The (dis)Comfort Zone
I was definitely out of my zone on my solo trip to Seattle.
Maybe you know the unsettling feeling in a setting that challenges your existence simply by its otherness.
Geographically, theologically, culturally, and emotionally, I was dislodged from my Normal for 9 days.
Fright, flight, and fight were crouching in my sub-conscious, but somehow I found a way to overcome them.
Curiosity Cured The Cat
The way our for me was curiosity.
There’s a wonderfully satisfying scene in Ted Lasso where the coach destroys an arrogant S.O.B. in a dart-throwing match.
After the vanquish, which was meant to bring justice for the loser’s abused ex-wife, Ted gave a little speech:
You know what your problem is, Rupert? You’re not curious. You had no idea I could throw darts because you never cared to ask.1
Curiosity, albeit contrived at first, served me well at the Inhabit Conference.
Being an activist and talker by trade, I’m forcing myself these days to shut up, ask questions, and listen better to others.
I’m finding, as a result, more joy in conversations, and at the very least, my talk partners likely feel cared for. A win-win, even if I don’t get to blurt out every little thing that pops into my very Important Head.
This curiosity led me out of my lonesomeness in Seattle and created one amazing connection I didn’t see coming.
What Exactly Does A Space Ranger Do?
Our life experiences couldn’t be more divergent.
The Executive Director of Episcopal Charities, headquartered in Manhattan, Kevin Van Hook lives in Trenton, NJ with his wife and two young kids.
He’s completing a PhD in organizational innovation, focused on Christian ministries.
Raised in Texas as a Baptist preacher’s kid, he left for the Air Force Academy, partly, as he reflects now, to distance himself from a sense of calling to ministry.
A standout officer, he served a tour in Afghanistan, and returned to the states to begin space training.
“The call” caught finally caught up to this P.K. Buzz Lightyear.
A stroke of luck: His supervisor called a guy with brass in Washington who could sign off on Kevin’s request for decommissioning.
No longer on the fast track to orbit, Kevin enrolled in Princeton Seminary’s Master of Divinity program.
It seemed to me I had nothing in common with this fellow earthling.
My work life has been the farthest thing from military chain-of-command.2
My cultural experience growing up was non-religious, small town, white privileged.
My spiritual identity was birthed outside of the mainline church institution that he seems utterly at home in.
I was determined to find common ground, and I unearthed a gem during our second meal together.
When Our Eyes Met
Kevin and I both attended the same conference, sight unseen, alone.
We were each curious about The Parish Collective’s approach to embedded forms of ministry, scratching for ideas and open to connections.
Not to be too contrarian, I did find it odd that such a stated purpose of human connection didn’t jibe with its generally unwelcoming atmosphere.3
On the first morning, I was exiting the upstairs gathering feeling like a college Freshmen at a bustling orientation ice breaker.
Making my way through the Seattle School’s downstairs multi-purpose room, I faced a few options.
Walk out of the building and slip unawares into a small group of strangers heading to an unknown lunch spot.
Sit on a wall and watch the cruise line vacationers embark while I ate a Slim Jim from the 7-11.
Rectify my awkwardness by hurling myself at the next solo figure I made eye contact with.
👀
Suddenly, Kevin appeared. And yes, it was sort of cinematic, but try not to picture Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks.
Hey, I’m Tom. Do you have any lunch plans?
💬 Is my extroversion throwing you? I mean, you seem so cool. Am I bothering you?
He shrugged.
No, I don’t really. Hi, I’m Kevin.
💬 Man, this guy is forward. Is he desperate? I doubt he’s experienced zero gravity.
And so began a three-meal run with a delightful interlocutor.
I Don’t Know. I’ll Ask ‘Ah.
We made our way down to the water on Alaska Avenue, the hot spot that’s an active port and tourist attraction.
At Elliot’s Oyster House, we settled into a sun-warmed lunch with a group of conferees.
One of the group was Ryan Braught, a Lancastrian whom I had texted with earlier. He graciously welcomed us into his circle of Church of the Brethren, er…brethren.
After that, it was dinner at Great State Burger where things with Kevin got very interesting.
By George!
We began swapping church experience stories over our humble burgers.
Picturing him flying around the country speaking to Episcopal churches, wearing vestments, took some imagination as I tried to get a read on the very deferential guy in front of me.
I discovered we both appreciate the art of preaching, so I pushed ▶️.
Turns out, one of his favorites is a professor from seminary, a woman whose name I hadn’t heard before.4
I pictured our orbits drifting further apart in the Christian universe.
My turn came to share about preachers I’ve most benefited from. His eyes lit up a bit when I mentioned George Robertson at Second Presbyterian in Memphis, TN.
I’ve met George before. His colleague Rufus Smith is pastor at Hope Presbyterian Church. We’re friends.
From 2010-2013, Rufus came from Houston to assume leadership of the congregation in a careful hand-off of leadership. According to Kevin (and I believe it) some white congregants found they couldn’t stay with a Black man at the helm.
When Kevin was looking at a job opportunity at Hope Church, pastor George from down the road preached as a part of an exchange. In the end, Kevin took the job in NYC.
Hence, the two of us discovered common ground in the Evangelical Presbyterian Church, an adjacent denomination to the PCA, one my in-laws helped to found in the 1970’s.
Memphis On My Mind
On the final day of the conference, I approached a rather tall fellow whom I had noticed standing alone more than once.
Hi, I’m Tom. Where are you from?
Jay says
I’m Jay from Memphis.
And, of course, his Episcopal parish is around the corner from Second Presbyterian Church, and he knows my former pastor and mentor, George Robertson.
Cue: It’s a Small World After All.
Dope Kicks
The sign and seal of true brotherhood between Buzz Lightyear and Woody was none other than Andy’s signature on the soles of their shoes.
During the closing session of the conference, Kevin was in a hallway within earshot of the goings on, and I was wandering around feeling eager to depart.
As I approached him for our final sayonara, our camaraderie couldn’t be clearer: Smart Saucony Jazz sneakers.
Not an exact quote. If you’re an uber-fan, forgive me. I was going for the emotions.
The closest I came to military service was a fretful two years in Cub Scouts.
I had attempted to contact the group organizers twice by email about potential accommodations and got no response. I did get a lanyard when I registered. It asked for my name and neighborhood which I put down as “Lancaster, PA, West End.” Folks were cheery, and one founding member of the group engaged me on the first day. Post-Covid, I understood that this conference was a homecoming for most of the core members, but as a long-distance newcomer, I felt a bit out of The Circle.
The PCA denomination I serve in continues a tradition of male representation in church offices. In some congregations, a plethora of women’s gifts are celebrated and encouraged, including teaching, but the tendency is toward a male-dominant leadership culture. No wonder many of us aren’t aware of female preachers.