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."
Showing posts with label Breakthrough. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Breakthrough. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Le divorce
This another
rewrite, another edited version of the story I’ve felt compelled to share,
another attempt to respectfully, yet honestly.
19
Parc d'Ardeny, Palaiseau, FR 91120Our apartment living
roomMay of 2014
"I want a divorce."
That statement rocked my world but it wasn't really a surprise. Things had been bad for years. In fact, there is family a picture (which I’ve since taken down) at our son’s first birthday party in February of 2010, which I believe to be beginning of the end. We had happy moments after that point and some moments of hope, but that’s when things started their inevitable descent toward divorce.
During that spring of 2010, things started to change and by the time some formal family pictures was taken in June of 2010, I knew things weren't right, though I had no idea just how bad things would get. My mom told me years later that she sensed the change in 2010 also, prompting her to start praying fervently for us.
In July of 2013, we packed up our belongings (or sold a lot of them) and moved to France to spend a year as Mission Corps Volunteers. I had high hopes that this year in Paris, helping with a church, living in the "City of Love" and being removed from the pressures of every-day life at home would be the exact remedy our struggling relationship needed. The opposite is what actually happened, though. Being removed from the relational support of family and friends (and, to be honest, the distractions as well) actually served to speed-up the disintegration process. With both hindsight and the knowledge of how much better life is now, that speeding-up process was actually beneficial.
I’ve received some many opinions regarding the different levels of disclosure I’ve made on this blog but I still believe this paragraph below, which I wrote at the very first, to be true.
This is probably the time to state that out of respect for my ex-wife, whom I believe to be a good-hearted person and for whom I wish only the best (boy, that sounds trite, but it's true), I'm not going to share the details or causes of why our marriage died. I do however, want to share the agony I experienced over the last few horrible years of a sick and dying marriage. I'm going to share the shame, grace and personal growth that I've experienced thee past few years via a series of blog posts.
Though I didn't actually move out until December of 16, the fate of our marriage was all but sealed that night back in May of 14. We spent the rest of that week not talking (which was to become a common occurrence as we tried to co-parent and live separate lives while legally still married and occupying the same residence) and I went into Dawson's room every night that week, praying over him and crying tears of shame and guilt that my son was going to have divorced parents.
By the end of the week, however two realizations dawned on me:1) A lot of people whom I know and respect, people who truly love God, have gone through divorces. Even this guy...
2) A divorce and a fresh start might not be all bad.From the time my ex asked for a divorce (and I mentally assented to it, so it really was a two-way decision) till the time I actually moved out, we had two good months. Those good months didn't last though, because the destructive habits reared their ugly heads and strangled the remaining life out of our marriage. Those two good months I mentioned were September of 14 (right when we moved back to Europe), a couple of weeks in February of 16 and about a week in May of 15.
Why did it take so long until we finally called it quits? While I can't speak for both of us, I'd say it was two major factors; shame and hope. The hope was stubborn; "maybe things will turn around?"
The shame was debilitating; "God, family, friends, when they know, they're all going to hate me and disown me." I'm going to do an entire post on shame later on.
About 75% of the 2.5 years from The Declaration till The Move Out were spent just existing, clinging to some vague hope that things would turn around. There were a few seasons of mildly sustained effort, though, like the few weeks in the spring of 16 that we spent going through Breakthrough. Going into that, I stated that I felt like it was a last attempt to save our marriage. For a couple of weeks, the save appeared to have taken place. A couple weeks later, however the emotional high wore off and I realized the patterns hadn't really changed.
I had the sense, in June of 15 when I could tell Breakthrough hadn't changed anything for us, that weren't going to make it, but we stayed in the marriage another 18 months.I'll admit, it was incredibly easy to escape into a fantasy of what the next relationship might be like. The counselor whom I visited often on my own and sometimes together, warned me that real life could never compete with a fantasy.
That fantasy was fueled however, by the fact that I'd noticed Christians who had gone through a divorce and came out stronger with healthier second marriages. So at one of our last sessions, in August of 16, I asked the counselor (a Christian who has herself gone through a divorce) why she and I were wasting our time when we could on and find someone else whom we'd get along with better. The counselor responded with something I'll never forget, "You're not wasting time. You're spending time. If your marriage doesn't survive, you won't look back at these difficult years with regret and label them wasted time but rather with satisfaction and peace, labeling them years well-spent." Was she ever right. The several years of the downward cycle that lead up to The Declaration were difficult. The years spent between The Declaration and The Move Out were relational hell-on-earth.
While it's impossible to know all future contingencies, when I moved out last December, I did so with a broken heart but also a heart full of peace and relief. She actually thanked me later for having the courage to do what we'd both been wanting.It did, however, take me five days to have the courage to call my dad on the phone. As I was sitting on the floor of my apartment, finally having a phone conversation with my dad, I was surrounded by piles of things I still needed to put away and was bawling my eyes out. My dad hurt with me. My dad, whom I was almost too ashamed to talk to, offered his own love and acceptance. He even offered the acknowledgment that he didn't understand why this happened to us nor that he really knew what to say. He simply offered his assurance of his love for me, along with his knowledge of God’ unwavering love for me as well.
It's hard to understate the significance of a statement like that.
That reassurance came from a man who views marriage as the ultimate expression of our love for and commitment to God. That reassurance came from a man who loved Erin like a daughter.
They were years spent, not years wasted.
I finally have the courage and motivation to start writing about all of this. I think I know what prompted this desire to write but I'm not actually comfortable sharing that yet.I've been needing to write for a long time, though.
"I want a divorce."
That statement rocked my world but it wasn't really a surprise. Things had been bad for years. In fact, there is family a picture (which I’ve since taken down) at our son’s first birthday party in February of 2010, which I believe to be beginning of the end. We had happy moments after that point and some moments of hope, but that’s when things started their inevitable descent toward divorce.
During that spring of 2010, things started to change and by the time some formal family pictures was taken in June of 2010, I knew things weren't right, though I had no idea just how bad things would get. My mom told me years later that she sensed the change in 2010 also, prompting her to start praying fervently for us.
In July of 2013, we packed up our belongings (or sold a lot of them) and moved to France to spend a year as Mission Corps Volunteers. I had high hopes that this year in Paris, helping with a church, living in the "City of Love" and being removed from the pressures of every-day life at home would be the exact remedy our struggling relationship needed. The opposite is what actually happened, though. Being removed from the relational support of family and friends (and, to be honest, the distractions as well) actually served to speed-up the disintegration process. With both hindsight and the knowledge of how much better life is now, that speeding-up process was actually beneficial.
I’ve received some many opinions regarding the different levels of disclosure I’ve made on this blog but I still believe this paragraph below, which I wrote at the very first, to be true.
This is probably the time to state that out of respect for my ex-wife, whom I believe to be a good-hearted person and for whom I wish only the best (boy, that sounds trite, but it's true), I'm not going to share the details or causes of why our marriage died. I do however, want to share the agony I experienced over the last few horrible years of a sick and dying marriage. I'm going to share the shame, grace and personal growth that I've experienced thee past few years via a series of blog posts.
Though I didn't actually move out until December of 16, the fate of our marriage was all but sealed that night back in May of 14. We spent the rest of that week not talking (which was to become a common occurrence as we tried to co-parent and live separate lives while legally still married and occupying the same residence) and I went into Dawson's room every night that week, praying over him and crying tears of shame and guilt that my son was going to have divorced parents.
By the end of the week, however two realizations dawned on me:1) A lot of people whom I know and respect, people who truly love God, have gone through divorces. Even this guy...
 |
| John Wesley sucked as a huband |
2) A divorce and a fresh start might not be all bad.From the time my ex asked for a divorce (and I mentally assented to it, so it really was a two-way decision) till the time I actually moved out, we had two good months. Those good months didn't last though, because the destructive habits reared their ugly heads and strangled the remaining life out of our marriage. Those two good months I mentioned were September of 14 (right when we moved back to Europe), a couple of weeks in February of 16 and about a week in May of 15.
Why did it take so long until we finally called it quits? While I can't speak for both of us, I'd say it was two major factors; shame and hope. The hope was stubborn; "maybe things will turn around?"
The shame was debilitating; "God, family, friends, when they know, they're all going to hate me and disown me." I'm going to do an entire post on shame later on.
About 75% of the 2.5 years from The Declaration till The Move Out were spent just existing, clinging to some vague hope that things would turn around. There were a few seasons of mildly sustained effort, though, like the few weeks in the spring of 16 that we spent going through Breakthrough. Going into that, I stated that I felt like it was a last attempt to save our marriage. For a couple of weeks, the save appeared to have taken place. A couple weeks later, however the emotional high wore off and I realized the patterns hadn't really changed.
I had the sense, in June of 15 when I could tell Breakthrough hadn't changed anything for us, that weren't going to make it, but we stayed in the marriage another 18 months.I'll admit, it was incredibly easy to escape into a fantasy of what the next relationship might be like. The counselor whom I visited often on my own and sometimes together, warned me that real life could never compete with a fantasy.
That fantasy was fueled however, by the fact that I'd noticed Christians who had gone through a divorce and came out stronger with healthier second marriages. So at one of our last sessions, in August of 16, I asked the counselor (a Christian who has herself gone through a divorce) why she and I were wasting our time when we could on and find someone else whom we'd get along with better. The counselor responded with something I'll never forget, "You're not wasting time. You're spending time. If your marriage doesn't survive, you won't look back at these difficult years with regret and label them wasted time but rather with satisfaction and peace, labeling them years well-spent." Was she ever right. The several years of the downward cycle that lead up to The Declaration were difficult. The years spent between The Declaration and The Move Out were relational hell-on-earth.
While it's impossible to know all future contingencies, when I moved out last December, I did so with a broken heart but also a heart full of peace and relief. She actually thanked me later for having the courage to do what we'd both been wanting.It did, however, take me five days to have the courage to call my dad on the phone. As I was sitting on the floor of my apartment, finally having a phone conversation with my dad, I was surrounded by piles of things I still needed to put away and was bawling my eyes out. My dad hurt with me. My dad, whom I was almost too ashamed to talk to, offered his own love and acceptance. He even offered the acknowledgment that he didn't understand why this happened to us nor that he really knew what to say. He simply offered his assurance of his love for me, along with his knowledge of God’ unwavering love for me as well.
It's hard to understate the significance of a statement like that.
That reassurance came from a man who views marriage as the ultimate expression of our love for and commitment to God. That reassurance came from a man who loved Erin like a daughter.
They were years spent, not years wasted.
I finally have the courage and motivation to start writing about all of this. I think I know what prompted this desire to write but I'm not actually comfortable sharing that yet.I've been needing to write for a long time, though.
I have a pastor friend who walked through the difficult, death-of-the-marriage years with me. At a Bible study about two weeks after I moved out, I was explaining to him how much better I felt and how my fears of everyone abandoning me (God included) were simply not true. He then told, me, " "You need to write this out so you can share with other people going through similar struggles." I wasn't ready back them to start writing but about a year later, I'm ready to do so. This is the first of several blog entries in which I'm publicly going to bear my soul, think through some past events and try to find some healing.
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