One of my first “hands on” ministry experiences took place during the month-long January term in the middle of my first year of seminary; I turned 23 years old that month. Instead of signing up for a traditional classroom elective course, I had applied for and was barely accepted into, a half unit of what is called Clinical Pastoral Education. It was essentially supervised work as a hospital chaplain.
I was assigned to a large hospital on the north side of Atlanta, and within my first week as a student chaplain I found myself on-call overnight. There I was, the sole chaplain in the on call sleeping room of a 537-bed hospital, waiting for someone to need the chaplain. In other words, waiting for something to go terribly wrong for someone else. What in the world had I gotten myself into?
I had applied for this program in the middle of my first semester because I wasn’t sure what kind of ministry I wanted to do “when I grew up.” Medicine had interested me before college, and medical research was my focus as a biology undergraduate student. The hospital setting seemed to be a possible match for my new calling, and I thought I should try it out. I felt defeated, however, in early December when I got the call from the program supervisor that my application had been rejected.
I didn’t understand why. I had called before even sending in my paperwork to see if they would consider a first year student. (They would.) I had asked my seminary advisor if it was an acceptable use of my January term. (It was.) I had skipped the registration process for other classes on campus because it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t get in. (But I didn’t.)Yet there I was, less than a month later, sitting on the edge of the chaplain’s sleep room bed, beeper on the nightstand, Bible in my lap, wondering what in the world I would do if that beeper went off. I was sort of wishing I hadn’t had that dose of stubborn courage a month before when I begged my way into the program after I had been told I was too young, too inexperienced. Sitting on that bed I was suddenly feeling every bit of my youth and inexperience. I was thrilled to be, at that very moment, truly “in ministry,” but at the same time I completely worried that I really wasn’t at all ready to be there. I felt completely inadequate.
For me in my moment on the verge of something new, it was thrill and worry; for the disciples following the resurrection of Jesus, it was worship and doubt. In Galilee, on the mountain where Jesus had told them to wait after the women saw him as they ran from the empty tomb, the eleven disciples sat and waited for Jesus. Matthew isn’t actually clear about how long they had to wait, but they waited – patiently, perplexed, skeptically? I don’t know. They waited and their waiting paid off, because Jesus did appear, and in that moment they worshiped AND they doubted. That’s the response of some of Jesus’ closest followers when they first experienced his resurrection. Worship and doubt.
I don’t know about you, but that takes a huge load off my shoulders. Jesus’ closest friends, the ones who had been with him at every turn of ministry for the last 3 years, the ones who had heard his promises and seen his miracles, weren’t so sure of what they were seeing as they looked at his resurrected body.
Jesus’ own disciples were both excited and confused, thrilled and worried, worshiping and doubting as they stood on yet another mountain face-to-face with God. It takes off a little bitof the pressure to feel 100% sure at every single turn. If the disciples couldn’t fall to their knees in unquestioning worship at the sight of their resurrected Lord, it makes it easier to accept our stumbles in faith when the doctor delivers difficult news. If the disciples couldn’t sing with full-throated voice when Jesus appeared before them, it makes it easier to pray with a shaky voice when confidence in our relationships is fading. If the disciples couldn’t lift their hands in unadulterated praise when Jesus joined them on the mountaintop, it makes it a little easier to hold our hands out, pleading for a sign of God’s presence in times of loneliness. Worship and doubt, thrill and worry, faith and confusion, if the disciples are any example, aren’t mutually exclusive.
And at the same time worship and doubt, thrill and worry, faith and confusion, if the disciples are any example, are no excuse for getting out of the ministry to which Jesus commissions THESE same disciples. Right there in the middle of this mixed bag of belief is where Jesus speaks what we now call his Great Commission. Right there as they are both worshiping and doubting, Jesus tells them what the disciples have to do – – “Go!”
“Go,” he says, “and make more disciples.” Go and baptize and teach. Go and include others and tell them your stories. Go and welcome them into the community of God and share what you have experienced of God’s grace. Go and teach others what you have been taught, that I am always with you.
If we remember the whole story of these disciples, though, we might be wondering if they are really ready for this responsibility. Are they sure enough? Are they strong enough? They didn’t even have the faithfulness to stick around for his crucifixion. They couldn’t even be there in his hour of greatest need. They couldn’t stand up for him in the face of unfair treatment. They couldn’t speak their faith and show their loyalty in presence of the opposition. They couldn’t even believe without doubting when he stood right in front of them. Certainly, they needed more time before they went anywhere to do anything in any name of God. Certainly, they couldn’t be ready, these eleven who worship and doubt.
And if they couldn’t be ready, how can we, we who believe and have questions? Certainly we need more time to learn more, pray more, believe more, worship more. Certainly we can’t go out to minister in Jesus’ name without more knowledge, more faith, more commitment, more belief. I don’t know enough, understand enough, believe enough, we hear ourselves saying, to be able to teach others.
But despite all this, knowing all this, still Jesus says, “Go!” To those who worship and doubt, still he says, “Go!” The disciples aren’t perfect believers. The disciples aren’t even perfect followers. In fact, disciples are, by the very definition of the word, followers who are still learning. Disciples aren’t the master, but learn at the foot of the master, yet it is disciples that Jesus sends out to minister in his name. It is disciples that Jesus commissions to make more disciples, learners who are sent to welcome new learners.
He doesn’t set up a school where four years of education earn you a degree and the right to speak for God. He doesn’t set up a time frame in which you study enough to be sent. He doesn’t have a standardized test to pass before you take on the great commission. “Go,” he says to those with wavering faith. “Go,” he says to those who worship. “Go,” he says to those who doubt. “Go,” he says to those who feel inexperienced and youthful in faith. “Go and make disciples among all the people, baptizing them and teaching them, and promising what I promise – – that I will be with you all even to the very end.”
“Go,” he says to all of us. “Go,” he says to each of us. “Go not as experts, not as masters, not as authorities, because I have all authority. But go as disciples, as learners, as people with faith and doubts. Go with holy inadequacy, set apart not because of your perfect faith, but because I teach you, because I send you, because I promise to be with you wherever you go. Go and tell your stories of faith and questioning. Welcome people who will wonder alongside of you. Include them. Baptize them. Tell them the truth that I also tell you. I am here forever.”
If we take this commission seriously, if we trust that Jesus knows what he is doing, that he sees our worship and our doubt, I believe it changes how we think about accepting it. It doesn’t matter that we don’t know everything. It doesn’t even matter that we don’t believe all the time. What matters is that we hear his commission, that we follow his command, that we tell what we have experienced, what we are learning, what we do know to be true.
And if we take this commission seriously, if we trust that Jesus knows what he is doing, that he sees our worship and our doubt, it may even change what we’re saying. Maybe what we’re called to teach is a little less black and white than what we sometimes hear. Maybe there are a lot more shades of grey in the lessons of faith. Maybe what we need to be doing is a lot less insisting and a lot more searching, a lot less judging and a lot more listening, at lot less declaring and a lot more wondering – – wondering who is this God who entrusts a message of grace and hope and forgiveness to a broken and inadequate people.
Then maybe our response will be faithful to who we are and who is sending us. We are learners called to make more learners. We are followers of God in whom all authority rests. We are imperfect people with imperfect faith, commissioned to point to the perfect God. We don’t have to know enough or believe enough to go out and share our story, but still we are called, still we are commissioned to go, make disciples, invite other learners into this relationship with God.
With our faith and with our questions, with our worship and with our doubts, may we go with Christ’s blessing and his promise.
