Discerning

Call vs Expectation

Sometimes, what you expect doesn’t happen.

It’s a gut punch. Blindsided and staggering, we try to recover from shattered hopes and expectations. It takes us some time to recalibrate, recover, reorient ourselves towards a future we didn’t think would happen.

Expectations are hard.

Growing up, the expectation was that I was going to be a pastor. Adults in church who were impressed with my knowledge about the bible said I was going to grow up and become the pastor of a church. I was prophesied over—on multiple occasions, mind you—that I would become a pastor with a powerful ministry.

When I turned eighteen, I started attending an Evangelical Free Church—this was after I dumped my last highschool girlfriend because “God told me to.” At this church, I eventually became a teacher, preacher, and worship leader. I taught Bible studies. I filled in as a semi-regular preacher at a sister church (in Wyoming—talk about a commute). I led music for Bible studies and mission trips.

My trajectory seemed to lead to a place where I could become a pastor. While I didn’t go to college then, I believed I was being theologically trained by both my own studies and the pastor of the church, who I grew to become friends with. There was even a point when I began the attempt to do some sort of alternative service church plant thing.

It all fizzled out.

My planting project never got past one iteration. I just couldn’t get anyone to come on board with me, to help plan, to help do, to help grow this vision. When the opportunity arose to become a paid intern and not just a volunteer—you think I ever got more than a small preaching stipend? Ha! Free labor for the sake of the kingdom!—they passed me over in favor of an outside, seminary trained candidate. Truth be told, I don’t think I was ever in the running.

With that slap in the face, the pastorate seemed further away than ever. But this was my calling, my purpose, my vocation. I was supposed to lead people closer to Jesus. That’s all I wanted to do. I struggled at my day jobs. Feeling the weight of the holy work before me, I struggled to find purpose and meaning in waiting tables and selling books, even if it was at the only Christian bookstore in town.

After my time in the Evangelical Free stream of Christianity, I joined a brand new Church plant from the Christian Missionary Alliance. There, I led music and worship faithfully every Sunday. After a time, I preached off and on again, as well as lead Bible studies. It was a time of close knit, familial gatherings and the lives of the core leadership being intertwined in holy ways.

I met a girl there. She seemed perfect. She was ministry minded, cared deeply about people’s souls, and was cute—let’s not play pretend here. Eventually, we began dating… then she moved to another state to pursue a chance to work at a church. We kept dating long distance, and eventually my mid-20s self began trying to figure out how to marry her.

Then she broke it off.

We discussed theology a lot, and I was enamored with the questions the emerging church movement was asking. I was deconstructing my doctrine and faith, trying to find the bedrock and truth that I could build on. I wasn’t becoming not a christian; I was more of a morphing Christian, questioning everything I grew up believing and teaching.

She told me she couldn’t stay with me because of my questioning. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me or want to stay with me, but she couldn’t trust that I wouldn’t lead her into heresy.

She broke up with me for theological reasons.

Ouch.