testament survey reading assignment. I had already completed four years majoring as an undergraduate in the study of Scripture, not to mention in the original languages, so much of the information in the textbook had been covered. The scholasticism curved slightly steeper here at the graduate level, however. Seminarians all enroll in the same preliminary courses, college credit notwithstanding, so there was no getting around it. Having previously been guided through similar information, I should have found it simple enough. While this ought to have been the case, I struggled to maintain focus not a week into my third semester, second year, in a course of study that would ultimately earn myself the degree “Master of Divinity.”

After attempt number four failed, exasperated, I surrendered and placed the book aside. I uttered a brief, sincere, desperate prayer, expressing my lost interest in my chosen field, wondering if it meant I was lost as well. I had a decision to make. On the one hand, the scale seemed to tip decidedly in favor of remaining where I was. I understood the value of staying the course, of maintaining a commitment. I had graduated from my alma mater with highest honors and had received the religion department’s top award for an exiting senior. I tutored Greek and was even given an opportunity or two as a senior to fill in for professors in a couple of classes. I hadn’t left myself with a wealth of options post-college, having both majored and minored in “Christian Studies.” Due to my performance as an undergrad, my tuition here was covered (word to the wise: finishing formal education debt-free is not to be taken lightly). My parents were ministers whose experiences had deeply influenced my siblings and me enough to consider pursuing the profession. Then there was the pesky, unwanted impression of turning your back on your perceived calling; surely one doesn’t “drop out” of seminary without incurring the wrath of God, or at least his ire. All signs advised staying put.

On the other hand, there was scant as much other than feelings. Nevertheless, I thought, what if my difficulties and lingering reservations were evidence that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t called to this at all, that I was simply a good student and nothing more, mistaken about the career that best lies before me? After all, here I was, attending classes in a different seminary than that at which I began and in less than a year’s time, having believed the unease I had felt beneath the surface at the outset simply necessitated a change of scenery, carrying me to this moment and this place. Here I was back in my familiar home state, and still I had little or no passion remaining to serve as either a minister or academic. I wasn’t spiritually disillusioned but professionally uninspired and uncertain. If my heart was no longer in it, perhaps the rest of me should no longer remain either.

Not willing or ready to abandon recklessly a relatively secure station in life for God-knows-what, I sought the counsel of a trusted friend as well as my parents, who themselves were serving in ministry. I expressed my thoughts that perhaps I wasn’t where I belonged, though I hadn’t determined precisely what else there could be. I have heard since that one should not quit a job until you have another waiting for you; thoughtful words, indeed, but a few more years would pass before I gleaned such wisdom. To my surprise, they each recommended withdrawal, and I found myself thankful for friends and especially parents who so often supported and trusted my decisions. I would sleep on it and find resolve in the morning.

My course determined, I set out the next day to begin the process and paperwork, but there was one task that first needed attention. I had the privilege not more than a week or two prior of having begun a position as a graduate assistant for one of the seminary’s esteemed professors. I now had to deliver the inconvenient news that he would have to search for another assistant so unexpectedly soon into the semester. I couldn’t be certain how he would receive it. Both the dean and assistant dean of the previous seminary, where I also served as a grad assistant, went to great pains to persuade me to stay after I had decided to return to Texas, and it was difficult not to feel their efforts were wholly self-interested. It was, after all, a fledgling seminary on the cusp of accreditation, so retaining rather than losing students was a priority for them.

I arrived at his convenience and seated myself in his office, coming straight to the point. I no longer believed seminary is where I belonged; I would be withdrawing. His response was equally direct and honest, and what he said has stayed with me to this day. After expressing genuine respect for and understanding of my decision, he replied, “I’d ask that you not share this outside of these walls, but there are other students here who ought to make that decision.”

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As the year 2000 dawned, the magazine “Christianity Today” selected C. S. Lewis’s “Mere Christianity” as the best religious book of the 20th century. If you take the time to read this and Lewis’s other works — not only the more popular but nonetheless timeless and outstanding Narnia series — you begin to understand the unique gift he possessed to illustrate, explain, and simplify even the most complex of theological concepts. I know some who would argue this point, but I discovered his work at a spiritually unsettled time in my life and found him to be a clear breath of fresh air in the thin, stifling atmosphere of skepticism. In his deft and capable hands, he demonstrated that it can, in fact, make logical sense to be a believer. While no man is infallible, I have found my faith encouraged and bolstered time and again when I revisit his works.

As original and unique as his thoughts were, even the best among us have been mentored or taught, formally or informally. “No man is an island,” as John Donne famously put it. Lewis’s “master,” as he would dub him, was George MacDonald, a man he never met but whose writing deeply influenced him and many others whose names have overshadowed his own.

I came across MacDonald shortly before my decision to withdraw, thanks to a very well-read friend who never lacked for literature both to recommend and lend. Published in 1864, “The Curate’s Awakening” tells the story of Thomas Wingfold, a minister who finds himself in a crisis of belief after his Christian faith is intellectually challenged. While there is a wealth of insight in the story for anyone who might find themselves even a century-and-a-half later in a similar crisis, among my favorite quotes is the gem above, spoken by Wingfold’s mentor, of sorts, who patiently guides him back to his faith.

MacDonald must have encountered in his own life the “great evil” of men unsuited for the ministry. I’ve wished he could have further unpacked this claim, even if spoken through a fictitious yet truth-telling protagonist in a novel. Perhaps I should read more of his works and search it out. I know, nevertheless, that these words struck a chord with me at a critical time. They and my professor’s private opinion shared also confirmed observations I had made over the course of a year in seminary, if not earlier, by those “called” to a life of professional church ministry.

While the Protestants among us applaud what Luther and the Reformers accomplished with the doctrine of the priesthood of the believer, I’ve wondered what good or ill this truth, by extension, has done for the conviction of those who believe they have been “called” to ministry. In the same way I do not need a priest to mediate God’s truth, likewise my calling is between myself and God, as it goes; who’s to dispute it?

_______________

The evening came on, and I joined my acquaintance and his friend for a little company. The former had recently finished seminary; the latter was nearing the end. I was somewhere between the second and third semester, already wondering in the back of my mind if I shouldn’t be elsewhere in life. The conversations I would hear rather than join that evening would only sow further uncertainty, along with a measure of disappointment.

I can’t recall finer details, but they conversed easily and freely. It was loud, bawdy, and more to the point, when women were mentioned, unapologetically and wholly objectifying. There was alcohol, which wasn’t necessarily a problem, but thrown atop everything else I was hearing from a pair ostensibly “called,” it certainly didn’t elevate my impression, which I kept to myself.

Granted, we all feel the need to blow off steam, and we all benefit from friends, or should, who allow us to speak our minds candidly. However, the best friends hold us accountable, and I confess I had expected better from future shepherds, so to speak. My acquaintance would later tell me in a private moment that, all evidence considered, he had arrived at the conclusion there likely wasn’t a God; he would ultimately change professions. His friend, to the best of my knowledge, moved on into ministry. Learning what I did that evening, wherever he landed is no place I wanted to be.

I could tell as well of ministerial undergrads who stole books from the university library where I held a work study job for 2 1/2 years, or the classmate and coworker who continued to pursue theological studies post-college, only to determine, like my acquaintance, that he was an atheist, albeit an atheist with a purpose. He would find his 15-minutes of fame years later after filing suit against the military for their refusal to allow him to serve as a humanist chaplain. Video I discovered online of a lecture he had delivered to an audience unfamiliar with his past revealed a curious affectation he had also developed — a crisp but unmistakably clean British accent. I gathered from such that he had either suffered a bump to his brain’s left hemisphere, or his theological education, not to mention his careful and conscientious presentation of himself, was deliberately tailored to gain the admiration of others rather than to edify the body of Christ.

In very recent years, I’ve known and heard of career ministers abandoning the profession and their congregations long before retirement over reasons not entirely clear to me or others, and some of them have done so in dramatic and disappointing fashion, leaving a trail of damaged relationships and churches in their wake. We’ve all heard of prominent pastors who have made the headlines taking it a step further and abandoning their faith as well. Then there are those who happily stay in place and whose behavior or doctrine falls far short of the mark. I heard of one recently whose teaching strayed so far from a fundamental doctrine laid plain in Scripture, it was worth questioning whether or not he takes the time to read it at all. And I haven’t even begun to mention claims of sexual misconduct, in some cases criminal, which the press is always pleased to share with the public. Regardless of whether it’s burnout, moral failing, or something else, it leaves me discouraged, and I return to MacDonald’s words, wishing, perhaps, that they had chanced to read them years before, if not to dissuade them from their calling to elevate its significance, prompting them to have made a wiser choice.

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Future ministers, at least in Baptist institutions, are encouraged to take a good, hard, introspective look at their call early into their formal education. There is no grade to be earned in doing so, nor is there an august body of professors or clergymen before whom you stand to be judged on whether or not your call is valid. This call, your call, is between you and the Creator. That being said, I do believe there are enough who mistake a call simply to be an authentic, faithful follower of Christ in life, generally speaking, as a call to professional ministry. Feeling poignantly touched by the Gospel and its truth in a life-altering way is, in my opinion, something all believers ought to experience. And such believers are meant to infiltrate every profession, not just the clergy. The command — the “call,” if you will — to “go out into all the world,” can’t happen if we don’t actually go out into all the world.

In his first recorded letter to Timothy, Paul laid it out for those desirous of the task of “overseer”:

Whoever aspires to be an overseer desires a noble task. Now the overseer is to be above reproach, faithful to his wife, temperate, self-controlled, respectable, hospitable, able to teach, not given to drunkenness, not violent but gentle, not quarrelsome, not a lover of money. He must manage his own family well and see that his children obey him, and he must do so in a manner worthy of full respect (If anyone does not know how to manage his own family, how can he take care of God’s church?). He must not be a recent convert, or he may become conceited and fall under the same judgment as the devil. He must also have a good reputation with outsiders, so he will not fall into disgrace and into the devil’s trap.

I can’t help but notice that Paul opens with “whoever aspires to be” rather than “whoever is called to.” It appears one can actually choose this noble task. However, there are a few expectations. Do you have the inherent qualities required for the job? You’re welcome to earn the degree, but the best of what’s expected can’t necessarily be learned in a classroom. For many, you either have it or you don’t, perhaps in much the same way my oldest child has natural, God-given athletic abilities that I never had and never will.

I consider myself privileged to know at least a couple of men who fit the bill, degreed or not. My father and father-in-law both spent the greater part of their professional lives in career ministry in one form or another, and I have seen in them the qualities Paul details in the passage above. The degree, if we’re honest, could assist with only one — able to teach — insofar as the coursework would provide content for instruction. The ability to teach, however, along with the rest, comes from somewhere else. Moreover, with this ability should accompany an understanding on whose authority one is teaching.

“Thus saith the Lord.” There are few bolder pronouncements in Scripture than this, delivered most often by the prophets. It is not a phrase one would utter unless absolutely certain what followed was indeed the holy thoughts of God himself. Yet the minister, as interpreter and teacher, effectually serves as God’s mouthpiece each moment he steps into a pulpit and opens the book, whether he has considered the weight of this responsibility or not. There is no greater position of power and influence, in my opinion, and it is for this function alone I find MacDonald’s words above cautioning entrance into the profession most relevant. It reminds me of what our beloved professor of the original New Testament language shared with us at the close of our third course: “Students, you now know just enough Greek to be dangerous.”

I hope I do not sound contentiously dismissive of anyone’s call to ministry. Scripture is replete with examples of those who appeared unqualified for the task given to them. God uses the “weak things of the world to shame the strong,” as we know and read. It is one of his most beautiful and attractive characteristics that he utilizes those the callous world blithely casts aside. But I also believe God can and does equip us for the jobs he gives us, and it is worth at least a moment of the time granted to us to consider whether or not he has, in fact, gifted us accordingly. The lives of those we shepherd, by choice, by call, or both, may depend on it.

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For almost 18 years, I have spent my professional life in public libraries. It is a career that has treated me very well, and I hope I have shown the same courtesy to those I’ve served. I’ve enjoyed successes that many never achieve and was convinced by 40 that if my career ended at that age, I would be satisfied with what had been accomplished. I have wondered on a handful of occasions what might have happened had I stayed put in seminary, but there’s no way to know. I have never regretted the decision, and I’ve never felt, judging from the way life has worked out, that God is displeased somehow with the decision. I have much to be thankful for, and I believe he had something to do with where I’ve ended up. I have considered that ministry may be somewhere down the road. It seems a waste of an education such as I absorbed to never utilize it in a professional context. In any event, it’s up to someone other than me, and I hope I’m attentive to the call if or when it arrives.

Maybe it’s presumptuous of me, but I’ve imagined returning to my alma mater to impart a few words of wisdom to the undergraduate ministers in training. Given the opportunity, I would likely open with MacDonald’s words. While my interest would not lie in dissuading them from their “noble task,” I would hope they might gain a greater respect for their call and consider its weight. It’s easy enough to take a class and earn the credit. It’s much harder to lead others desperate and thirsty for spiritual truth, especially if we’re meant to lead elsewhere.