No, not to my 36th residence (well, OK, yeah, that's happening too, but that's not the subject of this post). After nearly two years on Blogger, I'm moving over to Wordpress.
I've also got a fancy new domain name, one that I think will make it simpler for people to find me. See, when I started this blog in June 2011 (pretty much on a whim), I foolishly chose a long name for my blog and went with the free blogspot domain name. That resulted in my URL being karen-lifetheuniverseandeverything.blogspot.com, which I think you'll agree is pretty awkward. I also had no idea what I wanted this blog to be.
In the nearly two years of writing this blog, I've begun to figure out who I am as a writer. Perhaps the greatest discovery I've made is that I am a writer, not just someone who likes to write. So I haven't published a book yet. So my publishing credentials consist of a couple dozen sermons at www.DesperatePreacher.com and a single newspaper article that made it out of my journalism class and into the town paper back in high school. I have this blog. I have my independent publishing house Quiet Publications, where I'll begin publishing inspirational daily devotions on Sunday, May 19. That's also where I'll make available some bible studies I've written, and I have a number of longer writing projects I'm working on for that, both nonfiction and fiction. I'm also getting ready to launch another blog that will focus entirely on homeschooling, since that seems to be taking up a great deal of my time and attention these days, and I'm just at the very beginning of that journey!
But I also have opinions on politics and religion. I'd like to share some of my observations about what I see going on around me. I'd like to talk about the process of writing. I'd like a place where I can just be me and write whatever strikes my fancy, whether it's a profound insight on the human condition or a silly meme. As I continue to find my place as a religious writer, homeschool blogger, and novelist, I'd like to have one place to tie all that together.
So that's why I'd like you to bookmark and/or subscribe to the new home of Karen's Take on Life, the Universe, and Everything at www.KarenGoltz.com. (Creative, huh?)
I have ported all my archives (though not the comments--sorry!), and from now on, all future posts will be at www.KarenGoltz.com. I truly hope to see you over there!
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The A to Z of Me
I don't usually do random memes, but I saw this one over at Jenn Flynn-Shon's Randomness and Lunacy and decided to go for it.
So without further ado, here are twenty-six utterly useless facts about me.
Age: I just turned 40. I'm thrilled. Can't you tell?
Bed size: King. When Tom and I got married, he had two cats and I had two cats, and our respective cats had territory disputes. Even with all the extra space in the bed, it still wasn't enough. My two are still with us and his two have died, poorly replaced by a feline juvenile delinquent he picked up at an Iowa shelter. Now all three of them camp out on or against me, and leave him alone.
Chore you hate: Anything to do with cleaning. Seriously, I need to find room in the budget for a cleaning lady. Soon.
Dogs: I've never had one, but we like the idea of a big dog for the kids. Maybe someday when we achieve that magical combination of having a yard big enough to accommodate a big dog, stability enough to believe we won't be moving away from that yard anytime soon, and the disposable income sufficient to see to the dog's needs, then we'll do it. Of course, by then the kids will have moved out and have families of their own...
Essential to start my day: On January 2nd I gave up coffee in an attempt to beat the insomnia that's plagued me for the last twenty-five years. (It wasn't a New Year's resolution; that's just the day I ran out of coffee beans after weaning myself down from three cups to two to one.) Since then I've been experimenting with various herbal teas, but I haven't hit on a winner yet. So really, I have to admit that I haven't effectively started my day since January 1. (And no, I'm not sleeping any better.)
Favorite color: Green.
Gold or silver: I've always been partial to yellow gold. Silver, white gold, or platinum just doesn't look good with my skin tone.
House or apartment: We're renting a very nice house right now, and definitely have a strong preference for houses over apartments. I don't want to hear my neighbors, and I don't want them to be able to hear me. Maybe someday we'll buy, but not with housing prices being as stupid as they are right now.
Instruments played: Once upon a time I played a halfway decent campfire guitar. Maybe when my kids get a little older I'll break it out again and begin to teach them the basics. I don't think I've touched it (other than to move it from one house to another) in about twelve years.
Job title: Mommy, wife, homeschool teacher, household manager, writer, owner and editor-in-chief of Quiet Publications, treasurer and office manager of Quiet Software.
Kids: I've directly or indirectly referenced my kids in three of my answers so far. I've got a four-year-old son and a three-year-old daughter, and they are my life.
Live: Wherever it makes sense. Right now Nashua, New Hampshire, and hopefully that won't change anytime soon. This is where both Tom and I fell most at home.
Married: When some of my husband's siblings first met me they described me as the 'Female Tom.' I beg to differ. Tom is the 'Male Karen.' Neither one of us is perfect (thank goodness!) but we're perfect for each other.
I'll give you a moment to get over the sugar shock from that last one.
Never again: Rural ministry. I realize there are some decent congregations out there in rural areas (at least I've heard rumors to that effect) but my own experience was so toxic and damaging that my family and I are still dealing with the fallout three years later. It's extremely unlikely I'll ever serve in parish ministry again, but if I do, I'm looking at urban ministry, possibly suburban.
Other fun fact: Oh boy, what to do with this one. I've decided that 2013 is the Year of Quiet Publications. I've been writing a lot of devotions for the daily devotions feature I'll be relaunching on May 19, in the hopes that I'll have enough of a cushion that I won't fall behind again if (when) life gets in the way. I'm nearly finished editing a bible study I plan to publish, I'm working on a novel, and I've got to choose from half a dozen nonfiction projects I'm planning.
Pet peeve: Political extremism. As long as we're spending our efforts demonizing those who don't agree with us and uncritically justifying our own positions, nothing's going to get any better.
Quote: So many to choose from! "When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone; I cannot put my finger on it now. The child is grown; the dream is gone." -Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"
Righty or lefty: I'm a righty, but my mother was a lefty and taught me how to do everything as a lefty. So now I'm fairly ambidextrous, which I've found comes in pretty handy sometimes.
Siblings: None, and I hated it. That's why I knew I had to have at least two kids.
Time you wake up: Several times in the night. Lately I've been trying to get up at 7:30 so I can have some writing time before everyone else gets up.
University attended: Rhode Island College, UMass Amherst, UMass Boston, Fitchburg State College, Western New England College, Lesley College (actually graduated with a bachelor's!), Andover Newton Theological School, Boston University School of Theology, Wartburg Theological Seminary (actually graduated with a master's!), Northeastern University. Also sampled Boston College, Harvard Divinity School, and UMass Lowell. Maybe I ought to write another blog post explaining all that.
Veggies you dislike: I'm with Jenn on this one. Mushrooms--blech!
What makes you run late: My kids. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it, even though those who have known me for a while know that I've always run late, long before I had kids to blame it on.)
X-rays: I've had a few, but none recently.
Yum food: Peanut butter and dark chocolate. I've been known to take a spoonful of peanut butter (I use the kind that has one ingredient: peanuts) and scoop it up with little Dove Dark Promises. If I'm more in the mood for salty, then I pop popcorn the old fashioned way (in oil, on the stovetop) and flavor it with copious amounts of salt and melted butter.
Zoo animal favorite: It's been so long since I've been to a zoo that I can't honestly answer this. Guess I'll have to take my kids this spring and find out. I'll get back to you.
So without further ado, here are twenty-six utterly useless facts about me.
Age: I just turned 40. I'm thrilled. Can't you tell?
Bed size: King. When Tom and I got married, he had two cats and I had two cats, and our respective cats had territory disputes. Even with all the extra space in the bed, it still wasn't enough. My two are still with us and his two have died, poorly replaced by a feline juvenile delinquent he picked up at an Iowa shelter. Now all three of them camp out on or against me, and leave him alone.
Chore you hate: Anything to do with cleaning. Seriously, I need to find room in the budget for a cleaning lady. Soon.
Dogs: I've never had one, but we like the idea of a big dog for the kids. Maybe someday when we achieve that magical combination of having a yard big enough to accommodate a big dog, stability enough to believe we won't be moving away from that yard anytime soon, and the disposable income sufficient to see to the dog's needs, then we'll do it. Of course, by then the kids will have moved out and have families of their own...
Essential to start my day: On January 2nd I gave up coffee in an attempt to beat the insomnia that's plagued me for the last twenty-five years. (It wasn't a New Year's resolution; that's just the day I ran out of coffee beans after weaning myself down from three cups to two to one.) Since then I've been experimenting with various herbal teas, but I haven't hit on a winner yet. So really, I have to admit that I haven't effectively started my day since January 1. (And no, I'm not sleeping any better.)
Favorite color: Green.
Gold or silver: I've always been partial to yellow gold. Silver, white gold, or platinum just doesn't look good with my skin tone.
House or apartment: We're renting a very nice house right now, and definitely have a strong preference for houses over apartments. I don't want to hear my neighbors, and I don't want them to be able to hear me. Maybe someday we'll buy, but not with housing prices being as stupid as they are right now.
Instruments played: Once upon a time I played a halfway decent campfire guitar. Maybe when my kids get a little older I'll break it out again and begin to teach them the basics. I don't think I've touched it (other than to move it from one house to another) in about twelve years.
Job title: Mommy, wife, homeschool teacher, household manager, writer, owner and editor-in-chief of Quiet Publications, treasurer and office manager of Quiet Software.
Kids: I've directly or indirectly referenced my kids in three of my answers so far. I've got a four-year-old son and a three-year-old daughter, and they are my life.
Live: Wherever it makes sense. Right now Nashua, New Hampshire, and hopefully that won't change anytime soon. This is where both Tom and I fell most at home.
Married: When some of my husband's siblings first met me they described me as the 'Female Tom.' I beg to differ. Tom is the 'Male Karen.' Neither one of us is perfect (thank goodness!) but we're perfect for each other.
I'll give you a moment to get over the sugar shock from that last one.
Never again: Rural ministry. I realize there are some decent congregations out there in rural areas (at least I've heard rumors to that effect) but my own experience was so toxic and damaging that my family and I are still dealing with the fallout three years later. It's extremely unlikely I'll ever serve in parish ministry again, but if I do, I'm looking at urban ministry, possibly suburban.
Other fun fact: Oh boy, what to do with this one. I've decided that 2013 is the Year of Quiet Publications. I've been writing a lot of devotions for the daily devotions feature I'll be relaunching on May 19, in the hopes that I'll have enough of a cushion that I won't fall behind again if (when) life gets in the way. I'm nearly finished editing a bible study I plan to publish, I'm working on a novel, and I've got to choose from half a dozen nonfiction projects I'm planning.
Pet peeve: Political extremism. As long as we're spending our efforts demonizing those who don't agree with us and uncritically justifying our own positions, nothing's going to get any better.
Quote: So many to choose from! "When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone; I cannot put my finger on it now. The child is grown; the dream is gone." -Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"
Righty or lefty: I'm a righty, but my mother was a lefty and taught me how to do everything as a lefty. So now I'm fairly ambidextrous, which I've found comes in pretty handy sometimes.
Siblings: None, and I hated it. That's why I knew I had to have at least two kids.
Time you wake up: Several times in the night. Lately I've been trying to get up at 7:30 so I can have some writing time before everyone else gets up.
University attended: Rhode Island College, UMass Amherst, UMass Boston, Fitchburg State College, Western New England College, Lesley College (actually graduated with a bachelor's!), Andover Newton Theological School, Boston University School of Theology, Wartburg Theological Seminary (actually graduated with a master's!), Northeastern University. Also sampled Boston College, Harvard Divinity School, and UMass Lowell. Maybe I ought to write another blog post explaining all that.
Veggies you dislike: I'm with Jenn on this one. Mushrooms--blech!
What makes you run late: My kids. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it, even though those who have known me for a while know that I've always run late, long before I had kids to blame it on.)
X-rays: I've had a few, but none recently.
Yum food: Peanut butter and dark chocolate. I've been known to take a spoonful of peanut butter (I use the kind that has one ingredient: peanuts) and scoop it up with little Dove Dark Promises. If I'm more in the mood for salty, then I pop popcorn the old fashioned way (in oil, on the stovetop) and flavor it with copious amounts of salt and melted butter.
Zoo animal favorite: It's been so long since I've been to a zoo that I can't honestly answer this. Guess I'll have to take my kids this spring and find out. I'll get back to you.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Gollum's Idolatry: Paradigm of the Human Condition
Idolatry. Martin Luther understood it to mean anything in which we
put our trust and faith other than God. (Large Catechism) Idolatry is
the reason why God instituted the first commandment in the Decalogue: I am the Lord your God; you shall have no other gods. All other gods are idols.
The bible is full of examples of idolatry, the most famous perhaps being Aaron’s golden calf. After the split of the kingdom of Israel into the northern kingdom of Ephraim and the southern kingdom of Judah, the leader of Ephraim molded two golden calves (idols) for the people to worship. (1 Kings 12:26-29) Jesus alluded to the Pharisees’ rigid devotion to their religious traditions as idolatrous. (Matthew 15:3-9; 23:29-33; Luke 11:42-44; 20:17-19) In the epistles, idolatry is frequently listed among the sins that followers of Christ should avoid. (Romans 1:23-31; 1 Corinthians 6:9-10; Galatians 5:19-21)
In western theology idolatry is often equated with people’s focus on possessions, wealth, success, or their own power and autonomy. It’s a concept with which we’re familiar and which many of us, to a certain extent, can recognize in our own lives. Yet at the same time it’s easy for idolatry to remain merely a concept, disembodied and disengaged from the practice of daily life. It’s easy to ignore the implications of idolatry, and to avoid recognizing what kind of damage can come from engaging in it. It’s so embedded in our American culture, so saturating our common experiences that we’re blinded to its effects.
Literature provides us with characters who embody aspects of our lives that help us see with clarity, because of the natural distance between reader and story. The harmful effects of idolatry can more easily be recognized in a character who takes the concept of idolatry to extremes. One such fascinating character is Gollum.
Gollum, a.k.a. Smeágol, comes from the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien, and resides in the pages and on the screen in the epic Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit. Commonly mistaken as either an irredeemably evil creature or an innocent victim of malevolent forces beyond his control, Gollum/Smeágol is the most recognizably human of all Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings characters. Through this character we can see the somewhat extreme yet undeniably familiar consequences of idolatry, which in turn allows us a glimpse of our own experiences and the consequences that may result from the choices we make. Continue reading
The bible is full of examples of idolatry, the most famous perhaps being Aaron’s golden calf. After the split of the kingdom of Israel into the northern kingdom of Ephraim and the southern kingdom of Judah, the leader of Ephraim molded two golden calves (idols) for the people to worship. (1 Kings 12:26-29) Jesus alluded to the Pharisees’ rigid devotion to their religious traditions as idolatrous. (Matthew 15:3-9; 23:29-33; Luke 11:42-44; 20:17-19) In the epistles, idolatry is frequently listed among the sins that followers of Christ should avoid. (Romans 1:23-31; 1 Corinthians 6:9-10; Galatians 5:19-21)
In western theology idolatry is often equated with people’s focus on possessions, wealth, success, or their own power and autonomy. It’s a concept with which we’re familiar and which many of us, to a certain extent, can recognize in our own lives. Yet at the same time it’s easy for idolatry to remain merely a concept, disembodied and disengaged from the practice of daily life. It’s easy to ignore the implications of idolatry, and to avoid recognizing what kind of damage can come from engaging in it. It’s so embedded in our American culture, so saturating our common experiences that we’re blinded to its effects.
Literature provides us with characters who embody aspects of our lives that help us see with clarity, because of the natural distance between reader and story. The harmful effects of idolatry can more easily be recognized in a character who takes the concept of idolatry to extremes. One such fascinating character is Gollum.
Gollum, a.k.a. Smeágol, comes from the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien, and resides in the pages and on the screen in the epic Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit. Commonly mistaken as either an irredeemably evil creature or an innocent victim of malevolent forces beyond his control, Gollum/Smeágol is the most recognizably human of all Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings characters. Through this character we can see the somewhat extreme yet undeniably familiar consequences of idolatry, which in turn allows us a glimpse of our own experiences and the consequences that may result from the choices we make. Continue reading
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Time Capsule Challenge
Received via Farai Chideya and Tayari Jones. My assignment was to write about when I was staring down 30 and compare it to now (when I'm staring down 40).
THEN
A month before the big three-oh, I was on my pastoral internship in Edgemont, South Dakota. It was part of my Masters in Divinity program at Wartburg Theological Seminary. The population of Edgemont at that time was 864. I'd grown up in a suburb of Boston, where there were about 1200 students in my high school alone. Needless to say, I was suffering from some culture shock. I was also struggling with my pastoral identity, trying to figure out how this female ex-Catholic Bostonian could possibly minister to a congregation of rural Midwestern Lutherans. Being single, the isolation was difficult for me, and I was transitioning from a problem drinker into a full-blown alcoholic. I was also a smoker.
Even though I wanted to get married, I expected I'd remain single for the rest of my life. Before I'd begun preparing for ministry, I'd always had trouble attracting decent men. Once I added 'Pastor' to my identity, it was like I was radioactive. Most guys wanted nothing to do with someone in my profession. Additionally I was told by some well-meaning family members that my standards were too high. I decided I'd rather keep my high standards and remain single than settle into a bad marriage. I planned to adopt a daughter after I was firmly established in my first call, about two or three years down the line.
I didn't want to make South Dakota my permanent home, but I knew I never wanted to return to New England, where I'd never felt I belonged. I hoped for a call in Wisconsin or Iowa, where I would be a parish pastor in a smallish community (preferably with a population in the low thousands, rather than hundreds) and hopefully serve the same congregation for a very long time.
NOW
Ten years later I've burnt out on parish ministry after serving two congregations as called pastor and two more as interim. Only one of those congregations was in the Midwest, and it was the most toxic of the lot, essentially destroying any desire I might have to go back (to parish ministry or to the Midwest). I also quit smoking in 2003 and have been sober for over eight years. I'm happily married to a man who met my standards (what do you know--he did exist!), and I'm a stay-at-home homeschooling mom to our two young children. We're also living in New Hampshire, and are very happy here. It turns out New England is where I belonged after all.
I'm not letting my theological training go to waste, even as I acknowledge that parish ministry is not a good fit for me. I'm an active member of a local Lutheran congregation, where I occasionally teach adult bible studies. I also fill in for my pastor and other nearby colleagues when they need a Sunday off. Finally, I'm combining my theological training with my life-long love of writing. I'm in the process of launching my own publishing house where I will publish devotions, bible studies, worship resources, theological books, and even some fiction (which may or may not have a religious theme). Of course, that takes a backseat to being a wife and mother, two jobs that are MUCH more difficult than I'd ever imagined (but worth it nonetheless).
Would you like to participate in the Time Capsule Challenge? Leave a comment with your current age, and I'll give you an age to write about. If you're willing, please either write your response in a comment, or provide a link to your own page. Otherwise, just do this for your own edification. It's fun!
THEN
A month before the big three-oh, I was on my pastoral internship in Edgemont, South Dakota. It was part of my Masters in Divinity program at Wartburg Theological Seminary. The population of Edgemont at that time was 864. I'd grown up in a suburb of Boston, where there were about 1200 students in my high school alone. Needless to say, I was suffering from some culture shock. I was also struggling with my pastoral identity, trying to figure out how this female ex-Catholic Bostonian could possibly minister to a congregation of rural Midwestern Lutherans. Being single, the isolation was difficult for me, and I was transitioning from a problem drinker into a full-blown alcoholic. I was also a smoker.
Even though I wanted to get married, I expected I'd remain single for the rest of my life. Before I'd begun preparing for ministry, I'd always had trouble attracting decent men. Once I added 'Pastor' to my identity, it was like I was radioactive. Most guys wanted nothing to do with someone in my profession. Additionally I was told by some well-meaning family members that my standards were too high. I decided I'd rather keep my high standards and remain single than settle into a bad marriage. I planned to adopt a daughter after I was firmly established in my first call, about two or three years down the line.
I didn't want to make South Dakota my permanent home, but I knew I never wanted to return to New England, where I'd never felt I belonged. I hoped for a call in Wisconsin or Iowa, where I would be a parish pastor in a smallish community (preferably with a population in the low thousands, rather than hundreds) and hopefully serve the same congregation for a very long time.
NOW
Ten years later I've burnt out on parish ministry after serving two congregations as called pastor and two more as interim. Only one of those congregations was in the Midwest, and it was the most toxic of the lot, essentially destroying any desire I might have to go back (to parish ministry or to the Midwest). I also quit smoking in 2003 and have been sober for over eight years. I'm happily married to a man who met my standards (what do you know--he did exist!), and I'm a stay-at-home homeschooling mom to our two young children. We're also living in New Hampshire, and are very happy here. It turns out New England is where I belonged after all.
I'm not letting my theological training go to waste, even as I acknowledge that parish ministry is not a good fit for me. I'm an active member of a local Lutheran congregation, where I occasionally teach adult bible studies. I also fill in for my pastor and other nearby colleagues when they need a Sunday off. Finally, I'm combining my theological training with my life-long love of writing. I'm in the process of launching my own publishing house where I will publish devotions, bible studies, worship resources, theological books, and even some fiction (which may or may not have a religious theme). Of course, that takes a backseat to being a wife and mother, two jobs that are MUCH more difficult than I'd ever imagined (but worth it nonetheless).
Would you like to participate in the Time Capsule Challenge? Leave a comment with your current age, and I'll give you an age to write about. If you're willing, please either write your response in a comment, or provide a link to your own page. Otherwise, just do this for your own edification. It's fun!
Monday, May 14, 2012
Pastor Mama
Ever since I first discerned my call to ministry I have been concerned about my ability to maintain dual roles. To what extent would I be able to have friendships with people within my congregation, especially if I'm serving in a small town and my opportunities for friendships outside of my congregation are greatly limited? In the community, is everything I do seen as the Pastor of Such-and-Such Lutheran Church endorsing this or that, or are there times when I can just be Karen doing what she likes? If I ever get married (much to my surprise, this actually did happen), to what extent will my married life be on display? To what extent does my husband have to fill the traditional role of 'pastor's wife'? How can I protect my kids' right to be themselves and make their own mistakes?
Over time I worked out the answers to most of these questions. My internship was in a very small town, but the congregation understood itself to be training a not-quite-yet pastor, so there was never any question about my authority (I had none). That made it easier to make friends within the congregation, as they were able to see me as a person rather than THE PASTOR. The congregation where I served my first call was in a good-sized suburb just outside of Baltimore, and there were plenty of opportunities for me to make friends outside of the congregation (the fact that I didn't was my own fault). However, when I did do something in the community and was seen by someone in the congregation, my activities and behavior were analyzed and subjectively judged by various members based on how they believed a pastor should spend her free time; that was an ongoing problem for as long as I was there. My husband was allowed to define his own role as THE PASTOR'S FIANCE at the congregation I was serving when we became engaged, as well as at the congregation where I served my next interim (though by the second interim he had graduated from fiance to full-fledged PASTOR'S HUSBAND). Both interim congregations saw me as THE PASTOR, though they also both recognized me as a human being with a life of her own. I've come to realize just how rare and valuable a trait that is in a congregation. The last congregation I served believed it was their right and privilege to define my role as pastor, my role as a a person in the community, my husband's role as pastor's wife, and our role as parents. I think the only reason my kids were allowed to be themselves was because my son was less than two years old and my daughter was a newborn. That call didn't last long, and is the reason why I'm unlikely to ever serve in another congregation, and my husband wants nothing do to with church at all.
At the second interim and my last call, I was both PASTOR and MAMA. But at all times, when I needed to be the pastor, someone else was there to take over the kids. And when I had primary responsibility for the kids, I could usually put being the pastor on hold. I've never had to be both PASTOR and MAMA fully and simultaneously.
Until this past weekend.
A few months ago I was asked to serve as Chaplain for Camp Calumet's Moms and Kids weekend retreat. For some insane reason, I agreed. So there I was Friday night, showing up late for the retreat because my GPS put me on the wrong side of the lake from the camp. I'd had to call my husband on my cell phone and ask him to look up where I was on Google Maps and guide me verbally to where I was supposed to be. This took nearly thirty minutes of me driving a manual transmission one-handed down unfamiliar dark, windy, hilly roads while juggling a skinny little smart phone (no hands-free technology available) with two freaked out kids in the back seat because mama gets a little scary when she's really stressed out.
Needless to say I was not in a good state of mind when we finally made it to the camp, and I was really hoping I was late enough to have missed the devotion I was supposed to lead, because I didn't think I could possibly guide everyone through a calm, relaxing, meditative experience of centering prayer right then. Unfortunately I hadn't missed it. Fortunately we did about an hour of get-to-know-you games first. Usually I hate those games, but this time I was grateful that they allowed me the time to pull myself together enough to lead the centering prayer.
Of course, I didn't get to do any centering prayer. All the other kids were older and able to at least sit still and quietly during the extended silence; I learned the next day that some of the 9 to 13 year olds actually did the exercise as I'd instructed, and got something out of it. My kids, however, were 2 and 4, super-excited about being in a new place with new toys and new people, happy to be out of the car after a 3 hour drive, and up well past their bedtime. I had my hands full keeping them quiet enough to not completely disrupt the prayer. The fact that this was a group of moms praying probably helped; they're used to tuning out that kind of noise.
The kids were doing a separate activity the next morning when I was leading the bible study, so I was able to be PASTOR with no distractions. The rest of the day I got to be exclusively MAMA, since our evening devotion got redefined as the call to worship Sunday morning due to a conflict of geography and technology. (I needed an audio file on my laptop to help with the devotion, which was impossible once a critical mass of moms insisted that the devotion be moved from the room in the conference center where is was originally scheduled to on the beach, tacked on to the end of the campfire.)
The next morning was when my two roles collided. I was leading Sunday worship on the deck outside of the conference center. Hymnals, sermon, communion, the works. My kids had taken a real shine to another mom, who was there with her mother and her 8 year old son, and they graciously agreed to keep my kids with them while I led. Spencer was fine with that, especially once he realized that this other mom was happy to entertain him, rather than make him sit still in church the way I do. I decided to just be grateful for the help and not try to make her hold him to my (very-high-but-still-achievable) standards. But Naomi was having none of it.
The retreat director had found several volunteers to serve as assisting ministers, so after I led the order of confession and forgiveness and the prayer of the day, I got to sit down in the front row for a bit while other people did the readings. Naomi spent much of that time on my lap, occasionally getting down to go see what Spencer was doing, then coming back to my lap. She happened to be with her brother when the time came for the gospel reading and my sermon. I was ten seconds into the gospel reading when Naomi appeared before me with her arms up and a look on her face that told me she knew very well that I couldn't give her a time-out right then, and she was prepared to throw as much of a temper-tantrum as she needed to in order to get what she wanted. What could I do? I picked her up and continued to read the gospel as she laid a very contented head on my shoulder.
That head didn't remain contentedly on my shoulder for long. I was barely into my sermon when I was interrupted by a devastated wail right in my ear. I looked behind me and saw Teddy Bear (which is actually a pink lamb with a felt flower sewn onto its hand, but Naomi calls him 'Teddy Bear') had managed to launch himself off my shoulder, over the deck railing, and into a prickly bush on the ground below. The deck was low, but not low enough for me to reach Teddy Bear. Naomi was demonstrating just how much capacity her two and a half year old lungs had. I turned back to the somewhat bemused congregation and asked for a volunteer to go get Teddy Bear. Several of the older kids raced to the stairs, and the one who got there first continued down and around to the bush, retrieved Teddy Bear, passed him to me through the railing, then returned to his seat. I found where I'd left off on my sermon manuscript and continued on, Naomi once more contently resting her head on my shoulder and holding on very tightly to Blanket and Teddy Bear. (I think she believed me when I whispered to her that if Teddy Bear fell down again he was staying down, though I know I couldn't have stopped other people from embarking on another Teddy Bear Retrieval Mission if they'd deemed one necessary.) I preached an entire fifteen minute sermon holding my daughter in my arms behind the lectern that was serving as a pulpit. While everyone else stood for the hymn of the day, I sat, Naomi on my lap (until she got down to see what Spencer was up to again) shaking my sore right arm vigorously.
She reluctantly stayed with the other mom while I did the communion liturgy, but made herself something of an obstacle during the distribution. People coming to me for the bread had to step a little to the side and lean over her, because she was standing directly in front of me with her arms up again, wanting to be picked up. This time it wasn't going to happen. I can preach and turn the pages of my sermon manuscript one-handed--not so with ripping off small pieces of bread from a larger loaf and handing them to people one at a time. Eventually I paused in the distribution, put one hand on her head, and gave her my standard blessing for children and others not receiving communion, with a slight deviant addition: "May you always know God's love and care in all that you do. Now go stand over there please. Amen." And it actually worked! She went and stood over where I told her to. Ten seconds later Spencer was cutting the line and received the exact same blessing, word for word. It worked for him, too.
Mercifully the service ended shortly after that.
I am a textual preacher, and the text on Sunday never mentioned Mother's Day. I never mentioned Mother's Day, or mothers in general, in my sermon. But what better day to have the preacher preach with her child in her arms?
For all that I've struggled with dual roles, the final verdict is that I am KAREN. Sometimes I'm a whole host of other things, too. But on Mother's Day, 2012, at Camp Calumet, New Hampshire, I was PASTOR MAMA. And I'm good with that.
Over time I worked out the answers to most of these questions. My internship was in a very small town, but the congregation understood itself to be training a not-quite-yet pastor, so there was never any question about my authority (I had none). That made it easier to make friends within the congregation, as they were able to see me as a person rather than THE PASTOR. The congregation where I served my first call was in a good-sized suburb just outside of Baltimore, and there were plenty of opportunities for me to make friends outside of the congregation (the fact that I didn't was my own fault). However, when I did do something in the community and was seen by someone in the congregation, my activities and behavior were analyzed and subjectively judged by various members based on how they believed a pastor should spend her free time; that was an ongoing problem for as long as I was there. My husband was allowed to define his own role as THE PASTOR'S FIANCE at the congregation I was serving when we became engaged, as well as at the congregation where I served my next interim (though by the second interim he had graduated from fiance to full-fledged PASTOR'S HUSBAND). Both interim congregations saw me as THE PASTOR, though they also both recognized me as a human being with a life of her own. I've come to realize just how rare and valuable a trait that is in a congregation. The last congregation I served believed it was their right and privilege to define my role as pastor, my role as a a person in the community, my husband's role as pastor's wife, and our role as parents. I think the only reason my kids were allowed to be themselves was because my son was less than two years old and my daughter was a newborn. That call didn't last long, and is the reason why I'm unlikely to ever serve in another congregation, and my husband wants nothing do to with church at all.
At the second interim and my last call, I was both PASTOR and MAMA. But at all times, when I needed to be the pastor, someone else was there to take over the kids. And when I had primary responsibility for the kids, I could usually put being the pastor on hold. I've never had to be both PASTOR and MAMA fully and simultaneously.
Until this past weekend.
A few months ago I was asked to serve as Chaplain for Camp Calumet's Moms and Kids weekend retreat. For some insane reason, I agreed. So there I was Friday night, showing up late for the retreat because my GPS put me on the wrong side of the lake from the camp. I'd had to call my husband on my cell phone and ask him to look up where I was on Google Maps and guide me verbally to where I was supposed to be. This took nearly thirty minutes of me driving a manual transmission one-handed down unfamiliar dark, windy, hilly roads while juggling a skinny little smart phone (no hands-free technology available) with two freaked out kids in the back seat because mama gets a little scary when she's really stressed out.
Needless to say I was not in a good state of mind when we finally made it to the camp, and I was really hoping I was late enough to have missed the devotion I was supposed to lead, because I didn't think I could possibly guide everyone through a calm, relaxing, meditative experience of centering prayer right then. Unfortunately I hadn't missed it. Fortunately we did about an hour of get-to-know-you games first. Usually I hate those games, but this time I was grateful that they allowed me the time to pull myself together enough to lead the centering prayer.
Of course, I didn't get to do any centering prayer. All the other kids were older and able to at least sit still and quietly during the extended silence; I learned the next day that some of the 9 to 13 year olds actually did the exercise as I'd instructed, and got something out of it. My kids, however, were 2 and 4, super-excited about being in a new place with new toys and new people, happy to be out of the car after a 3 hour drive, and up well past their bedtime. I had my hands full keeping them quiet enough to not completely disrupt the prayer. The fact that this was a group of moms praying probably helped; they're used to tuning out that kind of noise.
The kids were doing a separate activity the next morning when I was leading the bible study, so I was able to be PASTOR with no distractions. The rest of the day I got to be exclusively MAMA, since our evening devotion got redefined as the call to worship Sunday morning due to a conflict of geography and technology. (I needed an audio file on my laptop to help with the devotion, which was impossible once a critical mass of moms insisted that the devotion be moved from the room in the conference center where is was originally scheduled to on the beach, tacked on to the end of the campfire.)
The next morning was when my two roles collided. I was leading Sunday worship on the deck outside of the conference center. Hymnals, sermon, communion, the works. My kids had taken a real shine to another mom, who was there with her mother and her 8 year old son, and they graciously agreed to keep my kids with them while I led. Spencer was fine with that, especially once he realized that this other mom was happy to entertain him, rather than make him sit still in church the way I do. I decided to just be grateful for the help and not try to make her hold him to my (very-high-but-still-achievable) standards. But Naomi was having none of it.
The retreat director had found several volunteers to serve as assisting ministers, so after I led the order of confession and forgiveness and the prayer of the day, I got to sit down in the front row for a bit while other people did the readings. Naomi spent much of that time on my lap, occasionally getting down to go see what Spencer was doing, then coming back to my lap. She happened to be with her brother when the time came for the gospel reading and my sermon. I was ten seconds into the gospel reading when Naomi appeared before me with her arms up and a look on her face that told me she knew very well that I couldn't give her a time-out right then, and she was prepared to throw as much of a temper-tantrum as she needed to in order to get what she wanted. What could I do? I picked her up and continued to read the gospel as she laid a very contented head on my shoulder.
That head didn't remain contentedly on my shoulder for long. I was barely into my sermon when I was interrupted by a devastated wail right in my ear. I looked behind me and saw Teddy Bear (which is actually a pink lamb with a felt flower sewn onto its hand, but Naomi calls him 'Teddy Bear') had managed to launch himself off my shoulder, over the deck railing, and into a prickly bush on the ground below. The deck was low, but not low enough for me to reach Teddy Bear. Naomi was demonstrating just how much capacity her two and a half year old lungs had. I turned back to the somewhat bemused congregation and asked for a volunteer to go get Teddy Bear. Several of the older kids raced to the stairs, and the one who got there first continued down and around to the bush, retrieved Teddy Bear, passed him to me through the railing, then returned to his seat. I found where I'd left off on my sermon manuscript and continued on, Naomi once more contently resting her head on my shoulder and holding on very tightly to Blanket and Teddy Bear. (I think she believed me when I whispered to her that if Teddy Bear fell down again he was staying down, though I know I couldn't have stopped other people from embarking on another Teddy Bear Retrieval Mission if they'd deemed one necessary.) I preached an entire fifteen minute sermon holding my daughter in my arms behind the lectern that was serving as a pulpit. While everyone else stood for the hymn of the day, I sat, Naomi on my lap (until she got down to see what Spencer was up to again) shaking my sore right arm vigorously.
She reluctantly stayed with the other mom while I did the communion liturgy, but made herself something of an obstacle during the distribution. People coming to me for the bread had to step a little to the side and lean over her, because she was standing directly in front of me with her arms up again, wanting to be picked up. This time it wasn't going to happen. I can preach and turn the pages of my sermon manuscript one-handed--not so with ripping off small pieces of bread from a larger loaf and handing them to people one at a time. Eventually I paused in the distribution, put one hand on her head, and gave her my standard blessing for children and others not receiving communion, with a slight deviant addition: "May you always know God's love and care in all that you do. Now go stand over there please. Amen." And it actually worked! She went and stood over where I told her to. Ten seconds later Spencer was cutting the line and received the exact same blessing, word for word. It worked for him, too.
Mercifully the service ended shortly after that.
I am a textual preacher, and the text on Sunday never mentioned Mother's Day. I never mentioned Mother's Day, or mothers in general, in my sermon. But what better day to have the preacher preach with her child in her arms?
For all that I've struggled with dual roles, the final verdict is that I am KAREN. Sometimes I'm a whole host of other things, too. But on Mother's Day, 2012, at Camp Calumet, New Hampshire, I was PASTOR MAMA. And I'm good with that.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Identifying with the Church-Harmed
I've been doing a lot of pulpit supply since I returned to Massachusetts, mostly at the church where I'm a sort-of member. I've actually preached there five Sundays out of the last seven, which is good, because I never could have preached the sermon I preached on Sunday if I weren't known to and had established trust with the congregation. In order to preach the sermon I was led to preach, I had to get personal, and I don't do that with congregations I don't know.
The gospel lesson I was preaching on was from Matthew, when Jesus asks his disciples, "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" and then, "But who do you say that I am?" (The full passage was Matthew 16:13-20, if you're interested.) When preparing to write the sermon, I found a note written next to this passage in my bible, probably from a text study I attended years ago: Outsiders' opinion of Jesus. Why does the Church today need to hear what non-church people say about the Church? What do we do with that information? And with that old notation, the direction for my sermon was set. I needed to explore what Christians do that give non-Christians the impression that we're angry, unhappy, judgmental hypocrites, or else simplistic and too stupid to really understand what's going on around us (because let's face it: when you see Christians depicted in movies and on television, that's usually how we're portrayed). Sure, there are the obvious culprits like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, but we can't lay all the blame at their feet. There are a lot of ordinary, non-famous and non-controversial Christians out there who do a lot of harm to others, and give both Christianity and God a bad name while doing so.
And that's where my sermon had to get personal. I am one of the Church-harmed, and my own story demonstrates the point I was trying to make better than an over-the-top Falwell or Robertson foot-in-mouth moment that most people can simply dismiss as idiocy.
I was first harmed by the Church (my capitalization here is intentional) when I was thirteen years old. I'd been attending CCD at the same Catholic Church since kindergarten, at the same church I'd been baptized in, and where my parents had been married. At the beginning of 8th grade they signed me up for CCD automatically, but no one bothered to tell me where and when to report. So I missed the first class. The next day in Social Studies several schoolmates, who were also in that CCD class, told me that the teacher (CCD wasn't taught by the priest) had told everyone there that I was the spawn of the devil because I obviously didn't care about learning about God, and that their eternal souls would be at risk if they associated with me. Fortunately for me, they weren't too worried about their eternal souls, so I didn't lose any friends over this. That church did lose a member (me only--my parents had already stopped going because the Church didn't recognize their divorce), and once I got confirmed later that year (at another Catholic Church in the center of town--my mother made me), I left the Catholic Church and never looked back.
The second time was four years later, when I was attending an evangelical church with a friend. We were going on a ski trip to Vermont, but the bus that had been chartered to take us there never showed up. The youth pastor organized us into cars driven by adult volunteers, without informing our parents of the change. The volunteer driving the car I was in drove recklessly and caused a serious accident. No one was killed, but I missed nearly two months of school recovering from my injuries, and then spent several more months unable to walk without the assistance of crutches or a cane. My mother sued the church, and I was then informed by some of the leadership that I was an unrepentant sinner beyond all hope of salvation.
Fast forward through my years of atheism, militant church-hating, and then eventual return and even (shock, horror, and awe) ordination, to a first call with a workaholic senior pastor who was unable to share leadership and allow me the autonomy to minister according to my own gifts, to a second call at a level three conflict congregation (a fact that was known to the synod, but was hidden from me). Because I wasn't aware of the dynamics going in, I didn't provide the correct leadership for that level of conflict, and it quickly became level four. That last experience caused serious spiritual harm to me and to my family, and has me questioning whether or not I ever want to have anything to do with congregational ministry again.
And the reason I put all of this into my sermon is because all this harm was caused by other Christians, and we as Christians need to know that our words and our actions matter. I called myself one of the Church-harmed earlier, because I've discovered that there's a disturbingly large number of people who have been harmed by the Church in similar ways. We are pastors who have been spiritually and emotionally destroyed by abusive congregations. We are church members who have been exploited and condemned by abusive pastors. We are seekers who have been judged and convicted by well-meaning believers who are convinced that their understanding alone is sufficient to determine who is worthy of God's love, and who is not. We are still on the fringes, trying to find our place in the Church. We are seeking acceptance and belonging in secular circles, wanting nothing to do with the Church. We're okay with God, but don't want anything to do with the people of God. We're not okay with God, because who wants to be okay with a God who lets his* people treat others like that? Or it doesn't matter if we're okay with God or not, because our experiences with Christians have convinced us that there is no God.
I now identify with this group. And who knows--maybe my calling as a pastor is to reach out to others like me, and to make sure a part of the Church is safe for those who have been harmed by it before.
Assuming the Church doesn't totally beat me down first.
*I disagree with the current efforts to use only gender-neutral language for God, but I'll save that for another post at a later time.
The gospel lesson I was preaching on was from Matthew, when Jesus asks his disciples, "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" and then, "But who do you say that I am?" (The full passage was Matthew 16:13-20, if you're interested.) When preparing to write the sermon, I found a note written next to this passage in my bible, probably from a text study I attended years ago: Outsiders' opinion of Jesus. Why does the Church today need to hear what non-church people say about the Church? What do we do with that information? And with that old notation, the direction for my sermon was set. I needed to explore what Christians do that give non-Christians the impression that we're angry, unhappy, judgmental hypocrites, or else simplistic and too stupid to really understand what's going on around us (because let's face it: when you see Christians depicted in movies and on television, that's usually how we're portrayed). Sure, there are the obvious culprits like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, but we can't lay all the blame at their feet. There are a lot of ordinary, non-famous and non-controversial Christians out there who do a lot of harm to others, and give both Christianity and God a bad name while doing so.
And that's where my sermon had to get personal. I am one of the Church-harmed, and my own story demonstrates the point I was trying to make better than an over-the-top Falwell or Robertson foot-in-mouth moment that most people can simply dismiss as idiocy.
I was first harmed by the Church (my capitalization here is intentional) when I was thirteen years old. I'd been attending CCD at the same Catholic Church since kindergarten, at the same church I'd been baptized in, and where my parents had been married. At the beginning of 8th grade they signed me up for CCD automatically, but no one bothered to tell me where and when to report. So I missed the first class. The next day in Social Studies several schoolmates, who were also in that CCD class, told me that the teacher (CCD wasn't taught by the priest) had told everyone there that I was the spawn of the devil because I obviously didn't care about learning about God, and that their eternal souls would be at risk if they associated with me. Fortunately for me, they weren't too worried about their eternal souls, so I didn't lose any friends over this. That church did lose a member (me only--my parents had already stopped going because the Church didn't recognize their divorce), and once I got confirmed later that year (at another Catholic Church in the center of town--my mother made me), I left the Catholic Church and never looked back.
The second time was four years later, when I was attending an evangelical church with a friend. We were going on a ski trip to Vermont, but the bus that had been chartered to take us there never showed up. The youth pastor organized us into cars driven by adult volunteers, without informing our parents of the change. The volunteer driving the car I was in drove recklessly and caused a serious accident. No one was killed, but I missed nearly two months of school recovering from my injuries, and then spent several more months unable to walk without the assistance of crutches or a cane. My mother sued the church, and I was then informed by some of the leadership that I was an unrepentant sinner beyond all hope of salvation.
Fast forward through my years of atheism, militant church-hating, and then eventual return and even (shock, horror, and awe) ordination, to a first call with a workaholic senior pastor who was unable to share leadership and allow me the autonomy to minister according to my own gifts, to a second call at a level three conflict congregation (a fact that was known to the synod, but was hidden from me). Because I wasn't aware of the dynamics going in, I didn't provide the correct leadership for that level of conflict, and it quickly became level four. That last experience caused serious spiritual harm to me and to my family, and has me questioning whether or not I ever want to have anything to do with congregational ministry again.
And the reason I put all of this into my sermon is because all this harm was caused by other Christians, and we as Christians need to know that our words and our actions matter. I called myself one of the Church-harmed earlier, because I've discovered that there's a disturbingly large number of people who have been harmed by the Church in similar ways. We are pastors who have been spiritually and emotionally destroyed by abusive congregations. We are church members who have been exploited and condemned by abusive pastors. We are seekers who have been judged and convicted by well-meaning believers who are convinced that their understanding alone is sufficient to determine who is worthy of God's love, and who is not. We are still on the fringes, trying to find our place in the Church. We are seeking acceptance and belonging in secular circles, wanting nothing to do with the Church. We're okay with God, but don't want anything to do with the people of God. We're not okay with God, because who wants to be okay with a God who lets his* people treat others like that? Or it doesn't matter if we're okay with God or not, because our experiences with Christians have convinced us that there is no God.
I now identify with this group. And who knows--maybe my calling as a pastor is to reach out to others like me, and to make sure a part of the Church is safe for those who have been harmed by it before.
Assuming the Church doesn't totally beat me down first.
*I disagree with the current efforts to use only gender-neutral language for God, but I'll save that for another post at a later time.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Context, Costume, and Identity
Under the best of circumstances, my children's sermons suck. This past Sunday was no exception. And it was not the best of circumstances.
I'd just invited the children to come forward, and they'd all come up (all four of them--not bad, actually, for the middle of summer) and assembled themselves in a line, sitting on the stair leading up to the chancel area. I took a breath and opened my mouth, about to launch into my vain attempt to be interesting and informative to the average six year old, when one of them spoke up and demanded, "Where's the pastor?"
I was the only adult standing, I'd led the liturgy up to this point (with the assisting minister and reader--great lay leadership and participation in this congregation!), my clerical collar peeked out the top of my alb, and my stole matched (more or less) the paraments on the pulpit and altar. Several people in the congregation snickered in their amusement as I said to the child, "I'm the pastor." He looked at me in stark disbelief, and I heard more snickering as I found myself having to explain, "I know I'm not your regular pastor, but he's on vacation, and I'm filling in while he's away." The kid seemed to accept that, and I was finally able to launch into my poorly crafted children's sermon, which flopped as usual, and then they were free to go back to their seats and I was free to go back to my comfort zone in the pulpit. But that child's question, and the fact that he hadn't recognized me as pastor even while I was in full costume and doing all the things a pastor does during worship stuck with me.
Anyone can wear the costume and say they're a pastor, but that doesn't mean they are one. Even someone wearing all the appropriate clothes and doing all the appropriate things in a worship setting can just as easily be an imposter.
That innocent question from a confused child had exposed me for what I'd been feeling like all along. When I don the uniform and stand up there on Sunday mornings, I feel like an imposter. Even though I'm technically in good standing with my roster status listed as "On Leave From Call - Family Leave," I also can't forget that some have labeled me (and I've labeled myself, if I'm going to be honest about it) as a "failed pastor." My last call went horribly wrong for a variety of reasons, and I enjoyed no coverage or support from my bishop or his staff. It's unclear if I could get another call now even if I wanted to (which, right now, I most certainly do not want). I've done nothing pastoral for a solid year (no preaching, no worship planning or leadership, no teaching, no visiting, nothing). The moment I returned to Massachusetts and made myself known to a few pastors in the New England Synod, I was immediately sucked back into the vortex of pulpit supply. But despite the three weeks I've already served as substitute pastor, with two more to go (and still counting), I've not felt like a pastor. At all.
An hour and a half after that six year old asked me that question, I showed up for the last day's programming of Readercon 22.
Readercon is an annual convention of science fiction and fantasy writers and fans. Unlike other science fiction conventions, Readercon focuses almost exclusively on the craft of writing. I learned about it from my husband, who is an avid reader of the genre. I have nothing against science fiction myself, but it's never particularly grabbed me, either. However, because Readercon focuses so heavily on the craft of writing, most of the panels are of interest to a nonfiction writer and aspiring writer of literary (opposed to speculative) fiction, like me.
I'd attended the previous two days of programming as well, and I'd pretty much blended into the scenery. On Sunday, however, I'd come straight from worship, and even though I'd left my stole, alb, and pectoral cross in the car, I was still wearing my tabbed black clergy shirt and black skirt. This time, I was noticed.
Why didn't I de-tab before going in? I could have. But I think I was rebelling against an anti-religious sentiment that had been pervading the entire convention. Earlier in the weekend, at different panels, I'd heard religion (particularly Christianity) referred to as -- at best -- a "silly superstition" and -- at worst -- a "dangerous colonial imperialism" that "oppressed" people. The context was inappropriate for a debate on the merits of my particular theology, but I was in no mood to hide my beliefs, either. I had a legitimate reason to be wearing that collar; I wasn't about to 'camouflage' my uniform because many of the people there didn't think much of what it represented.
The reaction to me was mixed. Some people asked me, politely and (I interpreted) out of genuine curiosity, what brought me to Readercon. I recognize that some of the anti-religious sentiment was triggered by some Christians' very vocal opposition to the science fiction and fantasy genres as a whole. All of it has been categorically dismissed as 'pagan' or 'devil-inspired.' My presence was a curiosity, and my uniform combined with my bearing and manner (i.e. I was engaging with the panels the way everyone else was, rather than pounding a bible and threatening hell and damnation on everyone who wouldn't repent and be saved) made me an approachable representative of Christianity. Some talked to me about religion. Others disregarded my attire and talked to me as a human being (how refreshing!). Others gave me a very wide berth when I walked down the hallway. But no one attacked me.
And through it all, it felt right to me. I knew I was wearing 'distinctive' clothing, but it felt more like a uniform than a costume. I felt like the clerical collar represented who I was and what I believed. As I talked with people, I was even able to bring legitimacy to my claims of being a writer because of the writing I've done in the course of my ministry. I'm a writer who ministers. I'm a minister who writes. I can't do one without the other.
Officially, I'm in a period of discernment as I focus on raising my kids. (At least that's my justification for staying on the roster, rather than just dropping off.) I think what I need to discern is why I feel more like a pastor at a gathering of non-religious science fiction writers and fans, but I feel like an imposter at church. What is my calling, anyway?
I'd just invited the children to come forward, and they'd all come up (all four of them--not bad, actually, for the middle of summer) and assembled themselves in a line, sitting on the stair leading up to the chancel area. I took a breath and opened my mouth, about to launch into my vain attempt to be interesting and informative to the average six year old, when one of them spoke up and demanded, "Where's the pastor?"
I was the only adult standing, I'd led the liturgy up to this point (with the assisting minister and reader--great lay leadership and participation in this congregation!), my clerical collar peeked out the top of my alb, and my stole matched (more or less) the paraments on the pulpit and altar. Several people in the congregation snickered in their amusement as I said to the child, "I'm the pastor." He looked at me in stark disbelief, and I heard more snickering as I found myself having to explain, "I know I'm not your regular pastor, but he's on vacation, and I'm filling in while he's away." The kid seemed to accept that, and I was finally able to launch into my poorly crafted children's sermon, which flopped as usual, and then they were free to go back to their seats and I was free to go back to my comfort zone in the pulpit. But that child's question, and the fact that he hadn't recognized me as pastor even while I was in full costume and doing all the things a pastor does during worship stuck with me.
Anyone can wear the costume and say they're a pastor, but that doesn't mean they are one. Even someone wearing all the appropriate clothes and doing all the appropriate things in a worship setting can just as easily be an imposter.
That innocent question from a confused child had exposed me for what I'd been feeling like all along. When I don the uniform and stand up there on Sunday mornings, I feel like an imposter. Even though I'm technically in good standing with my roster status listed as "On Leave From Call - Family Leave," I also can't forget that some have labeled me (and I've labeled myself, if I'm going to be honest about it) as a "failed pastor." My last call went horribly wrong for a variety of reasons, and I enjoyed no coverage or support from my bishop or his staff. It's unclear if I could get another call now even if I wanted to (which, right now, I most certainly do not want). I've done nothing pastoral for a solid year (no preaching, no worship planning or leadership, no teaching, no visiting, nothing). The moment I returned to Massachusetts and made myself known to a few pastors in the New England Synod, I was immediately sucked back into the vortex of pulpit supply. But despite the three weeks I've already served as substitute pastor, with two more to go (and still counting), I've not felt like a pastor. At all.
An hour and a half after that six year old asked me that question, I showed up for the last day's programming of Readercon 22.
Readercon is an annual convention of science fiction and fantasy writers and fans. Unlike other science fiction conventions, Readercon focuses almost exclusively on the craft of writing. I learned about it from my husband, who is an avid reader of the genre. I have nothing against science fiction myself, but it's never particularly grabbed me, either. However, because Readercon focuses so heavily on the craft of writing, most of the panels are of interest to a nonfiction writer and aspiring writer of literary (opposed to speculative) fiction, like me.
I'd attended the previous two days of programming as well, and I'd pretty much blended into the scenery. On Sunday, however, I'd come straight from worship, and even though I'd left my stole, alb, and pectoral cross in the car, I was still wearing my tabbed black clergy shirt and black skirt. This time, I was noticed.
Why didn't I de-tab before going in? I could have. But I think I was rebelling against an anti-religious sentiment that had been pervading the entire convention. Earlier in the weekend, at different panels, I'd heard religion (particularly Christianity) referred to as -- at best -- a "silly superstition" and -- at worst -- a "dangerous colonial imperialism" that "oppressed" people. The context was inappropriate for a debate on the merits of my particular theology, but I was in no mood to hide my beliefs, either. I had a legitimate reason to be wearing that collar; I wasn't about to 'camouflage' my uniform because many of the people there didn't think much of what it represented.
The reaction to me was mixed. Some people asked me, politely and (I interpreted) out of genuine curiosity, what brought me to Readercon. I recognize that some of the anti-religious sentiment was triggered by some Christians' very vocal opposition to the science fiction and fantasy genres as a whole. All of it has been categorically dismissed as 'pagan' or 'devil-inspired.' My presence was a curiosity, and my uniform combined with my bearing and manner (i.e. I was engaging with the panels the way everyone else was, rather than pounding a bible and threatening hell and damnation on everyone who wouldn't repent and be saved) made me an approachable representative of Christianity. Some talked to me about religion. Others disregarded my attire and talked to me as a human being (how refreshing!). Others gave me a very wide berth when I walked down the hallway. But no one attacked me.
And through it all, it felt right to me. I knew I was wearing 'distinctive' clothing, but it felt more like a uniform than a costume. I felt like the clerical collar represented who I was and what I believed. As I talked with people, I was even able to bring legitimacy to my claims of being a writer because of the writing I've done in the course of my ministry. I'm a writer who ministers. I'm a minister who writes. I can't do one without the other.
Officially, I'm in a period of discernment as I focus on raising my kids. (At least that's my justification for staying on the roster, rather than just dropping off.) I think what I need to discern is why I feel more like a pastor at a gathering of non-religious science fiction writers and fans, but I feel like an imposter at church. What is my calling, anyway?
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Faithfully Insane
One commonly accepted definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
I think I'm there.
I attended church this past Sunday morning, and I was very moved by the temple talk given by a young woman who is just finishing up her first year of college. She was talking about campus ministry, and how helpful it's been for her. She began sobbing as she described her difficulty transitioning into adulthood, and how angry she was at everyone else for being fine. She described how she was attending church regularly and praying every day, and how angry she was at God for ignoring her prayers, and for being totally useless in comforting her and helping her to find her way.
I found myself sobbing along with her, my own eyes filled with tears, because I could relate. I'm well beyond the whole transitioning-into-adulthood thing, but I'm very familiar with the feeling of not being fine when everyone else seems to be, and with yearning for God's mercy and receiving at best silence or at worst more pain.
She talked about how a peer minister with her college's campus ministry had reached out to her and got her involved in serving others. She talked about how she began to see God's love in the people she helped, and the people she served with. She talked about how she's now become a peer minister and council member herself, and how even though some of the work of leading the ministry is tedious (three-hour council meetings) she is still aware of God's presence and love in the people around her.
That's what I want. That's what I've always wanted, first as a parishioner, then as a pastor.
I've never really experienced it.
I was humiliated and shunned by the Catholic church of my elementary school days. I was ostracized by the Evangelical church of my high school days. I got mired in the inertia at the UCC church of my discernment days. I was too stressed and depressed to notice much good during my internship days. I suffered through an utterly demoralizing personality conflict with the senior pastor at my first call. I experienced it briefly when I served as an interim in New Hampshire, but that was by design temporary, and could not last. Both I and my husband were violently rejected by the people at my most recent call.
From the UCC experience onward, I was in service with and to the people of God. Each time I was hurt by the church--ignored, judged, or even outright attacked--and I wondered how God could let people who call themselves Christians do this to me. Didn't they realize they were acting in God's name? Didn't God realize it and want such misrepresentation to stop? And each time I remembered that the church is a congregation of sinners (including me), and none of us is perfect. So I'd do my best to forgive (I still have a long way to go for some), and I'd hope that I'd find a gathering of God's people who would welcome me, hurt and wounded as I am, and be Christ for me as I tried to be Christ for them, as I was taught all baptized Christians are called to do, ordained or not. And I'd go someplace else, holding onto that hope, and get used and abused again.
And here I am, at a new congregation, getting misty-eyed at the testimony of a young woman who seems to have found what I've been seeking. Yes, I'm a little jealous of her (back to that bit about everyone else seeming to be fine when I'm not). And I found myself fighting the tears, because I didn't want anyone in the congregation to see me crying. That's a weakness, and my experience tells me that church people exploit weakness just as well as non-church people do. It's much safer to keep the walls up, and keep your vulnerability hidden.
The pastor came up to me afterwards and asked me how this morning went for me. He knows some of my story, knows I'm pretty fragile right now, and I think he saw the wadded up tissue in my hand. I told him that the service had struck a tender spot, and I was struggling a bit. He assured me that I was in the loving arms of Trinity, and I was safe.
I might be insane, but I find myself daring to hope that he's right.
I think I'm there.
I attended church this past Sunday morning, and I was very moved by the temple talk given by a young woman who is just finishing up her first year of college. She was talking about campus ministry, and how helpful it's been for her. She began sobbing as she described her difficulty transitioning into adulthood, and how angry she was at everyone else for being fine. She described how she was attending church regularly and praying every day, and how angry she was at God for ignoring her prayers, and for being totally useless in comforting her and helping her to find her way.
I found myself sobbing along with her, my own eyes filled with tears, because I could relate. I'm well beyond the whole transitioning-into-adulthood thing, but I'm very familiar with the feeling of not being fine when everyone else seems to be, and with yearning for God's mercy and receiving at best silence or at worst more pain.
She talked about how a peer minister with her college's campus ministry had reached out to her and got her involved in serving others. She talked about how she began to see God's love in the people she helped, and the people she served with. She talked about how she's now become a peer minister and council member herself, and how even though some of the work of leading the ministry is tedious (three-hour council meetings) she is still aware of God's presence and love in the people around her.
That's what I want. That's what I've always wanted, first as a parishioner, then as a pastor.
I've never really experienced it.
I was humiliated and shunned by the Catholic church of my elementary school days. I was ostracized by the Evangelical church of my high school days. I got mired in the inertia at the UCC church of my discernment days. I was too stressed and depressed to notice much good during my internship days. I suffered through an utterly demoralizing personality conflict with the senior pastor at my first call. I experienced it briefly when I served as an interim in New Hampshire, but that was by design temporary, and could not last. Both I and my husband were violently rejected by the people at my most recent call.
From the UCC experience onward, I was in service with and to the people of God. Each time I was hurt by the church--ignored, judged, or even outright attacked--and I wondered how God could let people who call themselves Christians do this to me. Didn't they realize they were acting in God's name? Didn't God realize it and want such misrepresentation to stop? And each time I remembered that the church is a congregation of sinners (including me), and none of us is perfect. So I'd do my best to forgive (I still have a long way to go for some), and I'd hope that I'd find a gathering of God's people who would welcome me, hurt and wounded as I am, and be Christ for me as I tried to be Christ for them, as I was taught all baptized Christians are called to do, ordained or not. And I'd go someplace else, holding onto that hope, and get used and abused again.
And here I am, at a new congregation, getting misty-eyed at the testimony of a young woman who seems to have found what I've been seeking. Yes, I'm a little jealous of her (back to that bit about everyone else seeming to be fine when I'm not). And I found myself fighting the tears, because I didn't want anyone in the congregation to see me crying. That's a weakness, and my experience tells me that church people exploit weakness just as well as non-church people do. It's much safer to keep the walls up, and keep your vulnerability hidden.
The pastor came up to me afterwards and asked me how this morning went for me. He knows some of my story, knows I'm pretty fragile right now, and I think he saw the wadded up tissue in my hand. I told him that the service had struck a tender spot, and I was struggling a bit. He assured me that I was in the loving arms of Trinity, and I was safe.
I might be insane, but I find myself daring to hope that he's right.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Not Such a Simple Question
Where are you from?
It seems like such a simple, basic, innocuous question. Where are you from?
What is the information sought by asking this question? Does the asker want to know where I was born? Where I live currently? What city/state/region/country/continent/planet plays a major role in defining my identity?
I've struggled frequently when asked this question. Most of my life has been spent in the Boston area, and how I've answered this question has depended on the zip code I was physically standing in when I was asked. If I was somewhere in the Boston area and I was asked the question, I usually answered with the name of the city or town I resided in at that moment. If I was anywhere outside of the greater Boston area, I answered by saying, "I'm from Boston," even though I've never actually lived in Boston proper. I've lived in places temporarily (summer jobs or internships out of state), and I've lived in places where the culture was so discordant with my own that I felt I had to explain myself: "Well, I live in such and such, but I'm actually from there and so." I lived in one place (South Dakota) where my state of origin (Massachusetts) was so distrusted that I answered with the name of the state I'd lived in most recently (Iowa). [Even though I'd long since lost my accent and probably could have passed for an Iowan, my internship supervisor ratted me out!]
So here's the long answer to the question of where I'm from (partly to document the insanity of my life, and partly to attempt an honest answer to the question above). To keep this to a reasonable length, this is a list rather than a narrative. Each listing indicates a separate address. (If I lived there for at least three months, even if I had another residence, it made the list. If I lived there for less than three months, but had my mail sent there and had no other address, it also made the list. Different dwellings on the same college campus are listed separately, because if I had to pack up my crap and move it, it counts, dammit!)
CHILDHOOD
1. Arlington, MA
2. Arlington, MA
3. Arlington, MA
4. Arlington, MA
5. Providence, RI (one semester)
6. Amherst, MA (one semester)
ADULTHOOD
7. Arlington, MA
8. Arlington, MA
9. Arlington, MA (same as #7--my first attempt at solo living failed and I moved back home)
10. Somerville, MA
11. Everett, MA
12. Acton, MA
13. Shirley, MA
14. Leominster, MA
15. Leominster, MA
16. Allston, MA
17. Ferryville, WI (summer only)
18. Dubuque, IA
19. Binford, ND (summer only)
20. Dubuque, IA
21. Bloomington, IL (summer only)
22. Edgemont, SD
23. Dubuque, IA
24. Perry Hall, MD
25. Perry Hall, MD
26. Ocean Springs, MS
27. Medford, MA
28. Revere, MA
29. Marshfield, MA
30. Nashua, NH
31. Dubuque, IA
32. Moville, IA
33. Big Flats, NY
34. Harvard, MA
OK, I need to take a moment to go and cry a little bit. [sob, sniffle, sob] I'm back. No wonder I have such a visceral reaction to boxes!
Anyway, the truth is that all of these places have played a part in who I am, and have helped me discover who I'm not. There are places on that list that I remember fondly, and there are others that I'll go out of my way to avoid ever going near again.
My current residence in Harvard is not permanent, but hopefully it's not short term, either (I know, I've said that before!). And hopefully our next move will be the last one, and still in this general area. Because if you ask me now, "Where are you from?" I answer simply; I answer proudly.
I'm from Boston.
It seems like such a simple, basic, innocuous question. Where are you from?
What is the information sought by asking this question? Does the asker want to know where I was born? Where I live currently? What city/state/region/country/continent/planet plays a major role in defining my identity?
I've struggled frequently when asked this question. Most of my life has been spent in the Boston area, and how I've answered this question has depended on the zip code I was physically standing in when I was asked. If I was somewhere in the Boston area and I was asked the question, I usually answered with the name of the city or town I resided in at that moment. If I was anywhere outside of the greater Boston area, I answered by saying, "I'm from Boston," even though I've never actually lived in Boston proper. I've lived in places temporarily (summer jobs or internships out of state), and I've lived in places where the culture was so discordant with my own that I felt I had to explain myself: "Well, I live in such and such, but I'm actually from there and so." I lived in one place (South Dakota) where my state of origin (Massachusetts) was so distrusted that I answered with the name of the state I'd lived in most recently (Iowa). [Even though I'd long since lost my accent and probably could have passed for an Iowan, my internship supervisor ratted me out!]
So here's the long answer to the question of where I'm from (partly to document the insanity of my life, and partly to attempt an honest answer to the question above). To keep this to a reasonable length, this is a list rather than a narrative. Each listing indicates a separate address. (If I lived there for at least three months, even if I had another residence, it made the list. If I lived there for less than three months, but had my mail sent there and had no other address, it also made the list. Different dwellings on the same college campus are listed separately, because if I had to pack up my crap and move it, it counts, dammit!)
CHILDHOOD
1. Arlington, MA
2. Arlington, MA
3. Arlington, MA
4. Arlington, MA
5. Providence, RI (one semester)
6. Amherst, MA (one semester)
ADULTHOOD
7. Arlington, MA
8. Arlington, MA
9. Arlington, MA (same as #7--my first attempt at solo living failed and I moved back home)
10. Somerville, MA
11. Everett, MA
12. Acton, MA
13. Shirley, MA
14. Leominster, MA
15. Leominster, MA
16. Allston, MA
17. Ferryville, WI (summer only)
18. Dubuque, IA
19. Binford, ND (summer only)
20. Dubuque, IA
21. Bloomington, IL (summer only)
22. Edgemont, SD
23. Dubuque, IA
24. Perry Hall, MD
25. Perry Hall, MD
26. Ocean Springs, MS
27. Medford, MA
28. Revere, MA
29. Marshfield, MA
30. Nashua, NH
31. Dubuque, IA
32. Moville, IA
33. Big Flats, NY
34. Harvard, MA
OK, I need to take a moment to go and cry a little bit. [sob, sniffle, sob] I'm back. No wonder I have such a visceral reaction to boxes!
Anyway, the truth is that all of these places have played a part in who I am, and have helped me discover who I'm not. There are places on that list that I remember fondly, and there are others that I'll go out of my way to avoid ever going near again.
My current residence in Harvard is not permanent, but hopefully it's not short term, either (I know, I've said that before!). And hopefully our next move will be the last one, and still in this general area. Because if you ask me now, "Where are you from?" I answer simply; I answer proudly.
I'm from Boston.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)