Called & Sent
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”.
Doing the Math On My Vocation, Part II
I think about leaving ministry when the liturgist is being passive-aggressive.
I think about leaving ministry when worship attendance is down.
I think about leaving ministry when I can’t afford music classes for my kids.
I think about leaving ministry when another Christmas Eve goes by without seeing my family.
I think about leaving ministry when the church feels irrelevant.
I think about leaving ministry when my sermon sucks.
I think about leaving ministry when the repairs to the manse never happen.
I think about leaving ministry when God seems light years away.
I think about leaving ministry when vestry meetings haunt my dreams.
I think about leaving ministry when I can’t bear to hear another colleague complain about her parish.
But I haven’t left yet. And sometimes I think I never will.
Paradox and Patience: Lessons from Senior Adults
Ours is a faith of paradox.
Magnificent,
Mysterious,
Maddening paradox.
The first is actually the last, and last place becomes first. Giving away brings wealth, while storing up leaves emptiness. Tiny David defeats gigantic Goliath, shy Moses persuades powerful Pharoah. To violence we’re called to turn the other cheek, to transgressions forgive and love. Strength blossoms from vulnerability, resurrection springs from death The savior is a teeny tiny baby, and redemption comes from naming our brokenness. Magnificent? Maybe. Maddening and mysterious? As we say in Texas: You bet.
A Biblical Confession
I have a confession: I have never before actually used the Bibles I received at ordination. We get a small portable one for our Diaconate, and a big desk one for our Priestly. They are very, very nice Bibles- we're talking gilded edges. They are the same edition- the New Oxford Annotated New Revised Standard Version - that I bought when I went into Seminary. I arrived at Seminary having done my homework- which was to read the Bible cover to cover. (Something I had not done before the summer I went to Seminary!) Of course, that assignment did in my high school student bible. Revelations and most of Mark and I think some of the pastoral letters just fell out as I packed for Seminary. So on the advice of a professor, I picked up the NOAB-NRSV. It is a paperback and has been practically colored in with highlighters and scribbled on in notes.
Eating My Words
“I really wouldn’t mention that you’re a pastor.”
This is a common phrase that inserts itself into any number of social circumstances. For example, my online dating account mentions that I am a “graduate fellow,” not a “Minister of Word and Sacrament.” I went back and forth between telling the truth on my dating profile and essentially lying to unsuspecting single men who think they are corresponding with a medical student. But when a friend of mine casually suggested that I had a better chance of contracting polio than finding a decent “match” based on my profile, I thought perhaps disclosing the exact nature of my job might better be done over Irish coffee.
For the most part I understand that it is not always best to begin a conversation with the phrase, “Hi, I’m your friendly clergyperson, Stacy.” There are times and situations and conversations that are necessary before most people can grasp what I do. But one might think that this would only exist outside the church – that a new, freshly-minted pastor might not be forced to lie about her job while inside the walls of her church. And yet, this is precisely what happened when I endeavored to attend a little something called “The Great Banquet.”
