Priestly Ministry is Odd
A Reflection on Vocation, Grace, and the Goodness of God
Priestly ministry is odd! Like, I’m never really sure what I do for a living thirteen years into ordained life. People ask, “So how do you spend your days?” and I find myself stumbling. I can tell them about the discrete, individual tasks: meetings, sermons, pastoral care, phone calls, moving furniture, and putting out small fires. But that doesn’t really capture it. Sometimes it is mind-numbingly boring, and other times it is breathtakingly intense, exhilarating, and holy.
I’m writing this reflection on a Wednesday evening, so let me just tell you a few of the bizarre, weird, and priestly things that today held. This morning, it was time to reorganize some of our common life and steward our space with Deacon Jess now needing to claim his full stature in an office. So, slowly and methodically, I began to move our chapel into the parlor—a combined space that somehow needs to hold both the warmth of conversation and the silence of prayer. It became a lesson in what is sacred and what is not: sorting through closets, discerning which holy things have fulfilled their use, and realizing that a well-meaning soul had saved what can only be called trash, “just in case.” Many trips to the dumpster later, I stood back and saw a new chapel take shape—an elegant room now ready for both sacraments and stillness.
Of course, this was not without interruptions: a high school student eager to share her senior project, a volunteer who could not turn off the water spigot (only to discover it needed WD-40, not divine intervention). And after the last hymnals were shifted and the final candlesticks set aside, I walked into our first staff meeting—a new rhythm for us. No longer “just the priest,” but a team: deacon, musician, and priest collaborating together. An hour and fourteen minutes of dreaming about Advent, about Christmas, about what worship and ministry look like in the months to come.
The day didn’t stop there. Next came a call with a brand-new rector in a wounded parish, where my role was simply to say: Trust God. Love your people. Pray without ceasing. The Spirit will guide you. Then a meeting with parishioners who, out of love for their church, wanted to share concerns about our worship life. Their observations were gifts of faith, not complaints. Immediately after, a text awaited from a former parishioner, facing the most terrifying ordeal of her life: an investigation into her parenting. And in that moment, I had no neat pastoral words, no polished wisdom. All I could say was: God is present. The truth will set you free. God is sovereign. God is loving. God is forgiving.
Now, after a hurried dinner with my boys and my beloved wife, here I sit before this screen, trying to tell you what it is I do. And the best I can say is this: I bear witness.
I bear witness to growth and vitality in the life of the church.
I bear witness to pain and suffering that weigh on people’s souls.
I bear witness to the obstacles that keep us from God, and to the beauty of liturgy that draws us back.
I bear witness to the way holiness sneaks into ordinary things—like a hose that won’t turn off, or a closet full of forgotten relics.
I bear witness to Christ alive in this parish, in this community, in this world.
That, I think, is priestly ministry. Bearing witness.
Perhaps there are one or two among us who feel that same call—a life unpredictable, sometimes exhausting, often bewildering, but always full of meaning. I believe with all my heart that God prepared me for this work before I was knit in my mother’s womb (Jeremiah 1:5). And I know with equal certainty that God is preparing each of you for the ministries you are called to, whether in homes, schools, workplaces, neighborhoods, or here in the Body of Christ.
So, thank you. Thank you for letting me bear witness to your goodness, to your struggles, to your resurrections. Thank you for letting me be your priest and rector these nine years. They’ve gone by in a flash, and they fill me with joy.
God is indeed our amazing provider, protector, comforter, and caretaker. And my odd little vocation? It’s just one more way of saying that truth out loud.
Pax et Bonum!
Fr. Ben +
