Called & Sent
Church Women
Last Friday, I spent the morning drinking really bad coffee from a Styrofoam cup with fifty women who are older than me by at least 25 years. I’d been invited to present the Bible lesson to a meeting of Church Women United, an ecumenical group that has been gathering “church women” for fellowship, prayer, and advocacy since 1941.I go to far more of these kind of events than most 32-year-olds I know. I’ve come to expect the bad coffee, the cinderblock walls and homemade felt banners of the church fellowship hall, the program that goes on a little too long.
I can usually see the invitation coming (“I’m in charge of the fall program and I wondered if…”), and I take a deep breath and try to remember my calling.
Being a Doer of the Word
“Every generous act of giving with every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father.” James 1:17
Two days after my ordination, I boarded a plane for South Africa in order to begin a period of service at a Presbyterian church in a township outside of Cape Town. Looking back on that time, I am still shocked that I thought my first experience in ministry should be in a culture and place so different from my own. Yet, the tremendous growing pains I endured have proven to be both fruitful and life-giving to me as a minister and disciple of the gospel.
I have sought to articulate my experience here, but I have come gravely short. To describe the immense beauty and tragedy, to properly impart the sacredness of ministry anywhere, but in particular in this place, is to attempt the impossible. After almost a year, I am surprised by how hard it is at times to minister as an outsider, and at the same time, how comfortable I feel sitting in a shack, laughing or praying with someone from a vastly different background and yet who I consider friend. In both my uncertainty and also in my confidence, God’s grace has been sufficient.
Still a Writer
“Pastor” did not top the list of my dream professions as a child, or even into junior high and high school, when the upper-middle class world I grew up in begins encouraging kids to firm up their vocational plans. Broadway star, lawyer, host of a show on National Public Radio about religion and politics: these dominated my fantasy life, my summer school choices, and my AP exam schedule.
I come from a renaissance sort of family, so my parents never worried about my lack of focus. Ours is an interdisciplinary life – Mom’s in education and theater, Dad’s in ministry – and so they naturally steered me toward an interdisciplinary undergraduate program. It was a fantastic fit: I loved college, loved studying all manner of things. Social science? Humanities? Political Philosophy? I ate them all up. I was happiest when papers came due.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that what I wanted more than anything was to write. I’d write about anything, I just wanted to see the ideas come together in phrases, in sentences (preferably those featuring my beloved semi-colon), in essays.
The Horcruxes of Pastoral Ministry
In advance of going to see the movie Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I recently re-immersed myself in book six of the series. In this installation, Harry is commissioned by Dumbledore to capture a missing memory - something to do with Lord Voldemort’s younger self, Tom Riddle, and the very dark magic of the horcrux. The Horcrux is such dark magic, in fact, that not even ever-studious Hermoine Granger can find information about it in the Hogwarts library. It has all been sealed away. But, for the purposes of this reflection, YOU must know what a Horcrux is, so I will tell you (and thus ruin the suspense for all potential Harry Potter book six readers or watchers.)
The Church Needs More Dance Parties
Today in church, I was thinking about fear. For the most part, I think of myself as a courageous person. I don't really have phobias, in what I would call a psychological sense. I'm not afraid of heights or flying or speaking in public or mice or spiders or the dark or even crime actually. I startle easily, but I'm not sure that's the same as fear. I don't do well with blood or with having my head under water, but that's honestly more of a physical reaction than a mental fear.
And then, in a moment of deeper honesty, I realized that there is one thing that I do fear, at least, if my behavior is any indication. (I think it's probably safe to assume it is.) I don't always like to admit it, but it's a pretty safe bet that I fear losing control. (And yes, I know that control is an illusion, but a lot of the time in my life it's a pretty complete and satisfying illusion, so that's not my point at the moment. Though the startling easily thing is probably related to this somehow.)
The Holiest of Ground
“Then God said, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” ~Exodus 3:5
For many, the experience of the Divine is best described as purely unexpected. Moses was no exception. He was tending a flock, fulfilling his duty as son-in-law when out of nowhere, God appeared and transformed his entire existence. God is present in our worship, in our relationships with loved ones, and in our reading of the Bible. Yet, in those places we have learned to train our eye for divine encounter. We forget that coming face to face with the living God happens, too, in the banality of the simple things we often dread, the things that don’t seem to have anything to do with God. Washing dishes, driving children to school, even tending a flock, these are monotonous actions which seem to be a means to an end. We think in our hurry that the point is completing the task at hand, not so much the process of the task itself. And though our days are replete with such chores, we don’t bother watching for any revelation of grace in the midst of the tedium. Therefore, we are often surprised by its embrace of us.
Being Named
Today, the day of the parish retreat, the new church signs made their appearance. Beautiful block lettering with the name of the parish bold against a white background. Vibrant reds and blues in the Episcopal shield--and, the name of the rector in gorgeous script. I am the associate rector in this place and my name is not on the sign. I try not to read too much into this, but fight the sheer hubris that makes me ache inside, that makes me question the commitment of this place to my place here. I assure myself that it is merely an oversight, but cannot let go of my own desire to be acknowledged and embraced.
A Sacrifice of Lamentation
I googled “clergy depression” before worship on Sunday.
A week ago Sunday I spent the hours before worship staving off what you might call a nervous breakdown. I succeeded in getting through my various and sundry tasks and responsibilities before I drove home and wept, on and off, for the rest of the day.
I’m depressed. I’ve known this for some time, but I’m so good at staving it off sometimes I convince myself I’m not. I’m apparently not so good at staving it off that I’ve convinced everyone else. I finally told a carefully selected lay leader, and instead of coming as a surprise to her, as I expected, she told me she’d already figured it out.
Oops. The pastor is not supposed to be depressed, and if she is, she’s supposed to keep it under extremely tight wraps. The carefully selected lay leader is supposed to be shocked – shocked! – to learn of this minor, temporary dip in her pastor’s mental health.
Spring Cleaning for the Soul
Every spring I can’t resist magazines that tout the best ways to get your home fresh and clean. I can’t wait to see what my favorite home care guru Martha (and her staff) puts in her well-organized and labeled cleaning bucket. Her recommendations for getting the winter goo off my windows, and actually getting the layer of dirt off, bring joy to my heart. This year, it’s clear that my apartment isn’t the only thing that took on an extra layer of gunk during the dark winter months.
Weddings and Wonder
There are moments, we say, when the Holy breaks in. Moments in our earthly messiness when God’s majesty soars down to meet us. Moments in our worldly brokenness when God’s perfect peace burrows up to find us.
Moments when the miraculous takes hold, and we are left breathless. Filled with awe for the beauty that surrounds us, for the peace that passes all understanding. Moments such as a baby’s birth or an illness cured.
The miraculous moment when a couple says “I do”.
