When I want to catch-up with my neighbors, I go to church. When I want to hear some good harmonies (and pretend that I can sing), I go to church. When I want to plan with friends a sweet summer program for families, I go to church on the first Tuesday of each month for our committee meeting.  

But when I want to hold holiness, I don’t usually turn to church. 

I was once a Lutheran pastor, but am not anymore. It was my choice to hit ‘pause’ on that career. The paychecks didn’t cover the cost of childcare for our two kids and my spouse’s work schedule was only becoming more demanding and airplane-dependent. So, I packed up my office, wept a little bit, and then jumped into the deep-end of the parent-at-home pool. (Yes, I’m pretty sure there’s pee in here.) 

That was almost seven years ago. Since then a lot has happened: my kids have grown well, there was a global pandemic, we moved into a new-old house a whole two blocks away, #MeToo and the murder of George Floyd propelled (thankfully) many inequities into a squirmy, uncomfortable social consciousness, and we got a dog. Some of these things are more significant than others. 

Also, I learned that I need holiness. I need its peace, its connections, and its hope. I need to believe in something bigger than myself and find comfort in something more than my family. 

But I’m not finding this holiness at church. I find other good things there, but to really hold holiness I go somewhere else; a hiking trail, my kitchen, a concert. 

And I used to feel badly about this. Guilty, like a heretic. In my memory, I can even hear the voices of some past seminary professors confirming heresy. Therefore, I’ve spent a lot of time defining my theology by what it’s not; it’s not Jesus-centric, I don’t believe in hell, giving communion was not one of my favorite parts of being a pastor (as it is for many). And now that I’m no longer an ELCA pastor, I must confess that my theology no longer fits their requirements of a pastor. Cue here, a bit of an identity crisis. 

And yet, I still need to hold holiness. 

Turns out, I’m not alone. As I’ve confided in friends, pastors, ex-pastors, a couple bishops, and even some kind strangers- it’s clear that we all have theological questions and doubts. And still, we all need to hold holiness. To get up close to complicated mysteries, to have our breaths stolen away by some indescribable shimmering. Until the church experiences an overdue reformation, some of us are left wanting. 

Holding holiness takes practice. As I try to reclaim my theology and what I DO believe, I hope these essays will inspire you to practice holding holiness in your own way.