When I asked Tom Mullen, one of my favorite seminary professors, to preach at my ordination service, I expected him to be clever and profound; but when he titled his message, ‘Unfit for the Ministry’ I wondered if choosing the faculty comedian had been wise.  Was my vocation to be in jeopardy just as it was getting off the ground?

My first pastorate was in Indiana.  Out East, when people learn you are a pastor, they tend to smile and commend you for your willingness to serve the church.  I knew Seattle would be different, but I didn’t know that honestly answering one of people’s first questions upon meeting me would end so many conversations before they’d begun.

There’s nothing like moving to bring about a crisis of identity.  My sisters and I moved a lot.  It was a professional hazard of being preachers’ kids.  It wasn’t easy.  Aside from the obvious packing and changing homes and schools, moving a lot changed who I am today.  I know that we all respond differently to what life throws at us.  I think I learned to look for the opportunities that came from moving.  I learned to reach out and make friends.  I discovered that I could change who I was, that I didn’t need to act like the person my classmates had known me to be at my last school, but could learn from the things I’d done and been that didn’t work so well.

Bethany Theological Seminary was the last school I moved to.  I started classes in 1994.  The seminary itself had just moved to Richmond, Indiana, from Chicago.  I soon came to see that moves can be as difficult to make for institutions as for individuals.

So much of who we know ourselves to be is shaped by the relationships we have with those around us.  When Bethany, our denomination’s only seminary, moved to Richmond, it built right next to the Earlham School of Religion (ESR), the only seminary for another small denomination, The Religious Society of Friends (aka Quakers).  Both seminaries hoped that their proximity would help their respective communities enrich each other.  They planned some jointly taught courses, chapel services, and social events.

Getting in on the ‘ground floor’ of the move excited me.  I knew it would require work at ‘community formation’ and building a spiritual friendship with a religious tradition that shares so much in common with my own.

I soon found that not everyone shared my excitement.  Maybe it was because ESR had never moved, or because the Church of the Brethren was embroiled in deep seated conflict over how scripture spoke to the issues of the day.  Maybe it was because both of our denominations were very small and the shared experience of constantly having  to describe your church to people who don’t know who you are made our institutional proximity a crisis of identity.  It was as though some began to fear that doing so much together might confuse us about who we really were and what we really believed.

As it turned out, each of our schools had a tradition of ‘common meal,’ of getting together once a week for our noon meal.  ESR used the dining hall on Tuesdays, Bethany on Wednesdays.  I was elected to the committee that planned Bethany’s lunch-time programs, short presentations that would lead to conversations.  I loved the challenge of finding interesting speakers and compelling topics.  When planned well, attendance would soar, conversation would be deep and soul-searching.  The community would bond and all would be right with my world.

I soon found common cause with my counterpart at ESR.  Tom Mullen, who taught theology and writing, loved the world of ideas.  Together we would discuss Dunker and Quaker idiosyncrasies and commonalities.  We would brainstorm about how to turn our respective schools’ anxieties into a partnership of adventure and opportunity.

Tom’s secret weapon in our struggle against institutional angst was humor.  He found his source material everywhere.  He made fun of how much seniors talk about their diseases and disabilities, almost with a kind of pride, he having plenty to brag about himself.  He made fun of how ‘passively aggressive’ Christians from ‘peace churches’ can be.  And Tom was especially good at poking fun at how seriously religious people take themselves, while all around, the least likely people seem to understand the heart of Jesus’ good news.

When he started his sermon at my ordination service, he started quoting scripture and talking about how important ministry was, about the many qualifications and gifts which ministers must have if they are to really serve Christ.  No work is more important!

And then he rightly pointed out that I didn’t measure up to Jesus, that I didn’t have the same gifts or power that Jesus had, maybe not even some of the apostles.

But then he turned it.  None of us measures well against such a benchmark, and ministry is not about measuring up.  It’s about stepping up.

I was worried about how his sermon would reflect on me, and Tom used it to remind those present that all of us are called into ministry, not by virtue of our extraordinary gifts, but because of the extraordinary need for each of us to do what we can.

This last week, I learned that Tom had a stroke.  He was taken to the very hospital and ward where my own father fought for his life just a year ago.  Tom did not win his fight to survive his stroke, but he and I shared a good struggle during our years together in Richmond and I will never forget the combination of confidence and humility that he wielded in the fight to turn anxiety into adventure, and brokenness into life.

Tom leaves a wife, children, countless friends, students, parishioners, readers, audiences, and two denominations, so dear to him, to carry on his legacy.  May his spirit enliven us all.