Leaving

When God leads us out

It was spring of 2010 when Jim Herrell called. “Would you like to teach philosophy here at the college?”

Always eloquent, I said, “Huh?”

“We need someone with a masters degree to teach the class,” he continued.

I protested, “I only took one graduate level philosophy course in seminary.”

“That’s one more class than anybody else in town,” Jim laughed. “You’re hired.”

I’ve been teaching philosophy and ethics at the college ever since.

I’ve taught students from just about every state in the U.S., along with Canada, Mexico, Ecuador, Venezuela, Brazil, Trinidad & Tobago, Colombia, New Zealand, Australia, Japan, England, France, Scotland, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Malta, Russia, Nigeria, the Congo, Belgium, Granada, Denmark, and Thailand. (I think I’m forgetting a Caribbean island, but this list suffices.) My oldest student was 57. My youngest student was 16.

In addition to teaching them how to spell Nietzsche and diagram a moral argument, I’ve counseled them through the deaths of family members, breakups, and a lot of homesickness. I limped with them through online courses during the pandemic. I’ve been to the funeral of one and officiated the wedding of two others. The students are a joy. The grading is not, but I love it.

And it’s too much.

I have two, arguably three, other jobs, and I’m exhausted. I had been praying to God for months. “Tell me which job to quit. Give me a sign.” God was being tight lipped. Finally, in early January, I was doing an early morning devotional in which I was prompted to describe my life missions. I wrote three things: formation of new church leaders, care for the church family and our community, and faith writing. I recognized quickly but begrudgingly that teaching at the college just didn’t really help me fulfill any of those life missions. And just as soon as the thought of no longer teaching at the college sunk in, an almost physical sense of relief washed over me. It was the sign I’d been waiting for. God had just been waiting to give me the sign until after I made the decision. Or, as one of my friends put it, “God wanted you to be a big girl first.”

I let the church and the college know that this would be my last semester. Of course, it’s been a lovely one, causing me to second guess my decision about a dozen times. But I keep holding onto that feeling, that wash of relief, from January. I’m clinging by my fingertips at this point, but still holding on.

We talk a lot in the church about how God calls us to certain roles and tasks. We hardly ever talk about how He calls us away from them.

The only place in all scripture I can find where God tells someone to leave one place with no idea where they’re headed is Genesis 12 when God calls Abram out of Canaan. “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you” (Genesis 12:1). The promised land is just that–a promise, not an address. Abram has no idea yet where he’s going. The beloved Brueggemann writes, “(T)he summons is not law or discipline, but promise. The narrative knows that such departure from securities is the only way out of barrenness” (Walter Brueggemann, Genesis, Interpretation [Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1986], 118). Translated? Letting go is the only way to stop feeling so tired that I feel like someone hit me in the face.

Will there be another blessing out there? A different adventure? Maybe? But, as hard as it is to say, that doesn’t matter. Faithfulness is what matters. Faithfulness and a shorter to-do list.

I have three classes left to teach, seven more class presentations to critique, about 70 more reflection papers and 28 final essays to grade, one more batch of brownies to bake, and one more class selfie to take. And then lots of goodbyes to a part of my life that has meant so very much to me.

Thank you, Jim Herrell, and thank You, God.