I have learned to listen when God calls me to something new, even when the destination is unclear. As the pandemic wound down, I left my pastorate without a new position. A few weeks later, I loaded my sleeping bag, tent, and ice chest into my subcompact and went on a meandering six-week, 6,000-mile solo road trip. I camped, hiked, ran, meditated, read, listened to music and books, and prayed. 

In Albuquerque, I bought a gemstone that encourages emotional and spiritual balance. I added it to the rough-hewn cross hanging from my rearview mirror. This crystal served as a touchstone as my pilgrimage progressed. Creation overwhelmed me at a rugged Utah campground as the sun rose (Genesis 1-2). I battled my demons in the overnight Arkansas heat. Interrupting my solitude, I visited my father and – reluctantly – attended church with him in St. Louis. I felt loved and safe visiting my grandchildren in Connecticut and Pittsburgh. On the Canadian shore of Lake Superior, scales fell from my eyes (Acts 9). I saw how burnt out I was from church life and the emotional effort of keeping a congregation safe during a global pandemic. 

Though I had expected to begin the denominational search process upon returning home, I soon realized church structures were more transactional than relational. Still adamantly a follower of Jesus, I struggle with the institutional church. I’ve been to church only four times since leaving my pulpit. Nonetheless, my spiritual growth has mushroomed. 

Twenty years ago, my daughter handed me Of Water and Spirit: Ritual, Magic, and Initiation in the Life of an African Shaman and said, “Read this”. Malidoma Patrice Somé’s autobiographical story challenged my Western worldview. His connection to the ancestors and understanding of reality did not match mine. Kidnapped by Jesuit priests before his coming-of-age ritual, he escaped and underwent his passage into adulthood late. When I was called to my pulpit in Albany, an Elder asked me what book, besides the Bible, was most pivotal in my journey. Without hesitation, I named this book. Too often, Western Christianity has limited God.

Several months after my road trip, I encountered an ancestor. I spent three weeks in Scotland, where my grandfather, whom I never knew, grew up. I breathed in the street where he was born. I wandered along the River Clyde in the November mist and loitered on the dock where he boarded a ship with his siblings. In this thin place between the earthly and ancestral, I grew to know Grandpa Scotty. 

Returning home, I began a course on ancestral trauma taught by mystic and scientist Thomas Hübl. He taught about the science of epigenetics through which trauma crosses generations. And we learned how to reach out to our ancestors. Initially, I related to Grandpa Scotty as the nine-year-old who yearned for his granddaddy. (My mother left home at 19 because of his abuse and alcoholism and never allowed us to meet.) As our metaphysical relationship has grown, he has one message for me: “I threw it all away; focus on family.”

Ingesting his wisdom, I frequently see my living father, family of origin, children, and grandchildren. Guided by Grandpa Scotty, I also reach other ancestors. Fifteen years ago, my brother nearly died in a car crash. I encountered his deceased infant son, who told me he was there. This prompted a family conversation that mattered.

I know how these stories sound to many. But the one we call God is bigger than our biblical ancestors could imagine. I know the God of relationship, love, and justice (Micah 6:8) led me to this path of family and ancestral healing and growth.

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Having pastored United Church of Christ and Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) congregations in eastern Oregon, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia, Rev. Tim Graves served Albany’s First Christian Church from 2017 until 2022. He retired in 2023.