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The call to ministry is a call to mystery. It is an urge to enter foggy landscapes, darkness, the unknowable, uncontrollable wild…in the world and in oneself. Although I often denied that call, considering it undesirable or inconvenient, my movements were always a response to it. That mysterious dance of tension, that spiraling away from what I determined not to want and being reluctantly drawn closer again and again has been the dance of my life.

It is the willingness to dance, to be led, to lead, to stretch and contract according to the music of the call - that defines the minister. And when I look at it this way I realize I was, all my life, a minister. I entered seminary because I wanted to learn more about what that means. I wanted to learn the history of dance, learn to move in ways that cause less strain, that build up my flexibility and sense of what is possible given the limitations of human form. I wanted to dance with others, to be inspired and to inspire, to share in celebration of the mysterious strains of music that we all hear so differently. The dance of ministry is deep listening. It is engagement. It is creativity, gratitude, commitment, responsibility, risk, sharing. It is unpredictable. It is movement, sweat, strain, and release. It is rooted in the strengths and vulnerabilities of the flesh as much as in Spirit itself, and these two are inseparable. There can be no dance without music, and the sense of music would be lost without dance.

As I experience it life would not exist without Spirit, and Spirit is imbued with meaning through life. My ministry is a gift from Spirit which, in living itself out, becomes a gift of dance to Spirit. It is a crucial part of the whole of existence.

In What Does it Mean to be Human?, the Islamic scholar Seyyed Hossein Nasr says that humans are a "bridge between Heaven and earth…our inner faculties tuned to the abode of oneness and our external senses to the world of multiplicity." We are to be a "source of light in the world while deriving this light from the Source of all light." We are to remember to never "allow the silent music of the spiritual world, to which our inner ear is still attuned, to become drowned out."

These passages speak to my sense of reality: the complexity of life, the need for balance, the recognition of Source. Ultimately, they speak to me of purpose and responsibility: toward the world and toward the Source, as they are inseparable. As I move through seminary I am encouraged to mindfulness of my steps. I am invited to embrace long-past patterns and rhythms of thought and behavior and allow them to flow through me.

Doing so is a disconcerting process. At times it seems there are too many related or conflicting melodies, or the strains are so distant that I begin to doubt I hear anything at all. I remember the spontaneous bursts of movement that brought me here, but am disheartened in not being able to recall what prompted them.  I remember feeling joyous, but do not remember how to spark that joy. It is in those moments that I turn to Mystery, allow one foot to slide forward, the knees and back to bend deeply, and my arm to sweep down before it in an arc of submission. 

Submission is a misunderstood concept. In Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Ann Parker's Proverbs of Ashes submission is presented as problematic, an unhealthy sacrifice, a harmful legacy of Christianity. I see it a little differently. It is much more complicated and simple than that. Certainly it can be detrimental when it is danced out of fear, out of someone else's music - but when it is danced from a desire to hear that which cannot yet be clearly heard, its motivation and consequences are entirely different. Submission becomes an act of faith, acknowledging Mystery and oneself as dependent upon it. It is the much needed "intermission", the sacred space in which breath and vitality return.  

In discussions on the rigor of seminary as preparation for the rigor of parish work I have heard that "the habits you acquire in seminary are the one's that will fuel you through your ministry." Submission is one that is strengthening my ability to hear and heed the call. It allows me to return to the dance with renewed focus. A colleague quoted Isadora Duncan today, "If I could tell you what it meant, there would be no point in dancing it. Certainly there is Mystery.

Certainly it can never be reduced to the formula of words…it must be experienced. Still, this quote most perfectly relates to what I take with me upon nearing the end of my first year in seminary: not only must I dance, but I must try - however frustrating or futile it might be - to tell what it means. Here is the connection to others. Here is responsibility - the prophetic voice. And so I dance, clumsily and gracefully, as the process continues. Seminary invites me to find new ways to be in that process, new ways to recognize and understand it…new ways to communicate it. The hope, strengthen my limbs and lungs, allow me to move gracefully with others to the many different strains they themselves hear, and to help guide them in hearing. The hope, the goal, is that I grow in ability to continue to listen deeply to my own call, "the abode of oneness", and to offer a deep bow when its melody is faint.

And with all of this said I return to the feeling that I have always been a minister and wonder what, aside from the hoped-for development of deeper understanding and skills, the difference will be for me and how I move through the world upon ordination. The difference will be accountability. The difference will be balancing my inner authority with the authority granted by my denomination, my congregants, and even the larger community. As a Unitarian Universalist minister and as a chaplain I will be called to dance in places closed to most others, the sacred, intimate places of silence and wild symphony. I will be witnessed and judged by many.

The challenges I see are stage-fright…the fear of inadequacy, the stress of "performance", exhaustion, and pride. The challenges will be finding words for the dance, for those who need or demand them. There are other challenges too, those of logistics, finance, inter-personal conflict. And yet none of these cause me to baulk. I trust the Mystery. I trust the Ministry.

So I leave the metaphor of dance and return to my desk, to my computer, surrounded by boxes in the small room that has been my home these past eight months. I prepare for the next portion of my journey: a third unit of CPE, this time at UCLA Medical Center. The recognized learning edges I take with me relate to further developing group dynamic awareness and skills, risk-taking in communicating "incomplete" thoughts and feelings, exposing myself to more U.U. history and theology.

At the same time, and carrying equal importance, I will be focusing on what Nasr called the "silent music of the spiritual world." I will be seeking to balance Spirit and flesh, music and dance. I will remember to eat, to sleep, to rest, to read, to paint, to meander, to laugh, to pray and to relish all relationships. In a hospital setting I will be called to live out the sacred balance of inner authority and outer authority, the balance of accountability. I will be present to patients, hospital staff, peers, supervisors--and myself. I will be open to imposed standards, requirements and critiques.

No, I cannot leave the metaphor: I will continue to listen for the music of my call, and I will continue to dance the dance.

Rev. Stefanie S. Etzbach-Dale, Copyright 2001