In Which I Cried in Worship...Again

I was never a crier.  I didn’t even cry at my own wedding.  I’m not sure what has happened to me in the past few years, but I find myself crying much more often than I used to.  I also tend to cry in public places, which is quite a challenge for me (a hilarious challenge, according to my emotion-loving husband who knows my stoic ways too well).  I’ve always hated crying in front of people, yet this is slowly becoming a part of my life.  At my sister’s wedding last summer, I could barely make it through my toast.  In worship last fall, I cried through the service.  Is it because I’m now a parent?  Am I just getting older?  Who knows?  What I do know is I have to accept this new part of myself because it’s clearly not going away.

I’ve had trouble integrating this new part of myself with my professional identity.  Pastors don’t cry.  We’re supposed to be the solid presence, the comforting balm in crisis, and the one to lean on.  We have to keep ourselves together.  Often this is necessary and true.  Yet the more I do this job, the more I realize there’s a time for everything (thank you, Ecclesiastes).  I thought it would get easier, and in some ways it has.  In other ways it hasn’t.  The longer I’m at this church, the closer I get to the people and the more I learn about their lives.  I can’t help but be connected to them.  Evidently I occasionally display my compassion through public tears.

I was deeply touched by a sermon given by Bishop Mark Hanson last year at our annual St. Paul and Minneapolis Synod theological retreat.  He became emotional during it and had to take a moment to collect himself.  He explained to us that the topic he was addressing was close to his heart—his own child struggled mightily with it, and he couldn’t help but get choked up when he spoke about it.  I still hold this moment in my heart as I grapple with my own public emotions.  I thought no less of him as he admitted to feeling his emotions.  I felt a connection with him as a true person.  If the Presiding Bishop of the ELCA can be authentic with his tears, why can’t I?

I still believe there are times when I need to keep my emotions in check.  This is (usually) not hard for me.  But the longer I serve the church, the more I realize how important it is for me to be authentic.  When I am leading a healing service and am honored to individually lay hands on and pray for people, I can’t keep my tears at bay.  I see their tears, their pain, their struggles--not only see, but also feel them.  When a boy comes to me at the end of the line and shyly asks for a prayer—a prayer I know well, a prayer I can relate to in my deepest of hearts—and I am able to give him that prayer, well, that’s more than I can handle.  When I witness God giving peace and comfort, I think it’s permissible for me to shed a few tears.  How can I not be overwhelmed by this God? 

“…a time to weep, and a time to laugh…” Ecclesiastes 3:4      

Secrets

I often think of myself as the secret-keeper.  This was especially true when I was a pastor in a rural town.  I was usually the first place people would look for financial, spiritual and therapeutic help because it wasn’t readily available in their small town (I say first step because I often did—and still do—refer people on to more qualified mental health or other professionals).  I was also free, and they knew right where to find me—they just needed to find my car.

It took me a while to figure out my role in the town.  I knew I couldn’t be friends—in the regular sense—with the people in the congregation I served.  This became apparent as I learned more and more about them.  I knew too much.  I knew what mothers thought about daughters-in-law, I knew about the abuse, the hidden addictions, and the memory loss.  When I looked out into the congregation on Sundays, I saw the underbelly.  I imagine it is similar to being a doctor in some ways—the doctor in town sees and knows people at a different level than they know each other. 

In order to protect them and myself, I couldn’t get too close.  I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I could let some information slip.  In order to keep their trust, I needed to be air-tight in my confidentiality.  I still work very hard to keep professional boundaries and to maintain a safe space in my office at church.  I regard my trustworthiness as essential in my calling.  In some ways it’s a burden.

But the joy of this responsibility is the privilege of being present when a secret is let loose.  I’ll always remember the time when a congregation member came into my office to share a very old secret. This person was in the process of sharing it with others and I was fortunate to hear it too.  I witnessed the unburdening of years of shame and guilt and saw the transformative and blatant joy of release.  What an honor it was to be present in that moment and to declare God’s forgiveness and love.  I was overjoyed to see God’s grace spilling into the recesses of sadness and regret, filling them up with new life and a new future.  It was a holy, holy, holy moment.

This moment was even more poignant because this is a friend.  I now see I play a different role than a doctor or counselor.  I am able to walk with people through their everyday lives, to visit them in their homes, to coach them as they raise their children faithfully, to bury their loved ones.  They show me what it means to find faith in the joys and struggles of daily life.  So I closed the door after the secret came to light and wept for the joy of God’s transforming grace in the lives of those I love.

Sometimes we need to keep our secrets.  Yet Scripture tells us that God brings light into the darkness—even the darkness of our deepest secrets and our most shameful memories.  I see it happen.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.  John 1:5            

Our Own Story

Last Sunday I chased my 2-year-old daughter around the church after worship.  She ran with the abandon of a toddler set free—up and down the halls, around the kitchen and fellowship hall, belly laughing while I tried to keep up with her in my heels.  People stopped me to chat or give me reservation forms—the regular church business of Sunday mornings—always understanding I had to run as soon as her blond head raced around a corner out of my sight.  We are used to this pattern.

In the middle of her freewheeling, she ran into the dim and empty sanctuary, still scented with the smoke from recently extinguished candles.  She jumped up and down the chancel stairs (I can’t believe she is big enough to go up and down stairs without holding my hand), her stuffed Minnie Mouse jingling at her side.  She then came to me and grabbed my pinky finger, her warm little hand gripping it with confidence, and led me down the quiet aisle.  She brought me behind the altar and stood next to me, her chest puffing out as she yelled 2-year-old gibberish with authority into the empty sanctuary.  I suddenly realized what she was doing and the hairs stood up on my arms.  This was a holy moment for me.

Not only did she see my place as in front of the congregation, but she placed herself there with me.  I’ve spent too many hours weeping and gnashing my teeth over my dual roles as pastor and parent.  Many days I see them as mutually exclusive, especially when I have to leave right after supper for an evening meeting and she and my son stand at the top of the stairs with tears in their eyes.  But it took her simple gesture that morning to remind me we are in this together.  My whole being—good, bad, job, play—will form my kids, and they in turn will form me.  God’s grace weaves through it all, releasing me from debilitating guilt and allowing me to see, enjoy and learn from my children.  For grace gives life and freedom.

As my lovely husband likes to say to me, “We are writing our own story.”  And we are. 

The Collar

I don’t wear my clergy collar very often.  I only own one plain white clergy shirt and it’s usually wrinkled (and why do clergy shirts get such a bad ring around the collar?).   I don’t like feeling set apart from the congregation.  I perceive people acting stiffly around me and—the worst—making uncomfortable jokes about how they can’t swear or drink beer around me.  It seems to get tighter the longer I wear it.  When I put it on, I feel a deep sense of the loneliness of the office. 

I don’t enjoy it.

But it’s necessary, because when I walk into a room, no one points at me (a young woman) and says, “Hey, you must be the pastor!”  I wear it at funerals and weddings and when I know I’ll be around strangers or in unfamiliar settings.  It’s logistically easier as people don’t need to run around to find the pastor.  But when I drive or make a stop at the grocery store while wearing it, I always take out the tab so no one will know.  My introverted self does not like the attention.  (My extroverted husband, on the other hand, likes to wear his to big-box home improvement stores, as he claims it gets him really fast service.)

Last week I stopped by a hospital on my way to officiate a burial, so I had my collar on.  My previous visit to the patient in that hospital frustrated me.  I felt like I was fighting the medical staff to get a moment with him.  I know it was more about me than them—it was a bad time and they needed to do their work—but that experience left me struggling to find my pastoral voice.  I decided to leave the collar on.  I had to keep myself from unconsciously slipping the tab out of the collar as I stepped out on the sidewalk.

Everyone around me quickly identified my mission.  In my collar and black suit, walking quickly toward a major hospital, I was immediately recognizable.  I felt like I was wearing a clergy sandwich board, or in some futuristic video game where everything rearranges around the protagonist.  Cars stopped for me so I could cross the street.  Front desk workers at the hospital ushered me to the elevator.  The doctors greeted me and motioned me into the patient’s room.  Granted, this was a much more critical visit than the previous one, so my presence was greatly needed.  Yet the collar really did make a difference.  Most importantly, the collar brought a sense of respect and God’s presence to a family’s heartbreaking situation.

It’s yet another reminder to me that being a pastor is who I am.  It’s not simply what I do.  My life is different whether I have the collar on or not.  Sometimes it’s lonely to be set apart.  But sometimes being set apart is exactly right.  It’s not about my need for privacy or building my ego or trying to fit into a crowd (or even getting fast service).  It’s about bringing God’s presence as efficiently as possible.  I won’t be wearing my collar every day, but sometimes God needs to work despite my own misgivings—so I’ll put it on.          

The Woman Pastor

I don't often talk about my views on women in the church.  My opinion is obvious when I stand in front of a congregation in a stole and preach a sermon.  I don't know why I tend to keep quiet about it.  Maybe it's because I'm so fortunate to be in a denomination that has been ordaining women for over 40 years.  I am privileged to follow many women who fought hard to be ordained, and I reap the benefits of their dedication.  I have known respect and honor from the congregations I've served over the past eight years, even when I was a brand new and inexperienced pastor who looked (and often felt) like a teenager in the pulpit.

Yet when I saw that Rachel Held Evans would be hosting One in Christ: A Week of Mutuality to promote conversations about egalitarianism in the church, I had to say something.  I love how she notes, "people of goodwill and sincere faith can disagree on these issues."  I agree, and I am glad to offer my perspective.

At a recent conference I attended, I sat down to have lunch with a table full of strangers.  The man across the table looked at me over our fried chicken and asked, "Do you ever wonder if the people in your congregation sit in the pews on Sundays and secretly wish you were a man?"

No, no I don't.  I was a bit taken aback by his question because, honestly, I don't get questions like that very often.  I don't think he was trying to be rude, but rather was trying to understand my perspective (and maybe just trying to make conversation with a bunch of strangers over lunch).  The relationships I have with the congregation I serve are hard-fought and earned, not only because I am a woman but because it takes time to create trust and mutual respect.  I told this man as long as I show the congregation I am competent and care about them, often other concerns fade away.  I don't want to simplify the issue, but that is my experience.  And I'm guessing the people in the pews wish I were a lot of things, not just a man.  Yet we work with one another's imperfections as forgiven children of God embracing true community.

At a different lunch at the same conference, I talked with some women.  One asked me what I do.  I remember telling her I am the pastor of a church in Minnesota.  Later in the conversation, she asked me how I like doing associate ministry.  I reminded her I am not an associate but a solo pastor.  She became defensive and said, "Well, the way you initially phrased it, I just assumed you were an associate."  I think associate positions are essential and difficult and wonderfully specialized.  What bothers me is her assumption that, because I am a young woman, I naturally belong in an associate position rather than on my own.

As long as I am in ministry, I will deal with questions and comments about my gender.  I could go into my theological and Scriptural views on the worth and dignity of all people, which have informed me and my decision to pursue ordained ministry as a career.  But when I think about the role of women in the church, I am simply overwhelmed with gratefulness.  I am so thankful I grew up seeing a strong woman stand and preach in the pulpit of my home congregation.  Because of her and the congregation's willingness to call a woman, ministry was always an option for me.  I am so terribly relieved I can fulfill my sense of call to serve the church.  I was thrilled to see a woman recently elected bishop of the Minneapolis Area Synod of the ELCA--not because she is a woman, but because she is qualified.

I know there are still many places in the larger church where women struggle to find respect, and I stand with those women.  Yet in my own denomination I worry about the balance of gender as the face of leadership changes.  I am concerned as the church becomes more and more feminized, we will need to work hard to define new and different roles for men.  How will we engage men--and boys--in this new type of church?  This question haunts me as I think about our future together.        

Worship and The Pastor

Last week I attended The Festival of Homiletics in Atlanta, an annual national preaching conference.  There were 2,000 people in attendance, many (if not most) of them pastors.  It was an incredible and inspiring event.  I heard nationally-known pastors, preachers, homiletics teachers, civil rights leaders and musicians.  I felt as if a long-dry cup was finally getting filled with rich wine--and it never overflowed.  I had no idea how much I needed people to lead me in worship.  As I sat in the Ebenezer Baptist Church--where Martin Luther King, Jr. preached--or heard the pipes of the organ at Peachtree United Methodist Church open up, I felt beyond blessed.

Whenever I get a chance to worship, I am reminded of what a transforming experience it can be.  I also recognize a deep need within myself to worship.  Sometimes I feel as if I am clinging to the words of the sermon or the liturgy like my kids clung to me the first time I took them into a pool.  The hymns connect me to strangers as we stand side-by-side and sing with the abandon only pastors who are temporarily released from leading worship can display.

A lie we pastors tell ourselves is, "I'll still be able to worship while I lead worship."  Not true.  I go into a zone while I lead worship--it's a fog I don't leave until I leave the sanctuary.  The one moment that breaks me out of it is when the lay assisting ministers look me in the eye after we've served communion and give me the bread and wine, declaring them Christ's body and blood.  I hear the words, "for you," and I'm able to step back for a moment and remember this worship is about God and not me.

When I go too long without worshiping myself, I lose track of the purpose of worship.  I start to worry about it getting boring and stale.  I see it as a reflection of me and my abilities and I forget there are others in this church who can plan, lead and create worship just as well (if not better) than me.  I forget it is an act of God and we are participants.  I forget how much people need it.  I also forget how much people are desperate to hear a sermon preached for them.

It was beyond wonderful to hear so many inspiring preachers last week.  They challenged me to look more closely at justice, community and acts of faith.  Their preaching made me want to better my own preaching.  But they couldn't replicate the honor I have--the privilege of preaching to the same congregation week after week.  I get to preach to people I know and love, people I see day in and day out.  I get to interpret the Scriptures for them.  My sermons are not academic essays.  They live within a community.

I may not be able to worship as much as I'd like, but I have the great opportunity to create and carry out worship week after week.  I get to provide liturgies and sermons people need.  I'm not doing it alone, for God is present whenever two or more are gathered.  And I need to remember to let myself sit in the pews too, for I need it as much--if not more--than those who get to sit in them regularly.

Doubt Part II

In college, I went to listen to a Holocaust survivor speak on campus about her life.  During her talk, someone asked her about her religious beliefs.  She responded by stating she had no belief in God.  A student in the crowd stood up and pressed her on her lack of faith.  I remember feeling deeply uncomfortable as they exchanged words.  The speaker said she witnessed too much suffering and horror to believe in God.  She was firm.  “I can’t believe.”

As a naïve college student, raised in the church, her words shook me.  I still remember the proud look in her eyes and the confident way she spoke about her beliefs—or lack thereof.  The reaction rooted in my gut surprised me the most.  I couldn’t relate to her experiences, but I felt her perspective.  Of course she couldn’t believe in God.  My ability to relate to her scared me.  If I could understand her lack of belief, did that mean my own beliefs were weak?

This memory came back to me this morning as I listened to a program about atheism on MPR.  It included an interview with Teresa MacBain, a former Methodist pastor who recently claimed publicly that she is an atheist.  This comes soon after I saw an interview on a major news network with an ELCA pastor who also claimed a personal loss of faith.  My first reaction was suspicion—not of their claims but of the public way they chose to share them.  Anytime someone purposefully looks for attention from the media, I question their motivation.  A story about a pastor losing faith and living a lie is juicy in our current culture of arm’s-length compromise.  Either you have belief, or you don’t.  Either you embrace atheism, or you don’t.  I hope they are trying to encourage conversation and mutual understanding, but I am doubtful.

I don’t claim to know what it is like to be an atheist.  I don’t know what it’s like to experience judgment for my lack of belief.  I would never claim a person needs belief in Christ in order to be moral or lead a life of service to others.  To feel sorry for their lack of belief is a patronizing and unhelpful stance.  To maintain a distance from others because of their different ideas about God leaves a real void.  I am constantly fed by the brilliant writing of Roger Ebert, himself a staunch unbeliever. 

I think, as believers, we are unable to separate our intellectual response to atheism from our inner reality—we understand.  We truly understand it often feels impossible to believe in a loving God when the world is so full of violence, the Bible feels so full of contradictions, and we have experienced long stretches of lonely prayers—sometimes for years—that fall to the floor rather than rise to heaven. 

I don’t know why belief takes root in some and not in others.  Children who are raised in the same family, go to the same church and experience the same religious instruction can and do have incredibly different belief systems.  Yet I do not believe faith is all-or-nothing.  I struggle daily with the absurdity of belief.  The doubts and questions rise up as naturally and quickly as the stubborn dandelions that are taking over my lawn.  But I believe God is bigger than my lack of faith.  God does not depend of my ability to believe.  Rather, God works despite my unbelief. 

I can only tell others of my experiences with God.  Jesus reached out to those unlike himself with care and respect.  His integrity never wavered, and he himself uttered words of painful doubt.  I respect an atheist’s right to unbelief.  I also pray my own struggles with faith lead me to compassion rather than judgment.   

But I will also be honest about my own imperfect faith.  My faith is rooted in the cross of Jesus Christ.  Jesus meets me where I am most weak, unfaithful, vulnerable and broken.  No longer do I need to fear my lack of unbelief.  Rather, I trust in a God who knows my struggles and—despite them—gives me hope.  I believe on my darkest days of unfaithfulness God is still working in my life and the life of the world, restoring creation and mending relationships.  I also daringly believe God is working in the hearts of all people, whether they believe or not.

I refuse to believe Christians and atheists are facing each other across a wide span.  Our first instinct is to be afraid of those who think differently than us.  But God calls us into community with all people, and for good reason—this community is enriching and faith-stretching.  My belief is God is present in all of it.