On a visit with my sister I attended her church

Where she was a devoted choir member.

The minister was young, mid-thirties maybe.

His sermon was broad, well-structured

And basically satisfying.

And yet, somehow, just a bit mechanical.

As I left the sanctuary and approached the exit

Where he stood smiling and shaking hands

There was a little gulf in the press of bodies.

 

When we gained eye contact and extended our palms

I said quietly, 'I'm sure you came into your career

With high ideals and great enthusiasm,

A conviction of the rightness of your calling.

How do you sustain yourself

When you discover that your studies,

Your knowledge, your insights

Count for so little in the weekly pattern of sermons?'

 

His fingers stayed in mine, and his eyes closed.

Then he lifted heavy lids and really 'saw' me.

He smiled with a little corner twist.

'It's hard. It's very hard.'

And his hand trembled slightly.

I pressed it gently, 'But you do it.

You do it, and God bless you for it.'

I moved on, and out,

Smiling and greeting my sister's friends.

 

I had considered the ministry very seriously.

But I realized that I couldn't do it:

I was unsympathetic to mystery and misery.

People are vulnerable, especially in trust.

I might have hurt more minds than I healed.

I wouldn't shoulder that burden.

 

 

The Young Minister by Cynthia Buell Thomas, 2020