Does it ever get easier?

Rejection stings at every age

As noted in previous posts, I’m slowly getting my life back together. I graduated. I work for a local company now, still writing. I created an entire self-management system with Claude, complete with a rudimentary dashboard app, to keep track of all the loose ends currently in play. I’m even gearing up to apply for a research fellowship, but if I write more on that, it’ll be for paid members until I know the outcome.

I have taken two (2) showers in my new bathroom, and the toilet works! I will drop off the vanity to be refinished later this morning, and I am going to make a poured epoxy countertop probably this weekend.

Into this bevy of productivity and completion sailed a short text this morning from my dad. Now I can post about this here because no one in my family reads my Substack. As will be readily apparent, my parents don’t care what I am up to in this life.

The text read, “J’s (our grandson) first sermon delivered yesterday.” There’s an mp3 attachment of the sermon. J is a brilliant young man with an engineering degree who was raised in the orbit of the church but not directly in the church. This is my first hint that he’s interested in ministry. The text does not appear to be a group text, so it looks like my dad thinks I don’t know who J is.

Now it’s not a competition, but let me show you what my dad sent after my first sermon:

Oh wait. Hold on, let me see what he said after my second sermon.

Surely he said something when I graduated with a Master’s degree in theology?

Huh. Not even a private congratulation. Just crickets.

I am fifty-one (51) years old. My dad’s complete indifference to me should not bother me anymore. But here I am sitting at my desk at my professional job making more than he did after thirty years in his field, holding back tears because he can brag on his grandson with no training or education in theology or ministry getting a platform like he has some kind of authority, but he won’t even acknowledge much less celebrate my years of hard work, my academic awards, or my graduation with distinction.

I haven’t answered yet, and I won’t until I have finished working through my own feelings. I won’t until I can think without anger about a twenty-something kid with no training or qualifications upstaging me. Until I can think about this without wanting to send my dad a certified letter telling him not to so much as think about me again until he can acknowledge and celebrate who I am. Until I can turn the other cheek on this slap in the face.

It’s not intentional. My stepmom definitely sent congratulations when I graduated even if neither of them noticed the preaching. They love me (I think). But I don’t occupy any place of primacy or value in their world. And what does that mean about me? I suppose I get to decide the answer to that question.

I think for one thing it means that I’m doing work they can’t or won’t understand. Their commitment to political conservatism renders them incapable of seeing my work through anything but a “liberal vs. conservative” lens. They haven’t actually read any of my work or listened to any of my sermons, so they have no idea what my theology or Christology actually is.

And that is the work of the theologian and teacher, I think. It’s not to seek recognition or please my parents or prove my worth. It’s to seep past the closed door of the mind and pry it open in the hope that doing so will allow the heart to breathe in the love of God.

I don’t know yet how my work converges with that purpose. I know that neither my parents nor my nephew are my audience. My audience is theologically curious and anaphylactically allergic to religious jargon. I suppose part of the work here is to practice standing up because I’m called to stand. Writing because I’m called to write. Like I said in my last sermon, I am not responsible for the outcomes and results. The kingdom of God/Heaven exists and spreads for itself. I just sow the seeds of an invasive, corrupting love.

Right after I finish this butt-hurt temper tantrum.