The central Pennsylvania sky had cleared, and the sun was
shining over the green ridges into the river. I paddled my kayak towards the
western shore of the Susquehanna with my sister a few yards behind me. Herons
and egrets took off as we approached them, and the nearby train tracks rumbled
with coal-laden cars dieseling their way south. I had forgotten how beautiful
this country is and how much it is a part of me.
I think it’s easy to forget our connection with the land
when one lives in a large metropolitan area. I know that’s been true for me
after living two years on the South Side of Chicago. The experience of going to
sleep with the sound of crickets and frogs around hardly compares with the
voices, car horns, and sirens that are the normal city night’s soundtrack.
My three days in central Pennsylvania were part of a
longer vacation that was otherwise urban. I had started with a conference in
Arlington, Virginia where we celebrated over 60 years of young adults in
mission in the United Methodist Church. Next I moved to Philadelphia where
several friends and family members have settled, and where soft pretzels lie
down with the steak sandwiches (come, Lord Jesus). Then central PA, and now
Pittsburgh, where I sip yerba mate with my cousin in the shadow of Pitt’s
Cathedral of Learning (don’t judge).
However, the question that seems to keep surfacing is one
about the future. I begin seminary at Chicago Theological Seminary in
September, and I can’t even imagine what kind of adventures wait for me there.
But the question is less about seminary and more about where God is calling me
in ministry. I’m talking about geographical location. John Wesley famously declared
that “the world is my parish” in response to mounting pressure for him to take
his father’s place at the rectory in Epworth, England, but every vocation
occurs in a geographical and cultural context.
I have recently seen the stark contract between two contexts
that I have called home. One is urban Chicago, a wildly diverse and dynamic
setting, a setting which has been my home for the last two years and will be my
home for the next three years as well. People come and go like a Lake Michigan
breeze. The other area is central Pennsylvania, where rolling mountain ridges
seem to stand guard against sudden, unexpected changes, and generation after
generation maintain traditions that run deeper than any social media thread.
I’ve met people who have left central Pennsylvania and
never plan to come back, and I’ve met others who did indeed return after a time
of personal growth. I can see how my experience in community organizing and
interfaith work could easily fit in one conference, but I also see room for
growth in the other. I’ve gone to two United Methodist annual conferences in
two years, I’ve seen two very different styles for ecclesiastic culture, but
now both of those conferences are welcoming new leadership in the episcopacy. Where
does that leave me?
I make some connections with my short foray into kayaking
in the shallow Susquehanna waters. I had tried so hard to make my way upstream,
but I found that I couldn’t pass a set of rapids no matter how hard I tried.
However, by going downstream just a bit, I managed to continue upstream by starting
up the Juniata River, which joins the Susquehanna at my hometown. God has
called me to address root problems that plague our varied communities, and my
experiences in Chicago have given me tools to fight those problems. However, I
don’t need to always fight my way upstream through rapids that push me
backwards and might even overturn me if I’m not careful. God is making a path
for me that may require to me go downstream before I start to address root problems
further upstream. How far downstream will I need to go, and where might that
other river take me? I don’t know, but I have faith that God will provide a way
to the source of life that will quench the thirst of a dry land. I just need to
keep the nose of my kayak straight and paddle hard.
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| The confluence of the Susquehanna and Juniata rivers at Duncannon, Pennsylvania. |
