Failing

I wonder if I am the only one lamenting how I failed today. Again. Yes, we failed, but that includes I. Our collective failure is my failure.

I speak of our Annual Conference gathering, the annual meeting of Iowa United Methodists. It’s a time of reunion and learning, decision and disagreement. Our Sunday was marked by great joy as we celebrated, commissioned and ordained those progressing into ministry and those retiring. We focused together through the teaching of Rev. Adam Hamilton. We shared meals and books and stories and hugs and good, nourishing conversations.

Yet a pall lies over our gathering, as we labor under the divisive issues of human sexuality and Biblical interpretation. Our Conference Artist, Rev. Ted Lyddon-Hatten, has created an art installation at the back of our meeting hall that renders visible this division. Arid, rocky circles separately claim yet admit of no entrance to the baptismal font, which stands—empty, I believe—on a cracked base. Every time I pass it, I want to brave the rocks and reach the font, fill it, meet others there, bask together in cool, healing waters.

Yet I walk on by. I find I don’t know how to be the catalyst toward peace where there is no peace that I would like to be. I find myself impotent. Feeble. Shaken by my utter failure to know or take the slightest move toward resolution.

All this is a reminder of the great lie I have so wanted to believe. I so want to think that, if only I speak or write or do things well enough, you will understand my position. That position being the right one, you will naturally come over to it, and what seemed to be an unbridgeable abyss between us will vanish. This great lie encourages me to develop and place a great deal of faith, if I’m honest, in my intelligence and capability and creativity. It’s my “go-to” modality in interpersonal relations and ministry challenges.  I’ll express my position (=the truth!) with stunning clarity, and of course you will fall in line.

The fact that it works a fair amount of the time encourages me to believe that I am exceptionally good at this. On reflection, I think it means I generally choose battles that are exceptionally winnable.  It seems I am quite effective at persuading people who already are mostly of one mind with me.

When I come upon deep divisions like the issues hanging over us this week, my strategies are unmasked. My usual tools—and those others employ–including earnest discussion, cogent argument, personal witness, civil disobedience, lament, re-imagined parables, creative liturgy, prophetic art and pithy writing have not yet availed against these chasms. Nor–dare I say it?–love.

And so that sense of unaccustomed failure becomes part of the pall that lies over our time together. If only I had the right words…. If only I knew which conversation to initiate…. If only my prayers were more effective…. If only I knew what to do with that mustard seed…. If only….

(photo courtesy of Iowa Conference Communications)