A Sacred Calling

I was not looking forward to the meeting of the ministerial committee that afternoon. We

are a small town, about 800 inhabitants, not counting college students. The college is

Congregational, founded by Father Shepherd in the middle of the eighteenth century, and the

candidate for ordination as a teacher was a professor of English. I had met her only on rare

occasions, since she seldom attended church.

As chairman of the committee, I met her at the door of the church and escorted her to a

small, private room in the corner of the basement. Two of the walls were concrete blocks, the

others drywall, painted white. Fluorescent lights substituted for daylight. The floor was linoleum

tiles, the ceiling squares of sound-proofing. But the room was large enough for the folding table

and five folding chairs for the committee members on one side of the table, and one for the

candidate on the opposite side.

She was dressed in a simple, white blouse and long, black skirt. Her dark hair flowed over

her shoulders, neatly brushed, while her brown eyes glowed behind large, dark-rimmed glasses.

After introductions, I began the conversation.

“Well, Mrs. Brach, perhaps you would like to tell us something about yourself—how you

became interested in the ministry.”

She hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to speak so abruptly about her personal life.

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 “My parents were not particularly religious. As a child, I never went to Sunday school,

and only occasionally to church.” She looked at each member of the committee, searching for

some sign of warmth, of understanding of the story she was about to tell.

“As a teenager I met an artist who was a minister in the Assembly of God. John became

my friend, my mentor. There were half a dozen of us who met with him regularly in his home. I

was going through a difficult time. I felt all alone, as if no one understood, as if I was struggling

to make my way through a dark tunnel.’’ The memory of that darkness seemed to burden each

word.

“John was full of joy, always praising God, even speaking in tongues. It was beautiful to

hear him speak, even if I could not understand a word. In the midst of the darkness, John baptized

me in the river, and it was as if I had become a different person. I was no longer the one who was

in charge. My sole prayer became, and still is, “Not my will, but thine be done.” I was happy,

truly happy, safe in the hands of the Lord Jesus.” As she spoke, her enthusiasm flowed throughout

the room.

She stopped and looked around. There was no nodding of heads, no smile of understanding

from the committee members—only an uneasy embarrassment on their part as they shifted in their

chairs and looked away. Her enthusiasm drained into a pool of practicality.

“One day in church, I suddenly knew that I was called to be a minister. After college I

became a student at Princeton Theological Seminary.”

“I’ve read very carefully the credo which you presented to us,” I said. “My wife says she

understands it, but I’ve been having some real problems. There is very little mention of the

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doctrines of the church—just a lot of ‘I feel from personal experience that ….’ For example, there

is no mention of original sin.”

“I try to avoid theological language with my students.” Her attempt to speak without emotion

became more defensive. “I prefer to speak from the heart. As for the doctrine of original sin, that

comes from an interpretation of the story of Adam and Eve which, as an English teacher, I read

from a scholarly point of view, and there is no mention of original sin.”

What is she talking about? I thought. Everyone knows that women brought sin into the

world.

“You remember that God says to the woman, ‘If you eat of this tree, you shall surely die.’

The serpent says, ‘You shall not die, but you shall gain knowledge of good and evil.’ Who is

telling the truth? They do not die, but lose their innocence and are cast out of the Garden of Eden.”

She spoke with the confidence of a professor.

I gasped. “Surely you are not calling God a liar.”

“Of course not, but the story has to be put in its historical context. It is obviously an ancient

myth passed down for many centuries by word of mouth before being written down. It comes

from a time when the idea of one god is not yet revealed, when each tribe had its own god. In the

text itself the reason Adam and Eve are thrown out of the garden is not that they have committed

a sin, but that they might eat of the Tree of Life and become eternal, like us—in the words of the

god in the story. The context of the myth is a polytheistic one.”

Women do come up with some of the strangest ideas.

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 “At Princeton I took a course from Elaine Pagel on the gnostic texts discovered in Nag

Hammadi, Upper Egypt, in 1945. You know, they are the most ancient of the Christian texts we

have. It was quite a discovery.

“In the gnostic tradition Eve is a heroine for bringing cleverness and wisdom into the world.

She is Sophia, the embodiment of Wisdom. For millennia women have been made to feel guilty

for bringing sin into the world, when in fact the story of Adam and Eve, when taken literally, is

saying no such thing.” She looked me straight in the eyes, confidently.

I was flabbergasted. “Surely you don’t believe this, do you?”

“Personally, in my own heart? Yes.”

“But you wouldn’t say this to your students.”

“When teaching the Old Testament as a work of literature, yes, I do. The role of the teacher

is to challenge conventional thinking, just as Jesus as rabbi challenged the Pharisees and Sadducees

of his own day. I never force my ideas on others, never ask them to repeat my words on an exam.

The purpose of teaching is to make an individual think for himself, or herself.”

There was a long silence.

“In any case,” she continued, “by the time I was finished at Princeton, I realized that the

conventional ministry was probably not for me, and that it was God’s will that I go into teaching.

So I got a graduate degree in English, and as you know am now teaching at our Congregational

college.”

“Then why do you seek ordination?”

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 “Some years ago this committee recognized me as a lay minister. Then for a time I was on

the committee myself, and the former chairman suggested one day that I should seek ordination as

a teacher, since I had the qualifications.”

“For ordination? But you had only two years at the seminary, not the usual three,” I said.

“As you know, the third year consists of classes in preparation for the practical aspects of

pastoral care. I did not think them necessary if I was going into the teaching ministry.”

“Precisely. That is the difference between a lay minister and an ordained pastor, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Her speech took on a defensive tone. “I had not realized that

Congregationalists recognize teachers in their colleges as ministers worthy of ordination.” She

paused for a moment to regain her composure.

Then her voice became reverent, as if she were praying for God’s blessing before beginning

a sermon. “For me, the classroom is my church, a holy place, where students and I seek truth.

Teaching is not a job, but a sacred calling. I speak from my heart as if the Spirit is speaking

through me. There are times when I look at a student and see that he is entranced. The words I

am being given are meant for him. I am speaking to his soul. The experience is transcendent, both

exhilarating and terrifying. I am lifting his heart up to God, asking His blessing.” She paused, too

full of emotion to continue for the moment. Her face was glowing, her eyes piercing.

“Teaching is not just the words we speak. It is what we are as a person. We must love our

students, get to know them as persons, counsel them as a friend.” Her sincerity was

unquestionable.

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 “We are a small school, with fewer than 750 students. I get to know my students very well.

In fact, my small, upper-level courses are often held in my home, since we live only a few minutes’

walk from campus.”

She spoke softly, humbly. “Having prayed about this for some time, I feel that it is God’s

will to seek ordination as a witness to the sacredness of teaching, as a blessing bestowed by the

church. It is that sense of the sacred which makes a church college different from a state university.

We do not try to teach young people how to make a lot of money. We try to teach them, by word

and example, how to follow their own calling, how to live a Christian life.”

For a moment the intellectual façade of the professor melted into a fount of emotion, and

she had to stop to regain her composure.

“The one thing I cannot do as a professor is to administer the sacraments, the rituals which

speak directly to the heart, mysteries beyond our comprehension. I have already spoken of my

baptism in the river. At the seminary I was responsible for a youth group, not very large, perhaps

half a dozen young people. One of our meetings took place in a cabin in the woods. I felt it was

right that we take communion together, and performed the ritual—the whole ritual, including my

washing their feet. I will never forget that evening.”

Without being ordained? I thought.

“There are also times when I am called upon to preach in some of the rural churches nearby,

but I cannot offer them communion. I should be most grateful to have your blessing, your

ordination, to be able to do so. That would complete the fullness of my calling.”

She bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, then raised it again. “Any questions?”

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 After a few inquiries from other members of the committee, I asked her to leave the room

while we deliberated. It was nearly half an hour later before she was summoned back.

“This has been a most interesting and enlightening conversation.” I paused, attempting to

choose my words carefully. “We do not question the sincerity of your beliefs or your commitment

to your students, but we are not ready to make a final decision. It is your commitment to service

in the church that concerns us, since your attendance at church on Sundays has been irregular, to

say the least. Ordination is a serious matter, and we prefer to defer our decision until we have

heard from your pastor that your attendance has improved.”

Under her breath, her lips barely moving, she whispered one word: “Shit.” She smiled, “I

understand.”