The Seminary

In the question of nature vs. nurture, we try to decide whether how we are raised is more important than where we are raised. Is our outcome as people determined on others, or by our situations? When I think back on my life, I’m not sure there’s a difference. People define our situations and our situations are made by people. A prime example of this is the time I spent working at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary.

I was fifteen when I started working there, still in school and angry at the world for whatever reasons I could come up with. It had been a year since my mom kicked my stepdad out of the house and I was starting to show signs of teenage rebellion (I thank the Lord I never have to try that again…). My youth pastor, and friend, said he would be able to get me a summer position working as a janitor. For a kid making no money, anything sounded good. I took the job and began working the summer of 2001.

Cleaning toilets and carpet cleaning became my existence, and I learned all kinds of ways to move furniture without using my back. The job, as it stood, was not a pretty one. I have strong memories of being inside a dumpster with a wet-vac, slurping up tomato juice as it splashed my face. Or bringing a sleeper sofa down four floors only to bring it back up only to bring it back down. Very few assignments would leave me with a skip in my step.

No matter how bad the work was, though, it taught me lessons I wouldn’t have learned otherwise. I never really knew the value of hard work or following instructions. I never learned how to save or spend money until then. The work was hard, dull, and, at times, humiliating, but it was work and kept me out of trouble during troubling years.

A job is not just work, however. A job is people. The benefit of working at a seminary is that the people there are mature Christians; older and wiser and willing to talk and listen, even to a moody teenager who thought he already had all the answers to life, the universe, and everything. When you are sent on a job (or as I affectionately called them, missions) you are with your co-workers for long periods of time and you get to know them more than you normally would. I didn’t fit in at high school, I never did. I couldn’t relate to the students, didn’t want to. But my co-workers, that was another story. The conversations were much more intriguing to me, more adult. I could discuss things that were important to me; trouble with the idea of God, family, college. They were at least ten or so years older than me but they didn’t care. The talked anyway, treating me like someone beyond my age.

I still remember the day one of them invited me to the movies. I had said no at first, scared to spend time with people because, as far as I knew, you couldn’t trust others. Five minutes down the road, though, I turned around and took them up on the offer. This was the turning point. After this, they were no longer my co-workers, but my friends. It was strange to have friends that much older than me, who I felt I could trust. Over time, I started staying over nights, in order to save on trips. They would put me up in their rooms and let me join in at get-togethers and events. I had been invited to birthday parties, youth groups, and weddings.

In a way, the seminary became a second home to me. In some ways, it was my first home. I worked there, ate there, and even slept there on occasions. The people were faces I saw every day, and who were good friends. I felt like I belonged there, that I mattered. I worked forty-plus hours a week and was one of the most recognizable employees. I felt that, even with the age gap, I fit in.

Then something happened. I began to miss my carpool without calling in. I began taking more days off. I began slacking. I don’t know why this happened. I don’t know what came over me. Was I becoming discontent with the work? Probably, the work was never a love for me. But it didn’t seem enough to make me want to leave, to leave my friends and the place. All I know is that I started becoming someone who couldn’t keep a job.

And with one phone call, it all ended. I hadn’t been home to answer it, but my mom had and relayed it back to me. I remember the sudden realization, that all my current choices had a consequence. I was fired, with good reason and no defense. The job that helped define me and make into someone I didn’t mind being was gone because I had decided to be lazy and selfish. No more hanging out with guys after work, no more going to lunch with them. I was no longer the kid that worked the graduate school; I was just a bum without a job.

It was hard coming to terms with that truth. Reality hit hard and my emotions were all over the place, sadness guiding them. I had something great and I let it go.

The last lesson I had learned was one of the most important. I haven’t been fired from a job since and I show up to work every day I’m scheduled. I don’t allow myself the error of not going in. I see the responsibility I have with a job clearer than I ever did at the seminary.

This is what I wonder about. Am I the type of person I am now because of the job, or the people? How would I have turned out without having worked there? Without the power to view alternate realities, I’m without an answer. I can only guess that I would have found ways to get in trouble and stay as I was, never finding ways to grow. Yes, I was a janitor, but I was also a teenager looking for guidance and friends. That’s what the seminary gave me and it has been more important than any paycheck.