As I yelled at Melissa and Gabriel for disobeying, a terrible contradiction flashed before me, but I beat it down, intent on winning this battle of wits. My children were actually playing quite happily on their own—noisy, bouncing 5 and 2 that they were—while I repeatedly ignored their articulate requests for attention.
They were "climbing the walls" because of my selfish agenda. My code of parental ethics told me to drop everything and play with them, but "I had work to do."
As I barrel toward ordination in the United Methodist Church, I typically devour books and articles on social holiness and preach right action over right belief. I lament a lack of Christian commitment to community spirituality due to the contemporary preoccupation with individualism. (Mainline Protestants often envy the rich liturgical packaging of booming evangelical churches; I admit my bias in preaching subjugation of self to matters of communal growth or survival as a "proper" priority.)
But today hypocrisy slapped me squarely in the face: While championing social holiness, I neglect the needs of my immediate family. I bemoan the resistance of disciples to place their bodies where they claim their hearts to be, yet I fail to put my heart where my body is—with family. My theological desires are painfully personal and recreational.
THE ABSURDITY of this dichotomy could only arrive at the end of a summer spent as house-husband with virtually no outside demands on my time. While my wife, Marci, was employed full time, I begrudged the things I could not do: that exegetical project left unrevised; the books unread; eccentric abandon in the library of the Graduate Theological Union; the lazy intellectual conversations I fantasized that single students enjoyed daily.
"You would be happier as a monk," Marci tells me sarcastically. The sentiment tempts me, but I could agree only if I lapsed in my pursuit of integrity, for I am frequently reminded that God blessed me with a family before calling me into ministry. While I cannot speak to the priorities of other faithful servants who responded to God’s call before (or in lieu of) holy union, I hold a theological maxim that my call to ministry is subordinate to the first blessings of my wife and children.
Why is it so difficult for me to learn that doing theology is a luxury? One thing I have picked up from liberation theologians is that one should not be so pretentious as to ponder cosmic justice while bullets are flying (even though such a calling is difficult to resist!).
An axiom that I do hold at odds with much of our patriarchal tradition is that I publicly credit Marci with being a prophet from God in the sculpting of my practical theology. But again, praxis flies in the face of idealism, for too often I fail to heed her prophetic counsel.
Do my ideals betray a subconscious seeking to be an "enlightened" man among my peers? Am I trying to make points with feminist colleagues as a "post-patriarchal" role model? Is bashing myself a search for public sympathy, an attempt to look good by "airing dirty laundry" (a shrewd public relations ploy used by some corporations and during the campaign of our current president)? I pray not.
What I do seek is public accountability to my pastoral ideals, and I prayerfully try to raise similar issues in the lives of parishioners. Accordingly, I run the constant risk of hypocrisy, especially if I can only develop a "pro-family theology" at the expense of my family!
Neither my idealism nor my shortfall are anything out of the ordinary; how often do we think of family as obligation more than joy? But is the power of my own kerygma insufficient to liberate me from the bondage I acknowledge?
Of course, in the midst of this anguish, there are blissful moments of romance and recreation, but I inevitably become restless and long for my quill and parchment. Occasionally, however, I witness hopeful truth percolating from my theological musings.
The other day when I tried to escape playing with Melissa, she boldly asserted that I was not acting like a good father. "How should I act?" I questioned sarcastically.
"Like a child," she said.
JONATHAN R. ANDERSON is a Master of Divinity student at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California, and editor of Broken Chains: Christian Discipleship in the Radical Middle, a quarterly newsletter.
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