After Synod, my hope is in the Lord

Each morning at the Christian Reformed Church’s Synod in June, I placed a five-inch olivewood carving on my table: a shepherd carrying a lamb across his shoulders. This little guy, squished amid candy, laptops and water bottles, helped me focus on my two most important jobs as a delegate.

“I am the sheep,” I said to my tablemates, caressing the tiny animal’s head. Remembering that was my first job. Remembering I was lost but then found. Embraced, rejoiced over, carried. By Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who came to earth to bring life to the full. 

As the oldest child of four, born to parents active in church and school communities, I came out of the womb feeling responsible. Which made me a sought-after babysitter and a high-functioning student. And which, no doubt, helps me as a lead pastor. But feeling responsible is dangerous. I’ve been learning, throughout my adult life, I am not in charge. God is in charge. I’m learning to declare, “When I feel weighed down, I hand over the burden to Jesus, with whom I am yoked; he does the heavy lifting.”

Jesus helped me as a delegate to abandon any illusion that the future of his church is up to me. Instead, he filled me with wonder over God’s presence and grace, even on the messiest days of Synod. He helped me acknowledge, after short sleeps and emotionally charged discussions, that I am a human with limits. He gifted me with peace over weeping like a child, even on the floor of Synod, even at the microphone.

God’s image in each person

“I am the sheep,” I said to my tablemates, “– and so are you, and you, and you.” My second job as delegate: remember the Synod floor was packed with Jesus’ sheep. No matter how painfully divided we became, Jesus continued to love and offer full life to the whole sorry lot of us.

And, so, Jesus called me to walk onto the Synod floor each day with open arms. Identifying God’s image in each person. Praying for empathy. Recognizing my own vulnerabilities voiced by others, even those whose vision of the Christian Reformed Church felt so different from my own.

This call to hospitality is what helped me, I think, to be honest when my trust in people and process was most at risk. When Synod voted in its final hours to cease debate – after it had barely started – about the process of using gravamina, I voiced at the mic how much my trust had been damaged by this seemingly underhanded move. But also, throughout the week of Synod, I spoke more than once with my advisory committee chair about trust. He had a public record of speaking passionately about the topics we were assigned to address, and I feared he would not facilitate our work fairly. I told him so – but added I wanted to trust him. He said he wanted to lead well, and so we worked hard to accomplish our tasks with respect and care. As our opposing majority and minority reports were read shortly before Synod adjourned, we stood with teary eyes but, I believe, with clear hearts.

It was Jesus’ model of hospitality compelling me, after adjournment, to walk over to Synod’s Vice President (a.k.a. Jesus’ sheep named Chad) and thank him for his work as officer, acknowledge the weight he bore as Chair of Abide, and wish him well.

Wonder and hospitality. That’s what Jesus our Good Shepherd helped me remember at Synod. Not that different, really, from loving God and loving others. As I sit now in what still feels like a post-Synod fog, all I know is he is telling me to do the same things. To wonder at my belovedness, to rest in God’s strength, to accept my limitations. And to approach others with as much love and curiosity as I – God’s Spirit in me – can muster. For now, I’m letting others strategize, plan, envision. My hope is in the Lord, the Shepherd carrying me.

This piece was originally published online in the Reformed Journal.