Leaving Church - Barbara Brown Taylor [43]
But how could I leave? I had committed myself to the care of Grace-Calvary Church. I had accepted both holy orders and rocking chairs. I had pledged my troth. Plus, my young associate, Rob, and his wife, Sara, had just bought a house. She was pregnant with their first child. They had moved to Clarkesville on the promise of at least two years at Grace-Calvary. If I left they would have to leave too.
And where would I go? Anyone who has ever contemplated divorce knows that at some point you have to ask the question, “Is the problem with me and this partner, or is the problem with me and the institution of marriage?” There was no sense seeking a position at another church if my problem was with the institution, and, besides, I did not want to move. How and where I lived had become more important to me than what I did for a living. I could not imagine watching the sun set over any other tree line or doing without the sound of the peepers in the spring. I could not imagine giving away the chickens or finding homes for the horses. Above all, I could not imagine abandoning the land.
So I began to do what every full-time parish minister should probably do on a regular basis, or at least those who worry about losing their jobs more than they worry about losing their souls. I began thinking about what else I could do for a living. I could apply for a job at The Book Cellar on the square. I could cook for a small restaurant. I could talk Ed into buying a hardware store and learn how to operate the cash register. Since ordained ministry generally involves three years of graduate study and counts as one of “the professions,” the alternatives I came up with all involved significant loss of status. I remembered one priest I knew whose ill health had led her to resign from her church to take a part-time position at a bookstore. I also remembered how sorry I felt for her when I saw her there, not because she was sick but because I thought she had taken such a big step down. I had been wearing my collar for about six months by then, and I wore it like a string of thousand-dollar pearls. Fifteen years later, I was ready to hang it up.
One gooseless afternoon I was sitting in my office sorting mail when the telephone rang. I was expecting a call from home so I answered it, but the call was not from home. It was from Piedmont College, a small four-year liberal arts college just down the road, where more than a dozen members of Grace-Calvary worked or taught. I had been in clergy groups with chaplains of the college and had borrowed books from the library, but none of that explained why the president of the college was calling me.
He wanted to tell me about a new position that was opening up, he said. The board of trustees had decided to establish a new major in religion and philosophy. Congregational churches across the country had raised money to endow a new chair. Would I consider becoming a candidate?
His question was so unexpected that it erased my memory tapes. I do not remember what I said, except that it must have sounded like no, because when I had finished talking the president said, “Well, I hope you’ll think about it.” I did think about it. I thought about it so much that the next day I called him back and said, “Would you say what you said yesterday one more time?” He did, and this time I said, “Yes, please, yes, consider me a candidate.”
While the college conducted a formal search, I spoke with my bishop, who was not surprised by my decision. Then I spoke