To step into leadership.

To step into spiritual leadership.

To step into spiritually mature leadership.

That’s what I must live up to now.

That’s what I take on for the next three years.

I’m honored and blessed to take on this role. This position far above me. This status I do not deserve. What’s more, my home church here has a stellar pedigree. M.Divs and PhDs abound here. They’re a dime a dozen. There’s real wisdom here. Real godliness. There’s guidance. And then there’s me (classic self-deprecating Calvinist, right?).

I’ll be twenty-seven next month. But more telling than what an age might reveal, I’m stepping into church council. Humility knows no bounds. What can I reciprocate? I grovel, lying prostrate, prone.

Batter my heart, three person’d God.

Spirit of the living God,
Fall afresh on me.
Melt me, mold me, fill me, use me.
Spirit of the living God,
Fall afresh on me.

I watched my father rotate through church council on a steady routine as I grew up.

Many individuals I respect most have done the same.

Then there’s me.

I have faults.

I have fear.

To be the hands of the church, to minister to the poor, the widows, the disadvantaged. This is something I seek to do. It’s something that calls to me, deepens me, yearns for the least I can do. But it gets real. I stand for something now.

This has nothing to do with me.

Vessel. Conduit. Make me these. Make me hands. Finger. Knuckle. Anything. Make me more.

I look through this window.

I want to look through this window.

I want to pass through this window.

I look for joy.

I look, most of all, to be joy.

Joy for those that need it most.

For those anyone but me, except in passing, mining what little I can give in hopes for no return, but for signs that the receipts are strong, the harvest good.

A small comfort here:

From a Window
By Christian Wiman

Incurable and unbelieving
in any truth but the truth of grieving,

I saw a tree inside a tree
rise kaleidoscopically

as if the leaves had livelier ghosts.
I pressed my face as close

to the pane as I could get
to watch that fitful, fluent spirit

that seemed a single being undefined
or countless beings of one mind

haul its strange cohesion
beyond the limits of my vision

over the house heavenwards.
Of course I knew those leaves were birds.

Of course that old tree stood
exactly as it had and would

(but why should it seem fuller now?)
and though a man’s mind might endow

even a tree with some excess
of life to which a man seems witness,

that life is not the life of men.
And that is where the joy came in.

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