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The jolt of leadership

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Presbyterians don’t really do snake-handling outside of a property committee accident, and most of us aren’t quite sure about speaking in tongues. But, a strange thing that we’ve made normal happens at every ordination, usually on a frosty Sunday in late January. The “laying on of hands.” We do so in the spirit of Isaac who passed on his inheritance to Jacob with a touch and a blessing, in the spirit of the early church leaders who were sent into the world to heal and share Christ’s love, still warm from the touch of their community.

Think about it. Knees that haven’t knelt in years, except for the occasional home repair, find their way to the chancel carpet. Heads that haven’t been patted in years, not that lovingly since baptism or childhood, these days only touched by a methodical barber, are touched by the hand of a fellow elder. Our hands press into the shoulder pad of his jacket, rest on her head feeling the crunch of hairspray, and something powerful occurs. We bless. We connect. We invoke. We harness the energy of call, the thrill before a plunge into the deep blue water of God’s mysterious adventure, the bolt of spirit leaping from our story to the grounding love story of God’s in Christ.

Most folks choke back tears as they mutter their response to the ordination question, “Will you serve with energy, intelligence, imagination and love?” “Yes, with the help of God.” It’s breathtaking. I am glad those sending words at the end are called a “charge.” The Holy Spirit does course through you as you serve in Christ’s name. Sometimes I wish for a zapping sound or for a bugle to play to remind us of this electrifying, commissioning power that we scarcely understand.

Then, it comes time to stand back up again. Knees make their popping sounds, and in that space, sometimes eight different people assist even the most able-bodied person in making her way back to standing — such that the standing up with the help of others feels almost as ceremonial and holy as the words and actions of the ordination itself. There’s usually a moment of humanity when someone steps on another person’s hemline or someone’s knees really won’t cooperate, so everyone gasps for a second, then, seeing the person chuckle, people are all smiles and back pats before bumping along like herd animals, shoulder to shoulder, making their way to their pew. Of course its not perfect. It’s not supposed to be. Theologically, elders are ordained to a function, to a role, not dubbed some higher being without cracking knees or static in our souls. We’re all there to help each other up.

Desmond Tutu said, “We are only the light bulbs. Our job is to remain screwed in.” The happiest church officers I know remain close to the calling energy of ordination in all they do. They seek connection over perfection, connection with the animating stories of their lives and what they love to do rather than where there may be a vacancy. They lend a hand without feeling guilty they aren’t doing more, because they seem to remember how many hands actually are available. They clap for a job well done. They fold hands in prayer not because its on the agenda but because it plugs them in to the impulse of the Holy One. They reach for help, remembering that there is power, not weakness, in shared vulnerability. And when someone else shares pain or loss, there’s that hand on the shoulder again, the pause button that stops any meeting to acknowledge a brother or sister in need of healing.

Beautiful are those hands that bear the pulse of the living God.

 

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BECCA MESSMAN is the associate pastor at Trinity Presbyterian Church in Herndon, Virginia.

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