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.     

I Deny the Resurrection

I used this video of a talk by Peter Rollins in my sermon yesterday.  We all experience faithful doubt.  This video calls us out of our tendency to worry too much about our own ability to believe.  Peter asks us to look at denying the resurrection in a whole new way.

You can read his blog post about this topic too.

Easter Sermon

Sermon for April 8, 2012

Text: Mark 16:1-8

Let us pray: Risen Lord, place your Easter miracle in our hearts today and everyday.  Amen. 

It feels like Easter today.

Spring has come early, so early that the trees growing greener everyday even though it’s only the beginning of April.  We almost DARE to put away our snow blowers.  It’s a little cool today, but still warm enough to wear our Easter best. 

It feels like Easter in church too.  The rainbow banners are up, the festival songs are sung, the brass and choirs and bells are helping to lead worship today.  We say with gusto, “Christ is Risen!  He is Risen indeed!”  It’s a joyous day, full of fanfare and celebration—arguably the biggest Sunday of the year.  We gather to celebrate the resurrected Christ, the one who gives us hope and joy.

It feels like Easter…or does it?

Not according to Mark.  In the middle of all our celebrating, we hear a quiet, stark story of resurrection from the gospel of Mark.  This story is not full of fanfare or celebration or joy.  Instead, it is full of fear, trembling, silence, and failure.  Is this the story of a miracle?

The women—Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome get up before the sun after the Sabbath, three days after Jesus’ crucifixion.  They silently creep to the tomb, carrying spices to anoint Jesus’ body.  They were full of fear, for it was dangerous to approach the tomb of such a notorious traitor of the Roman government. 

They are completely alone, for everyone else has abandoned Jesus. 

The centurion has done his job and declared Jesus dead. 

The Roman officials no longer need to bother with him. 

The men sealed his body in the tomb. 

The disciples, having abandoned Jesus at the cross, are no where to be found. 

And so the women approach utterly alone, as the sun is rising, already feeling like failures because they don’t even know if they’ll be able to move the huge stone covering the tomb. 

This is our Easter story for today.  This is what Easter feels like.

Once the women reach the tomb, they find the stone rolled back.  Fear grips them as they wonder if Jesus’ body has been stolen.  They wonder if they will be attacked.  When they finally look into the tomb, they find it empty other than a young man, dressed in white.  They become even more alarmed.  They don’t recognize him, and they don’t know why he is there.  They are astonished.

He says to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him.  But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you."

He gives them very clear and simple instructions.  He proclaims Jesus’ resurrection from the dead.  He tells them to go tell the disciples and meet Jesus is Galilee.  And how do the women respond?

They run away.  They are seized by terror and amazement.  Other translations describe them as beside themselves, trembling, bewildered, astonished, distressed, terrified.  In the literal Greek, they are gripped by ecstasy—in a frenzy or a trance.

And they say nothing to anyone.

And here ends the gospel of Mark.

It’s a terribly unsatisfying ending.  It’s so unsatisfying that later copiers of the text added their own endings—two different ones—to try to wrap up the story.  Yet we know from careful study these two endings were not written by Mark.  They were tacked on later because people were convinced that something was missing.  Surely Mark didn’t mean to end the gospel with fear, trembling and silence.  We wonder if maybe he keeled over while writing that last sentence.  In fact, the Greek ends in the middle of a sentence.  There must have been a page or two lost.  Some people, even current Biblical scholars, are still convinced that Mark didn’t mean to end it like that.

Yet we have to work with what we have.  And we need to ask ourselves the question:  what if Mark has really wanted to end it that way?  This ending is in line with Mark’s style.  Through his gospel Jesus tells people many times to keep silent and yet they tell.  In this ending, the women are told to “go and tell” yet they keep silent.

This is not the Easter we imagine.  This story doesn’t feel like Easter.

Notice Mark’s account of the resurrection is stark.  There are no trumpets, to pyrotechnics, no earthquakes, no angels flying around.  This gospel would not make a very good movie.  There is no resurrected Jesus talking to them and greeting them on the road. 

The women are terrified and awe-struck, but not by the special effects.  Instead, they are terrified by what the young man says to them.  “He is not here, He is risen.  Go, and tell.”

These few words turn their lives around in an instant.  They had three days to absorb Jesus’ death, and they were going through the rituals that would allow them to wrap up his life and put him in their past.  In a way, it was comforting to them to prepare to embalm his body, for it was a ritual they knew, a way to honor the past and complete the burial process. 

They did not expect their futures to suddenly break open.  They did not expect a new and risky venture would be offered to them.  They were ready to finish the embalming, go home, and continue on with their lives.  Instead, they are brought into a new hope, a new direction, and a scary prospect.  With Jesus’ resurrection, the world has changed.  They have new responsibilities and opportunities.  They come as mourners, and they leave as disciples.  There is no road map for them; all they know is they are to go meet Jesus, for he has gone ahead of them to Galilee.

We, like the women, have expectations of Easter.  In fact, Easter morning is heaped with expectations.  There are lots of “shoulds” when it comes to planning and attending these services.  There should be lots of music and fanfare.  There should be the Hallelujah chorus at the end.  There should be a fantastic sermon. There should be egg bake (you knew I couldn’t let that go).  All of you have expectations placed on you this morning as well.  You should be dressed in your Easter best.  Your children shouldn’t be too hyped up on sugar at 8:30 am and should be well-behaved.  You should feel a swelling of joy in your heart during the service and leave with a stronger faith than when you came.  There is no room here for doubt, or grief, or sadness, or skepticism.

Yet that's exactly what we find in Mark's story of resurrection.

What a relief it is to read Mark, a true realist.  What a relief it is to know the women ran away when confronted by the resurrection.  It’s good to know the disciples don’t even show up at the tomb, they are so convinced Jesus will never rise from the dead.  What a relief to know that first Easter morning was quiet and full of fear, trembling, and unbelief. 

All of this, this is not Easter.  This is celebration and praise and glorious worship, yes, but Easter is more than this. 

Easter is tomorrow morning when you wake up to face a new week, tired and not quiet ready. 

Easter is when you find yourself in a hospital room with someone you love, facing a new future you are unprepared for. 

Easter is when fear grips you so hard you can hardly stand, much less function. 

Easter is when God places a longing in your heart that won’t leave you alone until you have to embrace it.

Easter is God meeting us just as we are and giving us a new future.

We know God got the word out about the resurrection somehow, even if the women couldn’t speak.  We know the young man told the women specifically to go and tell the disciples—and Peter—naming him by name.  The disciple who had abandoned Christ completely, publicly denying him three times, is called by name as one who needs to know about the resurrection. 

That’s what feels like Easter.  It is God meeting us wherever we are.

So if you feel as if you are too skeptical, too full of grief, too afraid to face your life, too stuck, too hopeless, too much a failure, Easter is for you.  The resurrection does not just come on Easter morning here at church.  Resurrections also happen in quiet places when we least expect them. 

Easter is God breaking into our darkest places to give us new life.

Easter is when we run away from God and God follows us, chases us down, until we are found.

Easter is when God looks skepticism right in the eye and gives us the courage to dare to believe the hope found in the resurrection.

May God fill your hearts with hope and give you the courage to trust in the promises of the miracle spoken to the women at the tomb, and may God use you to speak this good news to others.

Amen.