Through the Dark

“Why did you decide to be a pastor?” That was probably the question I get the most in the past eleven years I have been in this business. A close second would be this one: “How did you become a pastor?” It’s always interesting to see where the emphasis lies. The answer differs based on said emphasis.

I have been on reflection mode for the past three weeks or so. The first of November always prompts me to reflect on what I do and why I do it. Let me give you a summary. Right after university, I launched straight into full-time ministry. I can’t believe that was eleven years ago! In 2014, on the first of November, I started a ministry position at my home church. A job I thoroughly loved. I stayed there for six years and then, again, on November 1, 2020, I moved and started a new job with a church plant. Some of you know that I remember dates, so it is not terribly surprising that I started reflecting my vocation on the 1st of this month.

I grew up in the church. Quite literally, I might add. My parents had planted a church in Jakarta, and our family lived in an apartment on the third floor of the building. It’s conveniently located and quite terrible for boundary-setting. I didn’t realize that that would have been my first church plant experience. I will go on to experience three other church plants in the course of my life. Before I digress to some sort of a church plant tangent, let me get back to my point. I lived at the church. I grew up not only in the church, but also at one.

My parents were wonderful people. They’re inescapably very human and flawed, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy parenting a strong-willed human like me. However, growing up a pastor’s kid put a lot of unwelcomed pressure on me, and I made a promise to myself that I would never ever decide to be a pastor.

I ate my words.

I’ve always loved and respected my parents’ calling. I learned a lot from them, but my journey to become a pastor happened in spite of my parents. Whenever people ask me, I would tell them that it was a series of small steps, and different open doors, that led me to who I am today. It was never one big moment. It was a series of little moments. A series of little epiphanies. When I was seventeen, my open minded parents let me go to a church that’s not theirs. That marked the start of an adventure.

I met a pastor that became my pastor. At first, it was from a distance. He’s the lead pastor, and my interactions in the church was always in the teens ministry. I loved going to the main service to listen to him preach. The closer I was to graduating high school, the more involved I got in the main service. I got to know the lead pastor and his wife a bit more. Even when I was in university miles and miles away from Jakarta, they were there.

They were there welcoming me home every time I come back for the summer. They were there for my senior recital. They gave me my first church internship. They trusted a nineteen-year-old kid with running a 122-person teens camp. (What were they thinking?!) They continued to be there even when I told them I wasn’t coming back to work for the church as planned. I remember months after that, I ran into them at a memorial service. The words they tell me echoed to the very recesses of my heart - or whatever thing is there in place of my heart. “We love you, and we are so proud of you. Do whatever you have to do, but whenever you need to, come home. We’re here. Our church will always be home for you.” They meant every word.

They were there for me when I heard about my dad’s sickness. They were there for me when I came back to Jakarta. They were there for me when I was struggling with homesickness - I wanted to go back to Seattle. They were there when people who were close to me broke my heart. They were there. When my dad passed away, they were my first phone call. I felt safe enough to break down and cry on the phone with them. A few months ago, when my mum passed, they were there for me. And they continued to be there for me in the days I felt sad, resentful, bitter, angry, or numb. Long after all the condolences dried up, they were there. They have called me out in times when I needed to be called out. When I, recently, struggled with mental health issues, they were there too. For coffee. For dinners. For lunches. For phone calls. For memorial services. For text messages.

Even before I experienced all this in my own life, I saw them pastor other people this way. That’s why I wanted to be a pastor. It’s not about the fancy programs, the worship concerts (an oxymoron if you ask me), the flashy churchy things. Pastoring is about walking with people through the dark. Psalm 23 is one of those snippets of the Bible that everyone seems to know. Remember that bit about walking through the valley of the shadow of death? Well, I know that God is supposed to be our shepherd. Yes, he is our shepherd. But more often than not, you can’t see God or touch him or have coffee with him when you’re going through normal grazing times, let alone walking in the precarious journey through the valley of the shadow of death. (By the way, that valley has a pretty sick name,“Valley of the Shadow of Death”. Whoever came up with that is a pretty epic person.) There are some people who walk with you through the ominously-named valleys. Through the rough transitions and the pain of starting over. Through the death of loved ones or just relationships that didn’t work out. Some people walk with you through the dark, giving you a bit of hope that God is actually present in your journey through said ominously-named valley.

Pastors aren’t perfect. They’re not always right either.

I’m not perfect. Not even close. I don’t do this pastoring thing right a lot of times. Most of the times, I’m not what people expect to be. I’m much too irreverent to be called pious. (I laugh just typing that word.) I might not do this forever, but as long as I’m doing this, what I try to do with is walk with people through the mountains and the valleys. Cry with them when they’re crying. Celebrate with them when they celebrate. I think at the end of the day, that’s what matters. Don’t you think?