When I was first learning to kayak on whitewater, one of the essential instructions I received was to always look where I wanted my boat to go. Don't look at the car-sized rock in the middle of the river that I need to avoid. Look at the channel beside it, at the smooth tongue of water narrowing into a downstream V where all the water in the river wanted to go. That's where I want to go, too. If I look at the rock, then no matter how hard I try to turn, no matter how hard my sweep stroke is, no matter how much I lean, I'm going to end up broaching on that rock.
The same rule applies to driving. I will inevitably steer straight toward the side of the road where I'm staring at the errant cow who is, in turn, staring at me; she, wondering why I'm veering toward her; I, wondering how she got out of her fence.
What has been fascinating to me is to watch my children learn the same lesson, not in a kayak or a car, but simply on their feet. Each of the three has gone or is going through the same transformation. Learning to walk in a straight line is a challenge. Our three-year old runs everywhere, but she seldom focuses on where she is going. She bolts down the hall for something that is of the utmost importance in that moment, gets distracted by a noise her sister makes, fails to note that her brother left in the middle of the hallway a wooden car, which she catches flat-footed and instantly reels forward onto her face because her hands are clutched around the monkey she can't release. And she has no idea that if she had just watched the floor in front of her, she wouldn't have fallen at all.
I often feel that the time I invest in ministry is plagued with a similar problem. I find it very easy to get distracted by peripheral problems. I miss deadlines, overbook myself, forget to pack the right materials for a meeting, misprint details in the weekly bulletin, misspeak in worship or even during a visit. All because I can't focus on where I'm going.
But then, ministry is seldom goal-focused.
And I make that statement fully aware of the number of times that I have been trained to drive toward goals that a given congregation can achieve, to be detailed and realistic about deadlines and project sizes and job expectations. I know how much of our training is geared toward getting things done.
But I am also aware that ministry isn't about programming and building. Ministry is about investing time in people. That's what Advent teaches us. Emmanuel is more than a name; it is a proclamation. God Is with Us. God is investing time and space with us, and not just in the dust and heat of the ancient Near East, but today, sitting in the cool December basement of a small United Methodist church in Virginian Appalachia. In the quiet of this space, God is with me. In the time and conversation I invest visiting at the hospital, Emmanuel. Across the telephone wire, zapping across a 3G network, Emmanuel. Maybe even on Blogger as you're reading, Emmanuel.
Who knows when and where? Emmanuel, unlimited by time and space. Emmanuel, everywhere. And the more I allow myself to be distracted by peripheral stuff, the more I see Emmanuel. The clumsier my focus and time becomes, the more I notice Emmanuel.
That's when grace gets ahold of me. When I stop focusing on what I know I have to get done and turn my focus on whom God is calling me to see. That's when grace flows through me, and when I see and breathe in the grace of my neighbor. When I allow myself to dwell in the miraculous clumsiness of humanity.
Thank God that grace is clumsy.
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