RECENTLY, I TOOK PART IN THE ORDINATION of one of our recent graduates. He was ordained in his home congregation in New York City, and I was invited to represent his seminary in that service and to read the New Testament lesson. It was a rich and glorious service, representing Presbyterian worship at its thoughtful best.
His “village” was there on that Sunday afternoon — his wife and adolescent daughter, his parents and in-laws and other members of his extended family, the pastors of that church who had done so much to mentor him, a pivotal college professor from earlier days, some fellow students from seminary, the church family from that large Upper East Side congregation who had loved and nurtured and ministered with him across years and even some representatives of the calling congregation in Kansas where he will be installed in a matter of weeks. When the vows had been made and a charge had been extended and gifts for ministry — a robe, a stole and some other signs of his vocation — had been extended, then, in due time, he stepped deep into the chancel of that church to take his place behind the Lord’s Table and to preside over the Lord’s Supper for the first time. That picture of him, stretching his arms wide to issue with confidence the Invitation to the Lord’s Table, caused many of us to well up with joy and gratitude as we pondered how far he had come on his journey of faith.
Those of us who are fond of “call stories” know that they are hardly ever short, hardly ever simple. Instead, they are populated by many characters — sometimes hundreds of people — who play a role in nurturing one’s sense of call. A church school teacher, a youth sponsor, a choir director, a high school drama coach, a college chaplain, someone sitting next to you on your first Sunday in church who simply smiled and reached out and welcomed you to God’s house: All such people are often, unwittingly, part of someone’s “calling ecosystem.”
At occasions like that ordination service, seminaries get far too much credit for preparing people for ministry and other forms of Christian service. But the fact is that nobody gets to seminary by themselves. Nobody!
Just a few hours prior to that afternoon ordination, that same large sanctuary had been filled for Sunday morning worship. It, too, was a splendid and beautiful occasion. The choir was glorious, the sermon was powerful, the liturgy was beautiful. On that particular Sunday, what captured me the most, though, was the Sacrament of Baptism. As we sang a hymn, a crucifer led three families and their sponsoring elders down the center aisle. Then, for maybe 15 minutes, we all just marinated in the depth of baptism. The parents of three babies took their vows, each child’s name was called and water was splashed on each tiny forehead.
Then, before we sang again as they were paraded through the sanctuary, these three children received what the pastor referred to as their first sermon. Facing those three babies, held by their parents in front of the chancel at the end of that long center aisle, he said these words from the French Reformed liturgy: “Little ones, for you God created the world. Little ones, for you God came into the world in Jesus Christ, born a child in Bethlehem. For you, little ones, he told us of the love of God, for you Jesus died, and for you he rose from the grave. All this he did for you. Although you know none of this, we, your church, promise to continue to tell you this story as you grow so that one day you may know it and make it your own.”
I was reminded, yet again, that theological education does not begin in seminary. It begins at the font, where over and over again the church sets out once more to teach and live such words of faith.
THEODORE J. WARDLAW is president and professor of homiletics at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary in Austin, Texas.
