Lamenting the End

I spent the morning before work putting the final touches on another theology paper that I had scrambled to finish at the deadline. It was done, not because I was satisfied with the final product, but because it needed to be turned in and it was time to start shifting gears to teaching middle school math. I hit "submit" and pulled up my work schedule for the day, planning for my early departure to attend class at Whitworth University. Several emails, messages, calls, progress checks, and graded assignments later, the calendar reminded me that the time to leave for class was quickly approaching. I wrapped up my workday as neatly as possible, ate a quick lunch, then gathered up my books and iPad to head off to class.

Half-day Friday classes are the most difficult for me. It is often difficult to make the mental transition from dealing with pre-teens doing virtual middle school math to pondering the complexities Christian faith in graduate level theology. The half-hour drive to the university isn't nearly long enough for my brain to complete that shift. On this day my transition took a side trip to thoughts of being done with the master’s program. I'm in the middle of class #11 of 12 classes, which means the end is well within view. A lot of things have happened during my five years pursuing this degree, but there are many things that have been put on hold and/or not given the attention that I want to give them (like this blog). On this Friday the drive to Whitworth became consumed with what is next and I found myself looking forward to the end of theology thesis papers and reading the work of theologians that push my intellectual ability beyond its limit. My 30-minute drive was not preparing me for class, in fact it was doing the opposite. By the time the truck was parked and my walk across campus began, a bit of dread had already settled in.

Classes, on the weekends we meet in person, are scheduled from 2:00 to 9:00 on Friday and from 8:30 to 5:00 the following Saturday. Given those hours, there is a fair amount of mental stamina required to stay engaged for the duration of the sessions. I will be the first to admit that most of my classmates do a much better job of staying focused than I do, and this day my attention seemed to be waning even before I started. During the first block my mind wandered to what I needed to do to meet the minimum requirements simply for the sake of being done. Through no fault of my professor, my eyes drifted toward the clock far more often than they should, looking forward to the break for dinner. Somehow I still managed to get some worthwhile nuggets from the lecture, but my mind and heart were having trouble staying present.

After dinner on Fridays, the class always gathers for a short time of worship in a room in the music building known as The Lantern. There is something magical about The Lantern. It sits on the second floor jutting out so that only the entrance to the room is connected to the building. The three other sides are glass from floor to ceiling inviting you to forget that you are indoors. A grand piano rests on the west side of the room, which is the same direction we face during worship, looking over the parking lot so that most of what is seen is the lush green pine trees with the distant hills peeking through the branches. We have had occasion to be in The Lantern during the winter while it is snowing and it feels like we are in a snow globe, only the snow is on the outside while we are inside looking out.

On this spring evening one of our talented classmates was leading us in the liturgy. As I usually do, I sung softly so as to not ruin the the beauty of the voices around me with my inability to stay on key. As I took it all in, my restlessness began to cease and emotions began bubbling from my chest. The music and the prayer calmed my soul and I was reminded of why I was sitting here in the first place. I thought briefly of the internal chaos that led me to apply to the program six years ago and how grateful I was for a wife that encouraged me to take a risk. By the end the of the short service, the sun was starting to set behind our worship leader and it bathed us all in a warm glow that seemed to transcend the moment. My head had been stumbling about in the darkness and God turned his massive spotlight on The Lantern so I could see what I had been missing all day – an odd collection of saints who love God and want to know and love him better. From vastly different spiritual experiences, 20-somethings to 60-somethings were, at that moment, united in a mutual adoration of God and I had the honor of being part of it. Suddenly I realized how much I was going to miss all of this.

I remember sitting in my first class session, feeling like I had jumped into the deep end of a pool and forgotten how to swim. A simple activity, however, put my soul at ease. As is customary in nearly class, in one form or another, we all introduced ourselves, including our spiritual and church tradition background. I found it fascinating to be sitting amongst such a diverse group of Christians who seemed genuinely excited to be together – to reunite with classmates from previous classes and to welcome the new, old guy, just beginning. By the time we gathered for worship later that first evening, I was no longer feeling overwhelmed by the reading and the writing for the class, instead I was overwhelmed by the sense that the Spirit was moving and unifying this strange collection of believers. I had never experienced anything like that before. Our desire for homogeneity discourages such eclectic assemblies, but I was already beginning to see how powerful such a accumulation of people can be. In the tiniest of ways I felt like I had tasted heaven, with every tribe and every nation bowing before our Lord with no thought of the differences, only thoughts of the privilege of being in the presence of our King.

Last Friday I didn’t want to leave The Lantern. I paused awkwardly while the class was moving towards the exit. I didn’t want any of this to end and walking out the door was a reminder that I was one step closer to the finish. This taste of heaven, however faint it might be, is good, and I found myself wanting more, instead of wanting it to end.

It must end, of course, whether I want it to or not. This was never the final destination and to stay here too long would taint the goodness of what I have experience. I have said all along that I in the program to be better prepared for whatever God has next for me, even if I am not sure what that is. But I can’t stay here. In the wise words of Semisonic, “every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” The goodness of these experiences will only remain good if they inspire me to do what is next, better than what I would have done otherwise. I can’t experience what is next unless I am able to let go of the present. There are new beginnings (and some old beginnings) waiting for me, likely some that God hasn’t decided to show me yet, that can’t happen without this beginning coming to an end. Make no mistake, though, I am not looking forward to that final walk out of the door of my last class. I will miss this.