A Turning Point: A Story About Discernment

As I walked along a secluded, quiet forest trail on a crisp fall morning, I remembered how familiar this path felt. It had become a part of me; my identity was wrapped in it. If it’s okay to say, it felt comfortable. It was simple and steady, and the rhythm of my steps upon the soft pine and sand made everything clear.

But after some time, the trail opened into a small clearing, and there I landed—where I didn’t expect—at a fork in the road.

Two paths stretched out ahead of me, and I had to make a choice. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to turn around and go back to the comfort of what I knew, but the day was already full, and it was time.

I didn’t have a map. I didn’t have a sign. I didn’t have someone telling me which way to go.

I was left wondering what would happen if I made the wrong decision. What would I lose? Would I lose myself? Would I lose my life? Would it be a mistake?

I was left holding the moment in silence.

I had reached a turning point I never expected—one I never saw coming.

The left path was familiar, comfortable, predictable, and safe. The right path felt like the biggest, strangest challenge. It was steep, unknown, but strangely filled with a slight sense of adventure.

Then, while wandering around in the clearing, someone showed up, stopped, looked at me, and said the very thing I feared most:

“Tara, when are you going to become a priest?”

I was silent.

They continued, “Why do you look so terrified?”

I didn’t know what to say.

Then they said, “Honey, it’s all over you. We all see it. God is calling you.”

From that moment, my path was delivered unto me without me doing a thing—except avoiding it.

Clarity began to rise, slowly. I stepped onto the right path and began to walk toward a future that had no blueprint, no map, no definitive answer—only a silent whisper:

“Do not fear, I am with you.”

The right path has been one of the hardest I have had to travel, but it has transformed me in ways I never imagined and given me experiences I could have never prayed for.

Discernment is not about choosing the easiest path or the most familiar one. It is about listening—listening to God, to the Spirit’s movement within us, to the quiet wisdom that emerges when we stop rushing and start paying attention.

It is about noticing where peace gathers, where hope flickers, and where courage stirs. It is about trusting God to be there and guide the direction.

And it is about remembering that churches, just like people, also come to these clearings. Israel wandered a desert for forty years until they discovered that by listening, God could have led them home much sooner.

The early church reached its own clearing—a moment of uncertainty, tension, and transition. In Acts 15, believers faced a question that would shape their future:

Would Gentile Christians need to follow the full Jewish law to belong?

It was a fork in the road. A moment where the familiar path no longer led forward.

And just like you standing in that forest clearing, the church had no map. No sign. No easy answer.

So they did what communities of faith do when they reach a turning point:

They gathered. They listened. They prayed. They told the truth. They returned to Scripture. They paid attention to where the Spirit was already moving. They waited for clarity to rise.

And eventually, a shared direction emerged—not through argument or voting, but through Spirit‑led convergence. They wrote: “It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us…” That line is the heartbeat of communal discernment.

The early church chose the path that brought life, not fear. The path that aligned with God’s expanding grace. The path that opened the door for renewal.

Churches, like people, come to these moments—places where the familiar path no longer leads forward, and the Spirit invites us to listen together for the way that brings life. We stand in a clearing. We face a fork in the road. We are invited to pause, breathe, and listen. Not for quick fixes. Not for easy answers. But for the quiet whisper that says:

“Do not fear, I am with you.”

As I’ve reflected on moments like these- my own clearing in the woods and the early church’s turning point in Acts 15- I've come to see a pattern. I’ve realized that discernment is not only personal. It is deeply communal. Churches, just like individuals, reach places where the familiar path no longer leads forward, and the Spirit invites us to listen for the way that brings life. As we listen, a veil is lifted.

This became even clearer to me earlier this summer when I traveled to Maryland for a week of study in Congregational Development. During that time, I was re-introduced to a model: the Church Life Cycle. I had presented this graph, a slightly different version, to the All Saints' vestry earlier this year in February.

It was like someone handed me a map, not a map that tells us exactly what to do, but one that helps us recognize where we are.

The Church Life Cycle shows that congregations move through seasons:

·       seasons of growth and energy,

·       seasons of stability,

·       seasons of decline,

and, if we are willing to listen and respond, seasons of renewal.

It helped me see that what we are experiencing is not unusual, shameful, or hopeless. It is simply a clearing: a moment when the familiar path has run its course, and the Spirit invites us to pause, breathe, and discern the next faithful step.

Just as I stood at that fork in the forest, and just as the early church stood at its crossroads in Acts 15, we too stand in a moment where listening matters more than rushing.

Discernment becomes the way we ask:

Where is God leading us now?

What path brings life?

What future is the Spirit whispering into our midst?

The Church Life Cycle doesn’t tell us what to choose. It simply helps us see where we are standing. And from here, together, we listen.

It’s not a judgment. It’s not a prediction. It’s simply a map that helps us recognize where we are so we can discern where God may be inviting us next.

When we stand at a crossroads, we cross a bridge by naming our season with honesty, embracing our challenges without shame, realizing that a smaller church does not mean failure or the end, trusting that renewal can bloom, and listening together for God's next faithful invitation.

It doesn’t tell us what to do. It simply helps us see where we are.

And from there, we discern.