The Ones We Love
Loving the Herods
There's this guy, a member of a church. He’s not fictional. He’s real. He makes my friend cry in her office after he's made her feel less than human.
It happened like this: he came into her office. To me, her friend, it sounds like he barged into her office and then declared, "Did you know you don't like people?" This very real church member went on to explain to my friend that she played favorites. He rejected her shyness and then made her cry. Really, who wouldn’t cry? No one in the life of the church had approached her about this. Instead, he took it upon himself to tell her that "all these people" have a problem with her. Moreover, she apparently had a problem with them. He stood there, watched my friend cry, and expressed his compassion by saying, "You'll get thicker skin as you get older."
Why Can't We Be Friends?
I’m about to lose about 60 friends on Facebook.
Or am I?
After six years as an associate pastor, I recently took a call at a new church. The last few weeks have been filled with all that betwixt-and-between stuff. I slowly began telling people who needed to know, swearing them to secrecy. The resignation letter to the congregation, written before everything became official, sat safely in a drawer until the new congregation voted, then we kicked the photocopier and postage meter into high gear. I have a list of items on a special “transition” to-do list, even as I’m writing a pastoral note here, making a home visit there, to members of the new congregation.
However, Facebook has added a whole new layer to this process.
What Wondrous Love Is This
Writing from the front lines of the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) Churchwide Assembly, I hadn't expected to find new evidence of the ones we love. But guess what? “The Ones We Love” are here, couched between endless parliamentary procedure and reports, applause and argument. I've only been here three and a half days and I've already learned a lot that's new about loving someone and being their friend and their sister in Christ.
Where There is Love, There is Family
In my ministry and personal life, I have noticed that there are three basic questions new (adult) acquaintances ask either to get to know me better or to kill time in polite conversation:
1. “Where are you from?” This inquiry is straightforward enough.
2. “What exactly do you do?” This is the question many clergy dread in social situations, as we see our conversation partner begin to roll up, vertebra by vertebra, into a straighter posture. But we must award points for degree of difficulty when said acquaintance is doing so while holding a stein of tasty beverage behind his/her back.
3. [And, when my wedding rings are noticed,] “Do you have children?” Often a “yet” is added to the end. When I reply no—sometimes a little too enthusiastically—the asker often tilts her head quizzically, pats my hand, and assures me that “you have time, dear.” This is when I paste on my polite, Southern-lady smile and repress the urge to point out that some people manage to lead a full life without the pitter-patter of little feet.
Above Board: Not just another meeting
A few months ago, we here at The Young Clergy Women Project decided to search for a new tagline to express our mission. Our previous one included a reference to the institution that had given us the initial grant, so with the conclusion of the grant, we needed to update our materials. It was also a chance to reinvent ourselves a little bit, to encompass both how far we'd come and where we planned to go next.
The winner, far and away, was Sarah Kinney Gaventa's suggestion of: “The Young Clergy Women Project: Because you're not the only one.” (Although a close runner-up was “Pulpits: They're not just for boys anymore.”) Everything we do, both online and in person, is structured around this mission: to remind young clergy women all over the world and in every denomination that they are not alone.
After choosing this new tagline, the full board of The Young Clergy Women Project gathered in St. Louis earlier this month. Gathering, meeting, and working together side by side were powerful symbols to each one of us that, indeed, we are not alone.
For Deployment and For Stateside
This year, on Good Friday, when many of my colleagues were having noonday services remembering Jesus’ crucifixion, I was going through a different ordeal. While it wasn’t physical torture, the emotional and spiritual pain of dropping my husband off for a nine-month deployment to Iraq had its own nuances and added a different dimension to what I was casually calling “Lousy Friday.” On that day, I also reflected on Jesus’ seven last words from the cross, but within the context of my current experience.
My Double Life on Facebook
I was a relative latecomer to the Facebook phenomenon. Many of my friends joined in college or not long after, but right up until the middle of seminary, I remained vehemently opposed to the idea. I thought that it was a senseless waste of time, and that if I joined, I would never get any work done again. Then one day, my partner gave me her password so I could look at some photos a friend had posted, and before I knew it, I had caved. I have never become a true Facebook addict, but I do rely on it more than I ever thought I would to stay in touch with friends and family—especially those who live far from me (which is just about all of them).
So when it came time for me to graduate from seminary and move to a new city to start my first church job, I found myself facing an unexpected but very common question: how would I relate to parishioners on Facebook? I knew that many of my new parishioners were in their 20s and 30s, and I soon discovered that a Facebook group for these “young adults” already existed. It didn’t take much to see that Facebook was going to become a part of my ministry whether I liked it or not, and that I’d better figure out in advance how I was going to handle it.
The Economy of the Family
I’ve noticed something odd. When I’ve talked to older women colleagues, and I’ve said the words, “I had to think about my family” in relation to my career, I often get a little lecture. You know, something along the lines of how my family should not dictate my choices, and how I would never hear a man say something like that.
It has happened so many times that I realized the words “had to think about my family” must have been code for “I will now sacrifice my career and my soul to the gods of patriarchy.”
Sisters. No, not the kind that wear habits.
I am the baby of my family. My sister was sixteen years old when I was born. We never attended the same schools or shared the clothes in our closets. In fact, most of my memories of my sister growing up are around holidays, when she was home from college. As I grew older we were close, but the age difference meant it was a different relationship than my friends had with sisters closer in age. I went away to college and she had a baby. We talked on the phone, sent cards and saw each other at family events, but our busy lives sent us off on our own journeys.
I graduated from college, unsure of where God was calling me. My journey led me to serve two years as a missionary for the United Methodist Church in Pennsylvania. I then returned to California, to work in the non-profit world, I thought. Meanwhile my sister was a mother, a teacher, a wife and also seeking what was next in her life. The answer came as a call to ministry, beginning seminary part time. I journeyed on as a youth director, an active layperson and an executive assistant in the private sector. I too was seeking, and finally answered my call to ministry. I began seminary in the fall of 2002, five years after my sister did, at the same seminary as a full-time student. My sister was still in seminary, taking the long route, one or two classes a semester.
It is here that our story as sisters in ministry together begins.
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
I am a fairly new pastor, and I live in the same parsonage my bishop lived in when she was a new pastor. It's located in a small town, on a street where the same people have lived for decades.
This means that as I interviewed, the bishop wasn't just curious to see if I would be a good fit for this particular parish. She was also crossing her fingers that I would be a good fit for the neighbors.
