Imagine standing at an ancient pulpit seeped with history, where pastors are birthed, molded, created and made. Imagine a manuscript neatly placed before you tucked gently into a Bible, all of the right words, phrases speaking life into the Gospel clearly and concisely. Imagine opening your mouth to form the words from the black and white to drifting on the still air that surrounds you and your classmates..and for a moment, watching yourself a total stranger to the deepness of soul that usually flowers reaching into the light and giving different life and meaning to the ordinary.
As seminarians, Preaching class is one of the most important courses that we will encounter because it is where we hone our craft, where those who are introverted become extroverted; where those who speak softly must now bring attention to their presence and bring the beauty and richness of the Word into the darkness of our consciousness where fear, doubt and worry takes up residence and dwells. As a poet and writer, I found myself struggling because those who know of me have been a witness to how I express myself as a Gypsy. I found myself struggling with suppressing my identity because perhaps how I express my spirit would get in the way of proclaiming the Goodness of the Gospel.
Time and again, the community sheds new light on how ministry should be an extension of those who have been called to this vocation and the feedback that poured into me was "where are you in all of this?"
There is comfort knowing that even as many scoff at the rigors of religion, that through the creeping dawn of each morn there is new opportunities for celebration and of praise-and that my Creator wishes for me to speak to Him, speak of Him as only a Gypsy child could.