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!
Showing posts with label Ministry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ministry. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
How Long Should a Sermon Be?
As has become common for me since I returned to New England, I've been pretty busy doing pulpit supply this summer. Last week and this week I covered for my own pastor in Chelmsford while he was on vacation with his family. And it just happened to work out that the two sermons I preached were on opposite ends of the spectrum time-wise.
Last week's sermon very well might be the longest sermon I've ever preached. If it doesn't hold the record, then it's definitely in the top three. My word count was 2,462, which took me a little over twenty minutes to preach. By comparison, this morning's sermon was only 1,165 words, and we were opening our hymnals to the hymn of the day after about eight minutes. Which sermon had the better length?
I've been thinking about this a lot (ever since last week's sermon, actually), and I think the answer is that last week's sermon length was best for last week's sermon, and this week's sermon length was best for this week's sermon. My formative Lutheran experience was in a predominately African-American ELCA congregation (yes, a few of them do exist), and the pastor was your classic black preacher, only he happened to have white skin. His philosophy for preaching and worship was that you preach till you're done, and you worship till you're done. Since he was my mentor, his philosophy has shaped my approach to worship and preaching.
However, serving in predominately white rural or suburban congregations, I've discovered that 'worship till you're done' isn't a wildly popular concept in most churches. Generally speaking, they expect 50 minutes to an hour. Some of them will let me go for an hour and ten minutes, but not a minute longer. They'll reluctantly accept a service that goes for an hour and twenty minutes if there's something like a baptism, confirmation, or some other special event going on, but they'll also wonder why we didn't cut out some of the readings and prayers to make room for the extra stuff if it goes that long. Compare this to what happened at Resurrection, my formative congregation; that was the only place where I could show up twenty minutes late and still not miss the Kyrie (the Kyrie is one of the first parts of the service, for anyone reading this who is not familiar with Lutheran liturgy). They posted that their service ran from 10 to 11 AM, but it really ran to 11:30 pretty much every week. Finally they decided to change their sign to reflect reality, and stated that they worshiped from 10 to 11:30 AM. That's when the service started going until noon. They currently advertise that they worship from 10 to 12. I'm preaching there in a few weeks, and I'll just tell my husband that I'll be home at some point in the afternoon, because I'm expecting that we'll just worship till we're done.
So I've adjusted my worship planning and leadership to accommodate the stricter schedule, but I haven't changed my preaching. I preach till I'm done. Since I'm primarily a manuscript preacher the length is fairly well-defined; you don't have to worry about me being 'caught up in the Spirit' and preaching extemporaneously for ninety minutes. (I attended a service where that happened once--it exceeded even my ability to just go with it, and I left right after the sermon, even though the service wasn't over. We'd worshiped for ninety minutes before the sermon even started, and after three hours with no end in sight, I was done.)
This week's sermon was pretty affirming, with no difficult topics, and I could get my point across in relatively few words. Last week's sermon dealt with prophecy and divorce, and required me to go into more depth. So I did. I was glad that this week's sermon was on a lighter topic, because I don't like to double-barrel a congregation two weeks in a row; the fact that this week's sermon was unusually short was coincidence. Most of my sermons average twelve to fifteen minutes.
So what is the optimum length of a sermon? A sermon should be exactly how long it needs to be.
Last week's sermon very well might be the longest sermon I've ever preached. If it doesn't hold the record, then it's definitely in the top three. My word count was 2,462, which took me a little over twenty minutes to preach. By comparison, this morning's sermon was only 1,165 words, and we were opening our hymnals to the hymn of the day after about eight minutes. Which sermon had the better length?
I've been thinking about this a lot (ever since last week's sermon, actually), and I think the answer is that last week's sermon length was best for last week's sermon, and this week's sermon length was best for this week's sermon. My formative Lutheran experience was in a predominately African-American ELCA congregation (yes, a few of them do exist), and the pastor was your classic black preacher, only he happened to have white skin. His philosophy for preaching and worship was that you preach till you're done, and you worship till you're done. Since he was my mentor, his philosophy has shaped my approach to worship and preaching.
However, serving in predominately white rural or suburban congregations, I've discovered that 'worship till you're done' isn't a wildly popular concept in most churches. Generally speaking, they expect 50 minutes to an hour. Some of them will let me go for an hour and ten minutes, but not a minute longer. They'll reluctantly accept a service that goes for an hour and twenty minutes if there's something like a baptism, confirmation, or some other special event going on, but they'll also wonder why we didn't cut out some of the readings and prayers to make room for the extra stuff if it goes that long. Compare this to what happened at Resurrection, my formative congregation; that was the only place where I could show up twenty minutes late and still not miss the Kyrie (the Kyrie is one of the first parts of the service, for anyone reading this who is not familiar with Lutheran liturgy). They posted that their service ran from 10 to 11 AM, but it really ran to 11:30 pretty much every week. Finally they decided to change their sign to reflect reality, and stated that they worshiped from 10 to 11:30 AM. That's when the service started going until noon. They currently advertise that they worship from 10 to 12. I'm preaching there in a few weeks, and I'll just tell my husband that I'll be home at some point in the afternoon, because I'm expecting that we'll just worship till we're done.
So I've adjusted my worship planning and leadership to accommodate the stricter schedule, but I haven't changed my preaching. I preach till I'm done. Since I'm primarily a manuscript preacher the length is fairly well-defined; you don't have to worry about me being 'caught up in the Spirit' and preaching extemporaneously for ninety minutes. (I attended a service where that happened once--it exceeded even my ability to just go with it, and I left right after the sermon, even though the service wasn't over. We'd worshiped for ninety minutes before the sermon even started, and after three hours with no end in sight, I was done.)
This week's sermon was pretty affirming, with no difficult topics, and I could get my point across in relatively few words. Last week's sermon dealt with prophecy and divorce, and required me to go into more depth. So I did. I was glad that this week's sermon was on a lighter topic, because I don't like to double-barrel a congregation two weeks in a row; the fact that this week's sermon was unusually short was coincidence. Most of my sermons average twelve to fifteen minutes.
So what is the optimum length of a sermon? A sermon should be exactly how long it needs to be.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Picture of Pastor Mama
Apparently someone at the Moms and Kids retreat got a picture of me preaching with babe-in-arms. Not very flattering of me, but I never like the way I look in pictures.
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.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
A Modern Psalm of Lament From a Former Pastor
I spent this past weekend at a women's retreat at Camp Calumet in West Ossipee, NH. I signed up through my church, and it was a good opportunity to get to know some of the other women I see every Sunday, but don't get to talk to or interact with very much. I was a little nervous, because I don't do large groups very well, and I don't make friends very easily.
But I'm really glad I went.
If you've been reading my posts for a while, then you know that I'm struggling to recover from a toxic and unhealthy congregation where I served as solo pastor. I've known intellectually that I was emotionally and spiritually harmed by that experience, but I don't think I realized the depth of that pain until this weekend.
The theme of the weekend was "Psalms: Prayers of the Heart." The chaplain, Rev. Elaine Hewes, led us in an exercise where we wrote our own psalm, either of lament or of thanksgiving/praise (or some mixture of both). Not surprisingly, I had a lament in me. Quite surprisingly, however, the act of writing this psalm touched a raw, painful place deep within me, and I started crying. Bawling. Big, choking sobs. In the middle of a crowded room full of strangers. I got up and ran to the bathroom, where I tried to pull myself together. When I thought I had, I went back into the hallway, where I found two women from my church waiting for me, wanting to make sure I was OK. Just seeing the look of concern on their faces made me lose it all over again, and the next thing I knew I was being embraced and comforted by women whose names I didn't even know (their scarves were blocking their name tags), but such knowledge was completely unnecessary right then.
I was in a much better place after that, and I think it might have been the first real step in my healing, nearly two years after the damage was done. Not only did it help me realize some things about the nature and the depths of my own woundedness, but it also served to show me that the church is not exclusively the domain of the selfish, vicious, treacherous, and abusive personalities that caused such harm at my last call.
So for what it's worth, here is my modern psalm of lament, written by a former pastor. It's in the basic form of an acrostic, though you'll see I took a few liberties (poetic license) when necessary.
But I'm really glad I went.
If you've been reading my posts for a while, then you know that I'm struggling to recover from a toxic and unhealthy congregation where I served as solo pastor. I've known intellectually that I was emotionally and spiritually harmed by that experience, but I don't think I realized the depth of that pain until this weekend.
The theme of the weekend was "Psalms: Prayers of the Heart." The chaplain, Rev. Elaine Hewes, led us in an exercise where we wrote our own psalm, either of lament or of thanksgiving/praise (or some mixture of both). Not surprisingly, I had a lament in me. Quite surprisingly, however, the act of writing this psalm touched a raw, painful place deep within me, and I started crying. Bawling. Big, choking sobs. In the middle of a crowded room full of strangers. I got up and ran to the bathroom, where I tried to pull myself together. When I thought I had, I went back into the hallway, where I found two women from my church waiting for me, wanting to make sure I was OK. Just seeing the look of concern on their faces made me lose it all over again, and the next thing I knew I was being embraced and comforted by women whose names I didn't even know (their scarves were blocking their name tags), but such knowledge was completely unnecessary right then.
I was in a much better place after that, and I think it might have been the first real step in my healing, nearly two years after the damage was done. Not only did it help me realize some things about the nature and the depths of my own woundedness, but it also served to show me that the church is not exclusively the domain of the selfish, vicious, treacherous, and abusive personalities that caused such harm at my last call.
So for what it's worth, here is my modern psalm of lament, written by a former pastor. It's in the basic form of an acrostic, though you'll see I took a few liberties (poetic license) when necessary.
Accept me, O Lord,
because your people have not. A
congregation of your followers sought to
destroy my marriage and my faith.
Every day I live with the pain,
feeling their rejection, and my failure to
guide them back to your ways.
Have mercy on me, Abba.
Ignite my faith where it has dimmed, and show me your
justice.
Keep my family together.
Let those who have strayed from you but call themselves by your name
make right their wrongs, and
know that what they say and what they do matters.
Open my heart, O Lord, and heal the
pain that lives there.
Quiet my demons, and
restore my faith.
Show me your faithful, your forgiven people who remain
true to your path,
unable to be perfect, but
very loving, very giving.
Where are you, Lord?
Explain how this can happen in
your Church.
Zeal is yours, Lord. I'm waiting for you to show it.
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.
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