Identity

I've seriously considered changing the title of this blog.  I already did so once, years ago, when I changed the title from "One Church Planter's Journey" to "One Pastor's Journey."

Can I still call myself a pastor?  What happens to the calling I believe I received as a high school kid when; a) I'm divorced and b) I'm disillusioned with church.

I don't really know, honestly.  I still have a lot of work to do to figure it out.

I know what I need to stop doing, though and that's referring to myself as a "divorced pastor."
I'm not sure where or if the pastoral label/identity means anything but I for sure need to stop referring to myself as a "divorced dude."  Well, except for on dating sites, so the potential matches don't think I'm hiding that I'm married, as I've heard happens...

I've had two people get up in my face and challenge my use of the label "divorced pastor." One time was from the pastoral couple I mentioned in the "Shame" post, whom have both gone through a divorce themselves, though it was before they became Christ-followers and went into pastoral ministry.  I was sitting at an inspection with them, a couple of weeks ago, sharing more about my own journey.  Somewhere in that conversation, I referred to myself as a "divorced pastor" in a rather sheepish or even shameful way.  The husband got in my face a bit (in a gentle way, of course) and stated, "Stop referring to yourself as a 'divorced pastor.'  That's not the summation of who you are.  God has so much more for you than that."  I believe him, though I don't know what that is yet.

The other time was during a conversation with an intuitive, wise, direct and smart lady I dated for a short time.  Again, somewhere in the conversation, I referred to myself as a "divorced pastor."  The fact that I was called out for that twice makes me think I've done it a lot of other times but the other person simply let it slide.  She also got in my face, "Donnie, that's not your story.  Maybe you'll never stand behind a pulpit again (which I don't believe I ever will, at least not as a permanent role) but God still speaks through you.  I can still see 'the anointing' on you (did I mention she's Pentecostal?).
She challenged me to add to my morning list of things for which I'm thankful a list of ways I've served the Kingdom.  No act is too small to write down; helping a homeless guy get connected to some housing, helping with kids church on Sunday morning, the "sermon" my boss asked me to re-tell in a training meeting (a little discourse on how "perfect love casts out fear").  I've been doing that.  It's a great reminder each day, both of what God has allowed me to do and when I'm starting to slack off a bit.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, both of these people who got up in my face are a part of the same church.

A lot of my identity as a "preacher" or "pastor" came from my upbringing.  My dad was, admittedly, a bit disappointed that I didn't share his passion for farming.  As a self-centered kid, I didn't think about how my lack of interest in farming would hurt my dad.  As a dad myself, now I realize I was hurtful to him.  In the middle of High School, though I sensed a call into full-time ministry.  For a Miller, the next best thing to being a farmer is to be a pastor.  My identity or self-esteem began to be built up around the pride my dad (and even my Grandma Miller or Grandpa Tyler) beamed on their faces every time they were in the congregation while I was preaching.

Obviously, I didn't make it in pastoral ministry.  I failed at the two things the most important to my dad; church and marriage.  Ironically, I think my dad and I have never been closer.  I think the breaking down of these false identities has helped us to connect on a simple, yet profound, father-son level.

That pastoral identity however, was also pumped up by my home church.  Whenever I was visiting, I usually did something up front, whether that was leading in prayer or actually preaching a sermon.  Of course, this has stopped as I've worked myself out of a ministry position.  I tried different non-traditional ministries until I eventually just turned in my credentials due to inactivity.  It took me about 9 months from the divorce until I had the guts to attend my home church while visiting my family.

I shouldn't have been surprised by the response I received; grace, acceptance and a lot of hugs.
I talked with my parents' pastor after worship and told him how embarrassed I was to show my face and how hard it was to visit.  He simply hugged me and said I'd always be a kid of that church and I was always welcome.

Why did I believe those lies?

When dating N, I talked with her a lot about how hard it was for me to face former congregation members after the divorce.  Being Catholic herself, she didn't really understand this Protestant expectation that the pastoral family be a model of everything godly, including having a strong marriage.  She kept telling me, "you don't have anything to be sorry for.  You didn't owe anyone an apology or anything else."
That was hard for me to accept, though.  So I've been slowly going on what I jokingly call my "apology tour."  Or maybe "forgiveness tour" is a better label.  Whenever I meet with former congregation members, I talk through the divorce and apologize for the pain that it likely caused them.  Well, not "likely" caused them because the news of Erin and my divorce hurt a lot of people. 
What I've found though, is that the hurt former congregation members or ministry partners were felling was hurt for us and not from us.

Which just goes to show that my identity is so much more than any type of ministry position. Ultimately, I'm just a kid.  That's all I'll ever be.  My dad's kid, yes but more importantly, a loved child of my Heavenly Father.

As I learned from Breakthrough almost three years ago, "I'm okay.  I'm just a kid and that's okay."