Good-Bye to Law

 As most of you know, I was a lawyer for over twenty years before I became a pastor. For a couple of years, while I was acting as a part-time interim pastor and going to seminary, I continued to practice law part-time as well. I gave up the active practice of law when I got my first full-time United Methodist appointment in the summer of 2008. However, I retained my membership in the South Dakota Bar Association. That means that I was still technically a lawyer, and could legally practice law in South Dakota if I chose to do so.

No more. I did not renew my law license for 2013. I am no longer a lawyer.

Just in practical terms, this was an easy decision. I have no desire to ever practice law again. I enjoyed being a lawyer while I did it, but my life as a pastor is far more enjoyable and fulfilling. Besides, it costs nearly five hundred dollars a year to retain my law license. I can think of a whole lot better ways to use five hundred dollars instead of spending it on a license that I have no intention of ever using.

In emotional terms, though, it was a lot harder. For some reason, giving up my law license was a hard thing to do. It was harder than giving up the actual practice of law was. In fact, there's a part of me that's still tempted to call up the bar association and see whether, if I sent in my check, they'd reinstate me.

I've been trying to figure out why this is so hard. At first, I thought it might be pride. After all, I had worked hard to become a lawyer. Despite all the lawyer jokes, I was always proud to be one. I took some of my status in life from it. It's hard, now, to say that I'm not a lawyer any more.

That may be part of it, but I don't think it's the main reason. Another thing I thought of is related to what I wrote about a couple of weeks ago: we all like to feel that we're doing things out of choice, rather than out of necessity. As long as I was a lawyer, I could tell myself that, after all, I don't have to be a pastor. I could go back to being a lawyer any time I wanted.

I don't think that's it, either. While it was true that I could go back to being a lawyer, it was also true that, as I said above, I have no desire to do so. That was a choice in name only, because I would never have gone back to being a lawyer unless I somehow was no longer allowed to be a pastor, and even then it would have been a very hard thing for me to do.

I think what it comes down to, ultimately, is that giving up my law license marks a stronger commitment to being a pastor. I felt like I was committed to it before, and I was, to an extent, but now the commitment becomes stronger. I cannot go back to being a lawyer now, at least not easily. I've closed the door to the past. I can still look through the window and remember the past, but I cannot go back to it. I can only move in one direction now, and that's forward.

That's a good thing. There's no sense in keeping a door to the past open when we don't want to go through that door. All keeping that door open does is hold us back. At best, it keeps us from focusing on where we are and where we want to go. At worst, it makes us dissatisfied with the present by keeping a nostalgic longing for a past that never really existed, at least not the way we remember it.

So, I'm not a lawyer any more. I'm a pastor. That's okay. In fact, it's better than okay. It's great! It's awesome! I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. I firmly believe I am where God wants me to be, and I'm doing what God wants me to do. Ecclesiastes says that finding satisfaction in our work is a gift from God. I'm getting that gift now, and I don't think there's a better feeling in the world.

Is there a door to your past that you need to close? If so, close it. It's hard. I know it's hard. But it's worth it. The past may be a nice place to visit once in a while, but you don't want to live there. Don't let it hold you back. Focus on where you are and where you want to go. Keep moving forward.