Now and Then, Reflecting on Being Known
There are 47 days until the publishing of Unraveling, my first collection of poetry. Yes, I’m counting! Wednesdays at the Well for these next 7 weeks will draw from moments and memories connected to my experience of “coming out and back together.” And will include updates on the book and upcoming events.
In May 2014 I graduated from seminary and was commissioned as a provisional deacon in the United Methodist Church all in one wild weekend in two different states. On Friday I walked across the commencement stage in red shoes to receive my Master of Divinity in Evanston, Illinois. On Sunday, now in Adrian, Michigan I knelt at a railing, wearing a simple linen robe with a knotted cincture tied loosely around my waist. I still feel the energy of the bishop laying her hands upon me.
So much happened before and after. Now and then.
I headed to Illinois on Wednesday for pre-graduation festivities and to get my gown and other regalia. The gown needed to be ironed. Being horrible with an iron and for the sake of ease, I dropped it off at the dry cleaner. I also dropped off my clergy robe, which was seemingly never free from wrinkles. I paid extra for express service and planned to pick up my garments Thursday afternoon.
When I returned to the shop the lights were off. I noticed a note on the door, “closed for family emergency.” Through the glass I could clearly see my gown and robe. Clean. Hanging on the rack. Wrapped in sheer plastic. Out of my reach.
Panic set in immediately. How was I going to get to them? I called the store hoping to leave a message that would be returned. I went into the store next door, begging them to help. I left my name and number, expressed sympathy for the owner’s emergency, and explained my own. I had to get those garments.
I found a plan B for a commencement gown, but had no idea how to secure another robe for the service of commissioning and ordination. The panic shifted to despair and doubt. I quickly spiraled to fear and shame. What if this is a sign that I wasn’t really called to ministry? That I didn’t belong among the called? Were things coming apart before they could even come together? At that time, I was so deep in the closet that I wasn’t connecting this to my sexuality, but to a deeper sense of unworthiness and being discovered and known as an imposter. The things that made me unique, the experiences that stirred my heart toward justice, compassion, and service were also the things I most feared being revealed.
I accepted having to wear an alternative gown for commencement. It was too short and smelled like my grandmother’s attic, but it fit. And I resigned myself to the fact that I didn’t know what I was going to do about a robe for commissioning. I’d figure that out after graduation.
The Friday of commencement was unusually cold for May in Illinois. It actually snowed. I was up early unable to sleep. And my phone rang. It was the owner of the shop. He apologized profusely. His wife was in the hospital. He could meet me in 30 minutes to pick up my garments.
I drove right over. The owner and I both weepy at the exchange. When I left, I drove to the lake rather than right back to the hotel. I stood at the water and cried. In some ways relieved. In others more confused. Anxious about being so visible, so seen, and potentially known in a gown now and a robe then.
I’m reminded of a dear friend who reflected often on 1 Corinthians 13:12,
For now we see through a glass, dimly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
“What does it mean to really see clearly, face to face?” she asked. I had my own wonders about what it means to be fully known. We had many long conversations about this and other questions. Seldom did we fully agree. But we agreed that being fully known is thrilling, in frightening and exciting ways.
So much life brought me to the now of weekend and so much living has happened since then. So much has unraveled. Not simply the fabric of a clergy robe, but all the things that kept me afraid of being seen and known; and motivated me to contort myself into boxes and push myself into corners; and blocked me from truly answering and fully embracing my calling.
Someone asked a few years back if I was really called to ministry, or if perhaps I had planned all along to come out as lesbian when I did to prove some point and try to hurt the church.
The question still stings a bit. And it reminds me that yes, I really am called. Called to offer hope and healing through authenticity and creativity to the world. To guide others in unraveling the things that keep us ashamed and afraid of being visible and known. To live my calling in a way that shows it is personal and universal, and like grace flows from a divine fountain, and does not require institutional authorization.
Like those garments hanging inside the dry-cleaner, freshly washed and pressed, wrapped and ready, calling me from behind the clear glass window, I started to imagine a different life—one of joy and freedom, purpose and wholeness, of being fully known—long before I could reach it.
I had to unravel (then) before I could come out and start coming back together (now).
I’ve answered the call to share this journey. I invite you to follow along.
Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca &
10 Camels
Always. Gifted and called.
Thankyou.