The Horcruxes of Pastoral Ministry

by Meg Jenista

In advance of going to see the movie Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I recently re-immersed myself in book six of the series. In this installation, Harry is commissioned by Dumbledore to capture a missing memory – something to do with Lord Voldemort’s younger self, Tom Riddle, and the very dark magic of the horcrux. The Horcrux is such dark magic, in fact, that not even ever-studious Hermoine Granger can find information about it in the Hogwarts library. It has all been sealed away. But, for the purposes of this reflection, YOU must know what a Horcrux is, so I will tell you (and thus ruin the suspense for all potential Harry Potter book six readers or watchers.)

A Horcrux, we are told, is “the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul. . .you split your soul, you see and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form… few would want it… very few… You must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

A year into pastoral ministry, this week I felt myself – my soul – splitting. A car accident took the life of a man in his thirties, widowing a dear friend with three children under the age of 8. A whole church congregation in shock. On the other side of the continent. My soul is extinguished by the images of dear ones sobbing out their laments, making plans and numbly soldiering through when there are no more tears left to be shed. And I am here – earthbound and undamaged – in Kalamazoo. “But, of course, existence in such a form… few would want it… very few.”

In Kalamazoo, I have a church filled with its own triumphs and tragedies. In Kalamazoo, VBS starts this week. In Kalamazoo, I am Pastor Meg. I welcome guests, lead meetings, encourage others, lead worship, preach sermons, and I pray. I pray as though my world was not wrenched apart last Thursday afternoon by a phone call. I pray as though God is the same God he has always been even though I now live in a world where reality speaks these words: “Alex is dead.” And I pretend that God and I are on loving terms, even when my prayers are frequently seasoned with unkind words and shaking fists at heaven. I may hint at such things from the pulpit, because authenticity is a proclaimed virtue in ministers. I may hint at such things in my prayers, because I believe in modeling the right-ness of speaking to God in all circumstances, with all kinds of requests. But I don’t unleash the full fury of my prayers. The Sunday morning “long prayer” is no place for my personal re-enactment of Jacob wrestling with God. And so, authentic in one part, I am fraudulent in all other parts. With each falsified prayer, I feel my soul splitting. Not because I want the supposed strength of immortality. I’ll thank you to know that I greedily covet the notion of keeping my soul intact and whole. But how to be a faithful soul ministering to the many souls in a congregation while, simultaneously harboring a bruised and battered soul of my own? “Existence in such a form…”

Does this get any easier with time, experience and practice?

Should it?

Meg Jenista graduated from Calvin Theological Seminary in May 2008. She serves as the Minister of Community Life and Witness at Third Christian Reformed Church in Kalamazoo, Michigan.

Are you an ordained woman under the age of 40? Email youngclergywomen (at) gmail (dot) com to become a member of The Young Clergy Women Project. Members receive access to a password protected online community, monthly e-newsletters, and advance notice of upcoming conferences and events.