Ordination-versary and Blooming

People keep asking me the same question whenever they hear I'm moving to a new appointment:

"So... is the next church bigger?"

It's a fair question, I suppose. We live in a world that assumes every move is a promotion. Bigger office. Bigger budget. Bigger staff. Bigger influence.

Bigger is better.

Except that's not really how the United Methodist Church works.

Today marks twenty years since my ordination.

Twenty years.

That feels like an odd anniversary.

I worked so hard to get there. And if you've never navigated the ordination process in the United Methodist Church, let me assure you: it is a loooonnnggg road. There are interviews and papers and psychological evaluations and educational requirements and district committees and conference committees and enough forms to make you question every life choice that brought you to that moment.

Finally, one day, you kneel at the altar while people place their hands on your shoulders and pray.

And then...

Nothing tells you what to do with your ordination anniversary.

There aren't Hallmark cards.

No one throws you an "Happy Ordination-versary!" party.

It's one of those milestones that feels both enormous and strangely ordinary.

Because after the hands are laid on your head, ministry keeps happening.

In these twenty years, I've served ten churches and one conference resource position over twenty-five years of ministry. I've lived in six parsonages across two states.

I've gotten married.

I've become a parent. Twice.

I've celebrated baptisms and weddings and confirmations.

I've stood at gravesides.

I've preached through Advents and Holy Weeks and Easter mornings.

I've navigated a global pandemic, ice storms, and wildfires.

I've packed and unpacked boxes enough times to know exactly which ones contain the theology books and which ones contain the random cords I keep insisting I'll need someday.

And here I am.

Still answering the question: "Is the next church bigger?"

The truth is that itineracy—the United Methodist practice of appointment—isn't supposed to be about moving up.

It's about being sent.

At its best, itineracy rests on the belief that ministry belongs to God. The call has never been to a specific church building, a specific zip code, or a carefully curated career path.

The call is to serve.

To love the people in front of you.

To join in what God is already doing in a community.

To trust that the Spirit can use your gifts wherever you happen to land.

The world tells us to climb.

The gospel often asks us to cultivate.

I've served churches of different sizes and personalities. I've learned that average worship attendance is a terrible way to measure holy impact.

Some of the most faithful ministry I've witnessed has happened in congregations the world would overlook.

People feeding hungry children.

Housing neighbors.

Teaching ESL classes.

Helping neighbors pay citizenship fees.

Welcoming people with disabilities.

Showing up with casseroles and prayers and stubborn hope when life falls apart.

Loving their communities in ways that never make denominational reports.

Paul wrote, "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth."

Maybe that's the invitation of ministry.

Plant.

Water.

Trust God with the growing.

Twenty years after kneeling at that altar, I know this much:

The call has never been to a bigger church.

The call has never been to prestige.

The call has never been to build my own kingdom.

The call has been to bloom where I'm planted.

May it always be so.

May there always be planting.

May there always be blooming.

May I continue saying yes to this strange, beautiful, occasionally frustrating, deeply holy system that sends us where we're needed rather than where our ambitions might lead us.

And may I never lose sight of the extraordinary grace hidden in ordinary faithfulness.

Twenty years later, I still don't know exactly where all the roads will lead.

But I know this:

God has been faithful in every parsonage, every sanctuary, every community, every celebration, every heartbreak, every move.

And for twenty years, by grace, I've kept blooming.

Thanks be to God.