As you can see there to the left, the congregation has found various ways of engaging itself during my long-winded homiletic escapades. At least I have given the fifth-graders something to get excited about (from all appearances it is my gargantuan head).All things considered, I think the last day went well. My parents drove up from Mississippi to see what I looked like doing this church thing. And they didn't run out in shock and horror. In fact, I think they liked being here (and the feeling was mutual). We had a great time laughing with some of the parishioners before we left.
I cannot believe that it is over. As some of you may have guessed from my early posts here, I was a little worried about this summer. I didn't know if I was really cut out for this "pastor" business, and I thought it would be frustrating working in a different tradition. To be perfectly honest, I thought it was going to be a long summer (even if I was working with very good people). It wasn't. It flew by. I was doing something I loved.
What's more, I received incalculable benefits from working in the Methodist Church. No, I'm not going to become Methodist. But working in that setting helped me realize my vocation with fewer distractions. It is clear now that my desire to be a priest is more than simply an attraction to "pretty golden things" (as my friend John says, describing certain monks that he knows); it goes beyond even the draw (valid as it is!) to the catholic liturgy. At the hospital bed, in the living room, in the pulpit, I felt at home. I am not, in a sense, home yet, but at least I have a better idea of where I'm headed.
It is nice to be back in my own apartment, able to cook for myself -- I won't be eating any barbecue for a while!
This last picture is me with a group from United Methodist Women, who gave me a copy of their cookbook.
