Called & Sent
Doing the Math on My Vocation
Why I should not be a pastor:
I stole money from an employer when I was in high school.
I had plenty of sex outside the sacrament of marriage.
Being a pastor feeds my big head.
I hardly ever pray.
Why I am a pastor:
God called me anyway.
You Are With Me
She laughs--the wide mouthed, toothless grin of a first smile. Her nostrils flare. A pink, elastic, bow encircles her bald head. Her thumb aims towards her mouth, finding her hands still a new trick. The day she died, they held a birthday party for the first birthday she’d never have. I ran about trying to find a small cake, candles, and the birthday poster her mother requested.
Another picture, wispy blond hair brushes a smooth forehead, glitter bedecked lips part, she is looking up towards someone, mom perhaps, a favorite toy. The top of her princess dress frames her neck, and I know it spins around her legs in a dizzy dance. She was buried with a tiara. I’m in the next picture; a small boy and I grin at the camera. He is dressed in camouflage pajamas. His eyes are bright. A tube is taped across his cheek and goes down his nose, into his belly. It feeds him on days when he can’t bring himself to eat. He was transferred to another hospital…last I heard he was still alive.
My Elective in Musical Outreach
As my first year of seminary drew to a close, my friends and I decided that we needed to commemorate our survival of a particularly difficult class. We kicked around several ideas, and ultimately we voted to raise a glass and take in the vocal stylings of some local “talent.” In other words, we were going to a neighborhood dive for karaoke night.
Why College Chaplaincy?
An Imaginary dialogue between a college student and her chaplain.
Student: Chaplain
Kate, I have to interview someone for my First Year Seminar class. Would you mind if I asked you a few
questions?
Chaplain: That sounds
fine to me. What are you researching?
S: Well, we were supposed to interview a professional woman
about her job. I was kinda curious about
why you are a chaplain so I thought I’d ask you, if that’s okay, that is…um,
well, and if you have time…
C: That sounds good
to me. I’ve got some spare time
now. Ask away.
S: So why are you a chaplain?
One Wedding… and a Funeral?
I have this dorky parish clergy daydream. I like to imagine that as the years go by, all the different sacramental rites at which I’ve officiated or preached will blend together into a bizarre mélange of baptisms, communions, funerals, and weddings, so that I will no longer be able to remember in which significant moment of someone’s life I took part. I’m sure that there will be a few that refuse to conform; some, for whatever reason, will refuse mix in the melting pot of memories. One of my Unforgettable Sacraments will be the first wedding I ever officiated, not because it was my first time to pronounce two people husband and wife, not because the bride and groom were my close friends, but because someone died during the middle of the ceremony.
The Conversation
Oh, The Conversation. We've all had it. It's a vocational hazard of being a female pastor. It often begins with the uncomplicated question, "What do you do?" But we just don't have an uncomplicated answer, do we? Not only are there people who don't know women can be ministers; there are also plenty of folks who believe women shouldn't be ministers.
In the time since my ordination, I've gotten a better at navigating The Conversation in all its permutations. A lot of practice and a little bit of confidence go a long way. I try to be gracious and understanding and educational, but sometimes I wish I could just be feisty. Recently, a guy came to do an estimate for some work in the parsonage. He knew it was a parsonage, so when I opened the door to let him in, he asked, "Are you the pastor's wife?" I politely explained that no, I am the pastor, but I can't tell you how badly I wanted to retort, "Are you the sub-contractor's husband?"
Stolen Goods*
For the last couple Decembers, I’ve watched the ordinarily light traffic to my blog skyrocket. It isn’t that I get more interesting during Advent; one of my most recent posts was a humdrum complaint about insurance costs in my adopted state of California. I’m a run-of-the-mill blogger, writing for myself and for the small community of family and friends who at least pretend they like updates about my dog. But in 2005, two sermons I’d posted on any day a beautiful change were linked on Textweek, my favorite clearinghouse of materials for worship and preaching preparation. As the Advent and Christmas season rolls around, hundreds of preachers, teachers, and students-of-the-Word click over to read my words (or, as the case may be, scan and summarily dismiss them).
Verve, Faith, Chocolate, and Really Great Shoes
You may have noticed that the Young Clergy Women Project, which publishes Fidelia's Sisters, claims to be powered by "verve, faith, chocolate, and really great shoes." Some have asked, "Why shoes?" Well, I can't speak for all young clergy women. I can, however, speak for myself.
For a long time, in my mind, pointe shoes were the only shoes that mattered. In high school, I tried brand after brand, make after make, looking for something that would flatter my woefully flat arches. I finally found Freeds of London. I religiously ordered shoes from a particular cobbler, whose mark was stamped on the bottom of my sole. That brand and make of shoes accompanied me through hours of class, rehearsals, and performances. I spent a lot of time breaking them in and keeping them in good shape. They transformed me into Sleeping Beauty; they turned me into the Dew Drop Fairy. They were my most important material possession. Oddly, my attitude towards all other shoes was as indifferent as my attitude towards pointe shoes was obsessive. In high school and college, I wore the same old school vans day in and day out (Hey, it was the 90s; don't judge me). The object was comfort and little else.
There's No Crying in Baseball
It’s happened too often to write it off as a fluke. There was that one time in the pulpit, and again the Sunday after Hurricane Katrina hit. At the last board meeting, once during choir rehearsal, and of course the day after we found out our beloved dog was dying of lymphoma. I’ve only been serving my congregation for twenty-six months, and I’m inching toward needing a second hand to count the incidents. No, it’s not a fluke. I’m a crier.
