By Amy Butler
It is not uncommon to encounter me, on occasion (okay, very frequently, actually), complaining bitterly about all the things I did not learn in seminary. In fact, I do have a comprehensive list of such things somewhere, to which I add regularly, and which I reference at professional meetings when I am occasionally asked benign questions in passing, like: “We’re working on revising our seminary curriculum! Would you mind sharing what you wish you had learned in seminary?”
Usually the individuals asking some version of this question feel immediate regret upon hearing my tirade of an answer. I’ve lamented my lack of seminary preparedness on what course of action to follow, for example, during a recent bomb scare at church; when the fire alarm went off in the sanctuary during my sermon; the day there was a dead bird hanging out of the end of an organ pipe and no one could figure out a way to get it out before worship started….
Let’s be honest: ministry is intense; we should require boot camp or something.
Last Sunday while standing at the door shaking hands after worship, however, I had a conversation that made me admit that maybe there are some things we definitely did not learn in seminary — and maybe that no one at any seminary could ever teach us no matter how hard they tried. I finally realized that this journey of living human life in relationship with a God whom we can never fully understand is full of unanswerable questions.
I had spent all week that week living with the text of John 2, poring over commentaries and thinking about how to bring the story of Jesus and the wedding at Cana to full and meaningful life for the congregation. All week I pondered the questions: Should I talk about miracles and if or how they really happened? Maybe I should address the question of whether or not wine should be served at weddings? Perhaps we should examine why the disciples only believed after they saw Jesus turn water into wine?
The end result of all these hours of study is probably largely forgotten by now, but what happened at the door after the sermon was finished will not be forgotten by me anytime soon. After worship, a Calvary member came up to me with eyes flashing, tears running down her face, and her jaw set in defiance. “Pastor,” she said, “I don’t have any trouble believing that Jesus turned water into wine.” The tears started in earnest then. “What I really cannot understand is why the earth had to shake so hard under the people in Haiti. Can you tell me why?”
I was stunned by her question — but I don’t know why I should have been. I suddenly realized that I’d spent all week wondering, instead, about the alcohol content of Galilean grape juice!
I didn’t know the answer to her question.
I don’t know the answers to my own questions when I turn on the news and see the face of suffering in Haiti.
They didn’t teach me that in seminary.
Maybe what I am lamenting this week is not a skill set I didn’t get in seminary, but instead the misconception we promote that pastors have the answers to these gut-wrenching questions of human pain. These are hard questions, and we don’t have the answers. And, even if we say we do, we don’t. Some of us prefer, instead, to puzzle over obscure commentaries and thorny textual variants because asking the hard questions reminds us we’re people with shaky faith, too.
Last week at the door I could have easily explained to my church member exactly how many gallons of liquid could customarily be contained in a Gailiean water jar, but I confess I did not have a ready answer for the question she asked instead.
Later, as I heard the memory of her question echoing in my ears, all I could do was hang on tight to the one prayer that’s the closest thing I can muster to answering the hard questions my own heart was crying: “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”
Amen.